Murder in the CIA (18 page)

“Brooding young man, isn’t he?” she said, as Tolker poured their drinks.

Tolker laughed. “Yes. It’s like having a houseboy and guard dog for the price of one.”

They sat on the couch and sipped from their snifters. “Do you really think you’re overweight?” Tolker asked.

Cahill, who’d been staring down into the dark, shimmering liquid, looked at him and said, “I know I can be if I’m not careful. I love food and hate diets. Bad combination.”

“Ever try hypnosis?”

“No. Oh, that’s not true. I did once, in college. So did Barrie.”

It had been a fraternity party. A young man claimed to know how to do hypnosis and everyone challenged him to try it on them. Cahill was reluctant. She’d heard stories of how people can be made to act foolish at the hands of a hypnotist. It represented giving up control and she didn’t like the idea.

Mayer, on the other hand, eagerly volunteered and convinced Cahill to give it a try. She eventually agreed and the two of them sat next to each other on a couch while the young man dangled his fraternity ring from a string in front of their eyes. As he talked about how they would begin to feel sleepy and relaxed, Cahill realized two things: She was feeling anything except sleepy, and was finding the whole situation funny. Mayer, on the other hand, had sagged into the couch and was actually purring. Cahill diverted her eyes from the ring and glanced over at her friend. The hypnotist realized he’d lost Cahill and devoted all his attention to Mayer. After a few more minutes of soothing talk, he suggested to Mayer that her hands were tied to helium balloons and would float up. Cahill watched as Mayer’s arms began to tremble, then slowly drifted toward the ceiling. They remained there for a long time. Others in the room were watching intently. They were quiet; only the hypnotist’s voice invaded the silence.

“I’m going to count from one to five,” he said. “When I reach five, you’ll be awake, will feel real good, and won’t remember anything from the last few minutes. Later, someone will say to you, ‘The balloons are pretty.’ When you hear that, your arms will feel very light again and they’ll
float up into the air. You won’t try to stop it because it will feel good. Ready? One—two—three—four—five.”

Mayer’s eyes fluttered open. She realized her arms were high in the air, quickly stretched them, and said, “I feel so good and rested.”

Everyone applauded and the beer keg became the center of attention again.

Twenty minutes later, a friend of the hynotist who’d been prompted casually said to Mayer, “The balloons are pretty.” Others at the party knew it was coming and were watching. Barrie Mayer yawned. A contented smile crossed her face and her arms floated up toward the ceiling.

“Why are you doing that?” someone yelled.

“I don’t know. It just … feels good.”

The hypnotist told her to lower them. “No,” she said, “I don’t want to.”

He quickly went through the induction again, then told her that her arms were normal and that there weren’t any balloons filled with helium. He counted to five, she shook her head, and that was the end of it.

Later, as Collette and Barrie sat in a booth in an all-night diner drinking coffee, Collette said, “You’re such a phony.”

“Huh?”

“That business with hypnosis and your arms being light and all. You were going along with it, right?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You were acting. You weren’t asleep or hypnotized.”

“No, I really was hypnotized. At least I
think
I was. I don’t remember much about it except feeling so relaxed. It was great.”

Collette sat back and looked closely at her friend. “The balloons are pretty,” she said softly.

Barrie looked around the diner. “What balloons?”

Collette sighed and finished her coffee, still convinced that her friend had been playacting for the sake of the hypnotist.

When she was finished telling the story to Jason Tolker, he said, “You shouldn’t be so skeptical, Collette. Just because you weren’t receptive doesn’t mean Barrie wasn’t. People differ in their ability to enter an altered state like hypnosis.”

“Barrie must have been
very
receptive. It was incredible what that student was able to get her to do unless … unless she was just going along with it for fun.”

“I don’t doubt you’re not hypnotizable, Collette,” Tolker said, smiling. “You’re much too cynical and concerned about losing control.”

“Is that bad?”

“Of course not, but …”

“Did you ever hypnotize Barrie?”

He paused as though thinking back, then said, “No, I didn’t.”

“I’m surprised,” Cahill said. “If she was that susceptible and …”

“Not susceptible, Collette, receptive.”

“Whatever. If she was that receptive, and you use it in your practice, I would have thought that …”

“You’re crossing that line of doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“Sorry.”

“You might be more hypnotizable than you think. After all, your only brush with it was with a college amateur. Want me to try?”

“No.”

“Could help you resist fattening food.”

“I’ll stick to willpower, thank you.”

He shrugged, leaned forward, and said, “Feel like turning on?”

“With what?”

“Your choice. Pot. Coke. Everything I have is the best.”

An invitation to drugs wasn’t new to Cahill, but his suggestion offended her. “You’re a doctor.”

“I’m a doctor who enjoys life. You look angry. Never turn on?”

“I prefer a drink.”

“Fine. What’ll you have?”

“I don’t mean now. I really should be going.”

“I really
have
offended you, haven’t I?”

“Offended? No, but I am disappointed you choose to end the evening this way. I’ve enjoyed it very much. Would you take me home now?”

“Sure.” His tone was suddenly surly, his expression one of annoyance.

They pulled up in front of her hotel and shut off the engine. “You know, Collette, Barrie wasn’t the person you thought she was. She enjoyed drugs, used them with some frequency.”

Cahill turned and faced him, her eyes narrowed. “One, I don’t believe that. Two, even if it’s true, it doesn’t matter to me. Barrie was tall, slender, and her hair was sandy. I’m short, could be chubby, and have black hair. Thanks for a nice evening.”

“I kept my promise, didn’t I?”

“Which one?”

“Not to put moves on you. Can I see you again?”

“I don’t think so.” It swiftly crossed her mind that maybe she should keep in touch with him as a potential source of information. She had learned things about Barrie that were previously unknown to her and that, after all, was the purpose for her being in Washington. She softened her rejection with, “Please don’t misunderstand, Jason. I’m a little confused these days, probably a combination of lingering jet lag, still grieving about Barrie’s death, and a lot of other things. Let me see how my schedule goes the next few days. If I’m free, I’ll call you. All right?”

“Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

She smiled. “Something like that. Good night.”

“Good night.” His face was hard and angry again, and she could see a cruelty behind his expression that caused her to flinch.

She stepped from the car—he didn’t bother getting out to open the door for her this time—and started toward the hotel’s entrance where the doorman, taken by surprise by her sudden exit, quickly pushed open the door for her. Across the lobby, she could see Vern Wheatley. He was seated in a wing chair facing the door. When he spotted her, he jumped up and met her just inside.

“Vern, what are you doing here?” she asked.

“I have some news, Collette, and I think we’d better discuss it.”

Cahill sat with Vern Wheatley the next morning in his brother’s apartment. “Good Morning America” was the program on television. The morning paper sat on a coffee table. The lead story on page one seemed to be set in gigantic type; it virtually sprang off the page at Cahill.

The story went on to provide sketchy details about Hubler. Barrie Mayer’s death was mentioned in the final paragraph: “The agency for which Hubler worked suffered another
recent loss when its founder and president, Barrie Mayer, died in London of a coronary.”

Collette sat on a couch in the living room. She wore Wheatley’s robe. Her eyes were focused on the newspaper. Wheatley paced the room.

“It could be a coincidence,” Cahill said in a monotone.

Wheatley stopped at the window, looked out, rolled his fingertips on the pane, turned, and said, “Be reasonable, Collette. It can’t be. Both of them within such a short period of time?”

A local news cutaway came on TV and they turned their attention to it. It was the second lead story. Nothing new. Just the facts of Hubler’s death—apparent robbery—a thin, sharp object the weapon. No suspects. “Back to Charles Gibson in New York and his guest, a former rock star who’s found religion.”

Collette clicked off the set. They’d been up all night, first in her room at the hotel, then to the apartment at 4:00
A
.
M
. where Wheatley made coffee. She’d cried, much of it out of sympathy for David Hubler, some of it because she was frightened. Now her tear tank, she thought, was empty. All that was left was a dry throat, stinging eyes, and a hollow feeling in her stomach.

“Tell me again how you found out David was dead.”

“That’s a
real
coincidence, Collette. I happened to be over at Rosslyn police headquarters trying to run down some leads for this assignment I’m on. I was there when the report came in about Hubler. Because of you, I knew right away who he was. You talked a lot about him the night of your party, how that guy Hotchkiss claims he ended up owning the agency and what it would mean to Hubler.”

“You just happened to be there?” There was disbelief in her voice.

“Yeah. The minute I heard, I came looking for you at the hotel.”

She blew a stream of breath through her lips and pulled on a clump of her hair. “It’s scary, Vern, so scary.”

“You bet it is, which is why you can’t go around viewing it as some dumb coincidence. Look, Collette, you don’t buy
the fact that your friend Barrie dropped dead of a heart attack. Right?”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to. The way you talked about it said it all. If you’re right—if she was killed by someone—Hubler’s death means a hell of a lot more. Right?”

“I don’t know how Barrie died. The autopsy said …”

“What autopsy? Who did it, some London doctor, you said? Who’s he? Did anybody back here connected with her family confirm it?”

“No, but …”

“If Barrie Mayer didn’t die of natural causes, who do you think might have killed her?”

“Damn it, Vern, I don’t know! I don’t know anything anymore.”

“More coffee?” Wheatley asked.

“No.”

“Let’s view it rationally,” Wheatley said. “Whoever killed Hubler might have killed Barrie, right? The motive could have to do with the agency, with a client, a publisher, or with this character Hotchkiss. What do you know about him?”

“That I didn’t particularly like him, that he had dinner with Barrie in London the night before she died, and that he claims to have entered into a partnership agreement with her.”

“Did he show you papers?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he lives, where his office is in London?”

“I have it written down. He’s not there, though. He’s in Washington.”

Wheatley’s eyes widened. “He’s here.”

“Yes. He left a message for me. He’s at the Willard.”

“You talked to him?”

“No. He wasn’t there when I returned his call.”

Wheatley started pacing again. He paused at the window. “Let me talk to Hotchkiss,” he said.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“I’m interested.”

“Why? You didn’t know any of these people.”

“I feel like I did because of you.” He sat next to her and put his hand on her arm. “Look, Collette, you check out of the hotel and come stay here with me. My brother won’t be back for another couple of weeks.”

“I thought …”

“So did I, but he called from Africa yesterday. He finished the photo assignment but he wants to do some shooting for himself.”

She pondered his suggestion. “You seem to think
I
might be in danger,” she said.

He shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not, but you’re a link, too, to both of them. You’ve met Hotchkiss. He knows you were close to Barrie and that you know about Barrie’s will that sets Hubler up to run the agency. I don’t know, Collette, I just think being safe is better than being sorry.”

“This is all silly, Vern. I could go back to Mom’s house.”

“No, I want you here.”

She looked up into his slender, chiseled face and realized he was giving an order, wasn’t suggesting anything. She got up, went to the window, and watched people on the street below scurrying to work, briefcases and brown paper bags of coffee and Danish in their hands. There was something comforting about seeing them. It was normal. What was happening to her wasn’t.

Wheatley said, “I’m going to take a shower. I have some appointments this morning. What are you up to?”

“I don’t have any definite plans. I have some calls to make and …”

“And we check you out of the hotel. Right?”

“Okay. Can I use the phone?”

“Use anything you want. And let’s get something straight right now, up front. You stay here, but it doesn’t mean you have to sleep with me.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Did you really think I’d assume that?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but I just want it understood.”

“Understood, sir.”