Murder in the CIA (17 page)

He looked at his watch again. It was time. He skirted the drums and went to the loading dock, placed his hands on it, and listened. The alley was a silent refuge from the distant horns of the streets, the boom boxes, and the animated conversations of people happily escaping nine-to-five.

“On time,” a male voice said.

Hubler, hands still on the loading dock, raised his head and turned in the direction of the voice. His pupils shut down as his eyes tried to adjust from shadows to the stream of sunlight pouring into the alley. The man to whom the voice belonged took three steps forward and thrust his right hand at Hubler’s chest. A six-inch, needle-thin point of an ice pick slid easily through skin and muscle and reached Hubler’s heart, the handle keeping it from going through to his back.

Hubler’s mouth opened wide. So did his eyes. A red stain bloomed on the front of his shirt. The man withdrew the pick, leaned his head closer to Hubler, and watched the result of his action, like a painter evaluating an impetuous stroke of red paint on his canvas. Hubler’s knees sagged and led his body down to the cement. His assailant quickly knelt and pulled Hubler’s wallet from his pants pocket and shoved it into his tan rain jacket. He stood, checked both ends of the alley, and walked toward the sun, now in the final stage of its descent.

When Hubler didn’t arrive, Cahill paid for her drink and returned to her hotel. There were two messages, one from
Vern Wheatley, the other from the British literary agent, Mark Hotchkiss. She tried Dave Hubler at home. No answer. Hotchkiss, the message said, was staying at the newly renovated Willard. She called; no answer in his room. Vern Wheatley was staying in his brother’s apartment on Dupont Circle. She reached him.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Nothing much. I just thought you might be free for dinner.”

“I’m not, Vern, wish I were. Rain check?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Sounds good. How’s the assignment going?”

“Slow, but what else is new? Trying to pin down bureaucrats is like trying to slam a revolving door. I’ll give you a call tomorrow afternoon and set things up.”

“Great.”

“Hey, Collette?”

“Huh?”

“You have a date tonight?”

“I wouldn’t call it that unless the fact that I’m having dinner with a man makes it so. Business.”

“I thought you were home to relax.”

“A little relaxation, a little business. Nothing heavy. Talk to you tomorrow.”

She hung up and chided herself for the slip. As she took off her clothes and stepped into the shower, she found herself wishing she were on a vacation. Maybe she could tack on a week of leave when she was done snooping into Barrie Mayer’s death. That would be nice.

After her shower, she stood naked in front of a full-length mirror and looked herself over from head to toe. “Strictly a salad, no bread,” she said to her reflection as she pinched the flesh at her waist. She certainly wasn’t overweight, but knew the possibility was always there should she neglect her sensible eating habits and go on a binge.

She chose one of two dresses she’d brought with her from home, a mauve wool knit she’d had made for her in Budapest. Her hair had grown longer and she debated with herself whether she liked it that way. It didn’t matter at the moment. She wasn’t about to get a haircut that evening.
She completed her ensemble with tan pumps, a simple, single-strand gold necklace, and tiny gold pierced earrings, a gift to her from Joe Breslin on the first anniversary of her assignment to Budapest. She grabbed her purse and raincoat, went to the lobby, and told the doorman she needed a cab. She wasn’t in the mood to drive and have to search for parking spaces.

It had started to rain, and the air had picked up a chill from a front that was passing through Washington. The doorman held a large golf umbrella over her as he opened the door to a taxi that pulled up. She gave the driver Jason Tolker’s address and, a few minutes later, was seated in his reception area. It was six forty-five; Tolker’s group session was still in progress.

Fifteen minutes later, the participants in the group filed past her. Tolker emerged moments later, smiling. “Spirited group tonight. You watch them argue with each other over trivialities and understand why they don’t get along with colleagues and spouses.”

“Do they know you’re that cynical?”

“I hope not. Hungry?”

“Not especially. Besides, I’ve put on a few pounds and would just as soon not compound it tonight.”

He looked her up and down. “You look perfect to me.”

“Thank you.” He didn’t waste time, she thought. She’d never responded to men who came up with lines like that, found them generally to be insecure and immature. Vern Wheatley flashed through her mind, and she wished she hadn’t accepted Tolker’s dinner invitation. Duty! she told herself, smiled, and asked what restaurant he had in mind.

“The best in town, my house.”

“Oh, wait a minute, Doctor, I …”

He cocked his head and said in serious tones, “You’re stereotyping me, Miss Cahill, aren’t you, assuming that because I suggest dinner at my place the seduction scene is sure to follow?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“Mine, too, frankly, but if you’ll come to dinner at my house, I promise you that even if you change your mind,
you’ll get no moves by me. I’ll throw you out right after coffee and cognac. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough. What’s on the menu?”

“Steaks and a salad. Skip the dressing and you’ll lose a pound or two.”

His champagne-colored Jaguar was parked outside. Cahill had never been in one; she enjoyed the smell and feel of the leather seats. He drove swiftly through Foggy Bottom, turned up Wisconsin Avenue and passed the Washington Cathedral, then took smaller streets until reaching a stretch of expensive houses set back from the road. He turned into a driveway lined with poplar trees and came to a stop on a gravel circle in front of a large stone house. A semicircular portico decorated with egg-and-dart detail protected the entrance. There were lights on in the front rooms that shed soft, yellow illumination through drapes drawn over the windows.

Tolker came around and opened Collette’s door. She followed him to the front door. He pushed a buzzer. Who else was there? she wondered. The door opened and a young Chinese man wearing jeans, a dark blue short-sleeved sweatshirt, and white sneakers greeted them.

“Collette, this is Joel. He works for me.”

“Hello, Joel,” she said as she entered the large foyer. To the left was what looked like a study. To the right was a dining room lighted by electrified candelabra.

“Come on,” Tolker said, leading her down a hall and to the living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows afforded a view of a formal Japanese garden lighted by floodlights. A high brick wall surrounded it.

“It’s lovely,” Cahill said.

“Thanks. I like it. Drink?”

“Just club soda, thank you.”

Tolker told Joel to make him a kir. The young man left the room and Tolker said to Cahill, “Joel’s a student at American University. I give him room and board in exchange for functioning as a houseboy. He’s a good cook. He’s been marinating the steaks all day.”

Cahill went to a wall of books and read the titles. They
all seemed to be on the field of human behavior. “Impressive collection,” she said.

“Most of them pop garbage, but I wanted them all. I’m a collector by nature.” He came up beside her and said, “Publishers have been after me to write a book for years. Frankly, I can’t imagine spending that much time on anything.”

“A book. I imagine that would be an ego-booster, not that …”

He laughed and finished her sentence. “Not that I need it.”

She laughed, too, said, “I sense you’re not lacking in it, Doctor.”

“Ego is healthy. People without egos don’t function very well in society. Come, sit down. I’d like to learn more about you.”

She wanted to say that she was the one who wanted to learn something from the evening. She sat on a small, gracefully curved Louis XV sofa upholstered in a heavy bloodred fabric. He took a seat on its mate, across an inlaid leather coffee table. Joel placed their drinks in front of them and Tolker said, “Dinner in an hour, Joel.” He looked to Cahill for approval, and she nodded. Joel left. Tolker lifted his glass and said, “To dinner with a beautiful woman.”

“I can’t drink a toast to that, but I won’t argue.”

“See, you have a healthy ego, too.”

“Different from yours, Doctor. I would never toast myself. You would.”

“But I didn’t.”

“It wouldn’t have offended me if you had.”

“All right, to a beautiful woman
and
to a handsome, successful, bright, and impossibly considerate gentleman.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. He got up and started a tape that sent soft sounds of a modern jazz trio into the room. He sat again. “First of all, how about calling me Jason instead of Doctor?”

“All right.”

“Second, tell me about your life and work in Budapest.”

“I’m on leave,” she said.

“Spoken like a true Company employee.”

“I think we ought to drop any conversation along those lines.”

“Why? Make you nervous?”

“No, just aware that there are rules.”

“Rules. I don’t play by them.”

“That’s your choice.”

“And your choice is to rigidly adhere to every comma and period. I’m not being impudent, Collette. I just find it amazing and wonderful and damned ironic that you and Barrie and I have this uncommon common bond. Think about it. You and your best friend both end up doing work for our country’s leading spook agency, you because of a sense of patriotism, or the need for a job with a pension and a little excitement, Barrie because she became close to me, and I, as I’ve already acknowledged, have been a consultant to the spooks a time or two. Remarkable when you think of it. Most people go through their lives not knowing the CIA from the Audubon Society and never meeting a soul who works for them.”

“Small world,” she said.

“It turned out that way for us, didn’t it?”

He arranged himself comfortably on his couch, crossed his legs, and asked, “How well did you know Barrie?”

“We were good friends.”

“I know, but how well did you know her,
really
know her?”

Cahill thought of her luncheon conversation with Mayer’s mother and realized she didn’t know her friend well at all. She mentioned the lunch to Tolker.

“She was more disturbed than you realize.”

“In what way?”

“Oh, what we call a disturbed myth-belief pattern.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that she lived by a set of troublesome beliefs caused by childhood myths that were not tied to normal childhood patterns.”

“Her father?”

“Her mother mentioned that to you?”

“Yes.”

He smiled. “Did she indicate her role in it?”

“She said she felt guilty for not putting a stop to it. She was very candid. She admitted that she was afraid to lose her husband.”

Another smile from him. “She’s a liar. Most of Barrie’s adult problems stemmed from her mother, not her father.”

Cahill frowned.

“The old lady’s a horror. Take it from me.”

“You mean from Barrie. You’ve never met the mother.”

“True, but Barrie was a good enough source. What I’m suggesting to you, Collette, is that you become a little more discriminating about who in Barrie’s life you turn to for information.”

“I’m not looking for information.”

“You said you were trying to find out what went on with her just before she died.”

“That’s right, but I don’t consider that ‘looking for information.’ I’m curious about a friend, that’s all.”

“As you wish. More club soda?”

“No, thank you. You obviously aren’t including yourself in that restricted list.”

“Of course not. I was the best friend she had … excluding you, of course.”

“You were lovers, too.”

“If you say so. Barrie didn’t have any trouble attracting men.”

“She was beautiful.”

“Yes. Her problem was she couldn’t tell the white hats from the black. Her choice in men was terrible, self-destructive to say the least.”

“Present company excepted.”

“Right again.”

“Eric Edwards?”

“I wondered whether you knew about Barrie’s macho yacht captain.”

“I know a lot about him,” Cahill said. “Barrie was very much in love with him. She talked about him a great deal.”

“Excuse me, I need a drink.” He returned a few minutes later. “Joel’s started the steaks. Let me give you a quick tour before dinner.”

The house was unusual, an eclectic assortment of rooms,
each decorated in a different style. The master bedroom had been created from three rooms. It was huge. While the other rooms in the house smacked of an Early American influence, this room was modern. The thick carpet was white, as was the bedspread on a king-size round bed that stood in the middle of the room like a piece of sculpture, spotlights in the ceiling focusing all attention on it. One wall housed a huge projection screen television and racks of state-of-the-art sound equipment. Besides a black lacquered nightstand that held controls for the audio and video equipment, the only other furniture was black leather director’s chairs scattered about the room. There wasn’t a piece of clothing, a shoe, or a magazine.

“Different, isn’t it?” he said.

“From the rest of the house, yes.” She pictured Barrie Mayer in the bed with him.

“My apartment in New York is different, too. I like different things.”

“I suppose we all do,” she said, walking from the room at a pace just under a run.

Dinner was relaxed, the food and talk good. The subject of Barrie Mayer was avoided. Tolker talked a great deal about his collections, especially wine. When dinner was finished, he took Cahill to the basement where thousands of bottles were stored in temperature-controlled rooms.

They came upstairs and went to his study, which had the look of a traditional British library, books on three walls, polished paneling, carpet in warm earth tones, heavy patinated furniture, pools of gentle light from floor lamps next to a long leather couch and leather armchairs. Tolker told Joel to bring them a bottle of cognac, then told him he was finished for the night. Cahill was glad the young Chinese man wouldn’t be around any longer. There was something unsettling about him, and about the relationship with Tolker. Joel hadn’t smiled once the entire evening. When he looked at Tolker, Cahill could see deep anger in his eyes. When he looked at her, it was more resentment she sensed.