Murder in the CIA (9 page)

“Well, Miss Cahill, you know I’m not at liberty to discuss autopsy findings except with designated authorities.”

Pickle Factory authorities, Cahill thought. She said, “I understand that, Dr. Hymes, but it wouldn’t breach any confidences if you were to tell me the circumstances of the autopsy, your informal, off-the-record reactions to her, what she looked like, things like that.”

“No, Miss Cahill, that would be quite out of the question. Thank you for calling.”

Cahill said quickly, “I was concerned about the glass that was found in her face.”

“Pardon?”

Cahill continued. She’d read up on past cases in which prussic acid had been used to “terminate” agents on both sides. One of the telltale signs was tiny slivers of glass blown into a victim’s face along with the acid. “Dr. Hymes, there was glass in her face.”

She was guessing, but had drawn blood. He made a few false starts before getting out, “Who told you about the glass?”

That was all she needed, wanted. She said, “A mutual friend who’d been at the airport and saw her just after she died.”

“I didn’t know there was a friend with her.”

“Were you at the airport?”

“No. She was brought here to clinic and …”

“Dr. Hymes, I really appreciate the chance to talk with you. You’ve been very generous with your time and I know Barrie’s mother will appreciate it.”

She hung up, sat at a small desk near the French windows, and wrote a list of names on a piece of the hotel’s embossed buff stationery:

KNEW BARRIE CARRIED FOR THE CIA

She squinted at what she’d written, tore the paper into tiny pieces and ignited them in an ashtray. She called downstairs
and told the manager on duty that she’d be leaving the following morning.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay,” the manager said.

“Oh, yes, very much,” Cahill said. “It’s every bit as lovely as Miss Mayer always said it was.”

TORTOLA, BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS

The twin-engine turboprop Air BVI plane from San Juan touched down on Beef Island and taxied to the small terminal. Thirty passengers deplaned, including Robert Brewster and his wife, Helen. Both looked tired and wilted. There had been a delay in San Juan, and the Air BVI flight had been hot; tiny fans installed in the open overhead racks had managed only to stir the warm, humid cabin air.

The Brewsters passed through passport control and Customs, then went to a yellow Mercedes parked behind the terminal. Helen Brewster got in. Her husband said to the native driver, “Just a few minutes.” He went to a pay phone, took out a slip of paper, and dialed the number on it. “I’m calling Eric Edwards,” he told the woman who answered. “He’s dining with you tonight.”

A few minutes later, Edwards came on the line.

“Eric, it’s Bob Brewster.”

“Hello, Bob. Just get in?”

“Yes.”

“Pleasant trip?”

“Not especially. Helen isn’t feeling well and I’m beat. The heat.”

“Well, a nice week’s vacation down here will straighten you out.”

“I’m sure it will. We’re looking forward to seeing you again.”

“Same here. We must get together.”

“I was thinking we could catch up for a drink this evening. We’ll go to the hotel and freshen up and …”

“I’m tied up this evening, Bob. How about tomorrow? I have a free day. We’ll take a cruise, my treat.”

Brewster didn’t bother, nor did he have the energy to argue. He said, “I can’t speak for Helen. Call me in the morning. We’re staying at Prospect Reef.”

“Give my best to the manager there,” Edwards said. “He’s a friend, might even buy you a welcoming drink.”

“I’ll do that. Call me at eight.”

“It’ll have to be later. I’m in for a long evening.”

“Eric.”

“Yes?”

“Life has become very complicated lately.”

“Has it? That must be why you and Helen are so tired. Simplicity is far less fatiguing. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Eric Edwards returned to a candlelit table in the Sugar Mill Restaurant, part of a small and exclusive resort complex on Apple Bay. Across from him sat a tall, stately blond woman of about thirty-five who wore a low-cut white silk dress. Because her skin was deeply tanned, it contrasted sharply with the white dress, like teeth against the natives’ dark skin. It had taken her many hours in the sun to become that color. Her skin, especially the tops of her breasts, hinted at the leathery texture it would turn to by sixty.

Her nails were long and painted an iridescent pink. Her fingers held large rings, and ten slender gold bracelets covered each wrist.

Edwards was dressed in white duck slacks, white loafers sans socks, and a crimson shirt worn open to his navel. His hair—sun-bleached blond with gray at the temples so perfectly blended that it might have come from a Hollywood
makeup expert—swirled casually over his forehead, ears, and neck. The features on his tanned face were fine and angular, yet with enough coarseness to keep him from being pretty. There was sufficient worldly weariness and booze in his gray eyes to give them substance and meaning.

Eric Edwards was a handsome man, no matter what the criterion. Ask Morgana Wilson who sat across from him. Someone had, recently. “He’s the most sensuous, appealing male animal I’ve ever known,” she told a friend, “and I’ve known a few in my day.”

Edwards smiled up at the waiter as he removed bowls that had contained curried banana soup, a house specialty. Edwards ordered another rum punch, reached across the table, and ran his fingers over the top of Morgana’s hand. “You usually look beautiful. Tonight, you look spectacular,” he said.

She was used to such compliments and simply said, “Thank you, darling.”

They said little as they enjoyed their entrees—pasta with lime cream and red caviar, and grilled fish with fennel butter. There was little to say. Their purpose was not to exchange thoughts, only to establish an atmosphere conducive to the mating game. It wasn’t new to them. They’d spent a number of intimate evenings together over the past four or five years.

She’d met Edwards during a trip to the BVI with her husband, a successful New York divorce lawyer. They’d chartered one of Edwards’s yachts for an overnight cruise. Her husband returned to New York after only a few days in the islands, leaving Morgana behind to soak up a few additional days of sun. She spent them with Edwards on one of his yachts.

Six months afterward, she was divorced, and Edwards was cited as having been caught in
particeps crimini
—a corespondent to the action. “Ridiculous,” he’d told her. “Your marriage was damn near over anyway.” Which was true, although his powerful attraction had certainly played a role.

They saw each other no more than three or four times a year, always when she visited him in the BVI. As far as she knew, he never came to New York. In fact, he never called
her when he was there. There were others to contact on those trips.

“Ready?” he asked, when she’d finished the soursop fruit ice cream and coffee.

“Always,” she said.

The alarm clock next to Edwards’s bed buzzed them awake at six the next morning. Morgana sat up, folded her arms across her bountiful bare breasts, and pouted. “It’s too early,” she said.

“Sorry, love, but I’ve got a charter today. I have to provision it and take care of some other things before my guests arrive.” His voice was thick with sleep, and raspy from too many cigarettes.

“Will you be back tonight?”

“I think so, although you never know. Sometimes they fall in love with the boat and decide to stay out overnight.”

“Or fall in love with you. Can I come?”

“No.” He got out of bed and crossed the large bedroom, tripping over her discarded clothing on the floor. She watched him as he stood before one of two large windows with curved tops, the first rays of sunrise casting interesting patterns over his long, lean naked body.

“I have to leave tomorrow,” she said in a little girl’s voice that always grated on him.

“Yes, I know. I’ll miss you.”

“Will you?” She joined him at the window and they looked down from his hilltop villa to Road Harbor, the site of his chartering operation. Edwards Yacht Charters was a small company compared to the Moorings, the reigning giant of island chartering, but it had managed to do well, thanks to some innovative PR a one-man agency in New York had conceived and implemented for it. Edwards currently owned three yachts—a Morgan 46, a Gulfstar 60, and a recently purchased, Frers-designed 43-foot sloop. Finding customers in season for them wasn’t difficult. Finding experienced, trustworthy captains and mates was.

She turned him so they faced and wrapped her arms about his body. She was tall; the top of her head reached his nose, and he was over six feet. The warmth of her naked body, and the damp, sweet smell of sex in her hair radiated powerfully
in surges through him. “I really have to go,” he said.

“So do I. I’ll be back in a flash,” she said, heading for the stone bathroom that was open to the sky. When she returned, he was back in bed and ready for her.

Edwards’s mechanic, a skinny Tortolian named Walter who was capable of fixing anything, was on board when Edwards arrived. Native
kareso
music blared from a large portable cassette recorder. As Edwards poked his head down into the engine room, Walter said, “
Laam
, I work on this engine all night long.”

Edwards laughed and mimicked him. “
Laam
, I really don’t care, and I’m not paying you extra. How about that, my conniving friend?”

Walter laughed and closed a cover over the engine. “How about the boat don’t run so good today, huh? How about that, my rich boss?”

“
Laam
, or Lord, or whatever it is you say, don’t do that to me, and turn down the bloody radio.”

The good-natured banter was standard. Edwards knew that Walter would turn himself inside out to please him, and Walter knew that Edwards appreciated him, and would slip him extra pay.

Edwards had called Robert Brewster and arranged to meet him at the dock at ten. Brewster arrived wearing madras Bermuda shorts, a white button-down shirt, high-top white sneakers, and black ankle socks. He carried a canvas flight bag. His legs were white; this would be the first exposure to sunlight they’d received all year.

“No snorkeling equipment today, huh?” Walter said to Edwards after observing the new arrival.

“No, not today,” Edwards said. “Where’s Jackie?”

“I see her at the coffee shop. She be down.” Jackie was a native girl Edwards sometimes used to crew smaller charters. She was willing, energetic, a good sailor, and almost totally deaf. They communicated through a pidgin sign language they’d developed. She arrived a few minutes later and Edwards introduced her to Brewster, who seemed distinctly uncomfortable standing on the deck. “She doesn’t hear anything,”
Edwards said. “If her father only owned a liquor store I’d be tempted to …”

“Could we get on with it?” Brewster said. “I want to get back to Helen.”

“Sure. She still under the weather?”

“Yes. The heat.”

“I like heat,” said Edwards. “It makes you sweat—for the right reasons. Let’s get going.”

Fifteen minutes later, after they’d cleared the channel, Edwards hoisted sail with Jackie’s help. Once everything was trimmed, he turned to Brewster, who sat next to him at the helm, and said, “What’s up? What did you mean things are getting complicated?”

Brewster smiled at Jackie as she delivered a steaming cup of coffee from the galley. Edwards shook his head when she offered one to him and told her with his hands that he and his guest needed time to be alone. She nodded, grinned at Brewster, and disappeared down the galley ladder.

Brewster tasted his coffee, made a face, and said, “Too hot and too strong, Eric … and I don’t intend to say it reflects you. All right, what’s going on down here?”

“With what?”

“You know what I mean. With Banana Quick.”

“Oh,
that
.” He laughed and turned a winch behind him to take up slack in a sail. “As far as I’m concerned, everything’s just wonderful with Banana Quick. You hear otherwise?”

“It isn’t so much what I hear, Eric, it’s more a matter of what’s blatantly visible. The death of Miss Mayer has a lot of people upset.”

“None more than me. We were close.”

“Everyone knows that, and that’s exactly what has people back at Langley wondering.”

“Wondering about what? How she was in bed?”

Brewster shook his head and shifted on his seat so that his back was to Edwards. He said over the gentle rush of wind and whoosh of water against the keel, “Your cuteness, Eric, doesn’t play well these days.”

Edwards had to lean close to him to hear. Brewster suddenly
turned and said into his face, “What was Barrie Mayer carrying to Budapest?”

Edwards leaned back and frowned. “How the hell would I know?”

“It’s the opinion at Langley, Eric, that you damn well might know. She’d been down here to see you just before she died, hadn’t she?”

Edwards shrugged. “A couple of days, something like that.”

“One week exactly. Would you like her itinerary?”

“Got videos of us making love, too?”

Brewster ignored him. “And then
you
disappeared.”

“Disappeared where?”

“You tell me. London?”

“As a matter of fact I did pop over there for a day. I had a …” He smiled. “I had an appointment.”

“With Barrie Mayer?”

“No. She didn’t know I was there.”

“That’s surprising.”

“Why?”

“It’s our understanding that you had become serious.”

“You understand wrong. We were friends, close friends, and lovers. End of story.”