“I don’t like musk; the smell might make a rhino charge.”
“Lots of rhinos here on the South Shore, I don’t blame you.” It was tempting to enjoy more of that sort of exchange, and I got the impression that she wanted to. Instead, I went back to her request.
“What is it you want to talk about?”
“I guess you know who my father is and what he got for me. He said you were a comer, until you jumped off track. Then you were gone. You tend bar, and you’re a murder suspect. You’ve managed to alienate twelve and a half percent of Newport’s detective bureau, and I guess I’d like to understand.”
My reflex was to tell her that it was none of her damned business. I took a deep breath. “Your father is Admiral Kilroy? Commander Atlantic Naval Operations?”
She nodded, “Yes. Past tense. He’s retired.”
“Where do you need me to begin?”
She cut into her haddock with the side of her fork, lifted it partway to her mouth and asked for the beginning.
I told her about my parents. How my father would blow pipe smoke into my ear to soothe my earaches. It always felt good, and smelled like home. Pipe smoke still made me feel comfortable and drowsy. His huge hands, thick and rough, that held and touched me gently. I couldn’t remember a word that my father ever said to me, but he always seemed happy to have me with him.
I went on, trying to decide what to say and what to leave out. When it came to the accident that took my mother and father, I hesitated.
There was no snow, but it was cold and raw outside. To celebrate an anniversary, they left for their night out, planning to go all the way to Boston for dinner, and dancing at a nightclub. I smelled my mother’s perfume when she left; something called “Windsong.” My father smelled like pipe tobacco and Old Spice. He waved as he helped her into the car. They were smiling at each other when he started the car. Not the worst of last images.
I described the struggle with the state to allow my grandparents to keep me. I told her about school, and the things that made a difference to me.
“Your father could probably tell you about Annapolis, but let’s just say you endure it, and get on with your career.”
I didn’t try to explain how restive I became and how I began to resent her father’s interest in my career. I did tell her that I had disappointed the Commander, Atlantic Fleet.
“CommLant,” she interrupted.
“Your Dad.”
“Small world,” she said, smiling.
When I started out as a Navy lawyer, I was older than most of the more experienced attorneys. Anyway, time went on and I was a good prosecutor. I had a good record, and I had faith in the system.
“Until you reviewed an old, dead case, for some reason,” said Dana.
“No reason, just an accident. Seaman Frobisher was nineteen. He may have been marginally mentally challenged. He was a nice enough kid, willing, you know. No initiative, but given orders, he’d carry them out. Not much potential, but easy to lead and command. At the time, the standards weren’t as high as they are now, and the navy had lots of Frobisher’s.”
It just looked wrong, a quick and dirty railroad job. It took about six months, but Frobisher was free, with rank, back pay and benefits restored, just in time to get out of the navy. The guilty Petty Officer was busted and went to prison. The prosecutor and defense attorney in the case were reprimanded, with notations made in their files.
Frobisher went to work as a cook in a restaurant in Portland, married the boss’s daughter, and is the father to two girls. I get a Christmas card with a photo every year.
“Justice done, and a happy ending,” said Dana.
“The commendation got some attention, good and bad. The first prosecutor still had friends and no one wants waves. I wound up prosecuting some security violations and espionage. The cases went well and I found myself training at the special school in Virginia.”
“And you worked in the Office of Naval Intelligence?”
“You got that from your Dad, right?”
“He only said you did time as a spook, some sort of spy.”
“I was Counter Intelligence, more like a sneaky cop.”
She paused for a time, reached across the table and took my hand. That was an un-FBI thing to do. I liked her firm grasp and soft skin. I felt the tension from talking about my past. She looked straight into my eyes, smiled, and said, “And then you met your wife?”
She had come across the Florida Straights in a leaky motorboat, and the FBI tied her to a Cuban agent who’d been targeting us in Florida. They wanted a naval expert to interrogate her. The navy sent me.
“And you married her,” Dana said, smiling.
“Good summary,” I answered. “I like that, no extra details.”
Isabel had crossed one of the busiest shipping channels in the world, with nothing but her clothes and credentials as a psychologist. She was greeted with fences and guards, looking an awful lot like Cuba. Her file photo captured the strain she’d been through and the anger that was starting to simmer.
The CIA still had officers obsessing over Castro and the imaginary appalling danger he presented. One of them had done Isabel’s initial intake.
The woman who waited for me in the makeshift interrogation room did match her picture. I recognized her from the photo, but no picture could show how luminous she was. The force in her look and the warmth that glowed from her wasn’t on film either.
My idea of a long-term relationship was one that outlasted a weekend. I couldn’t talk about my work. Most of the world didn’t even know that I was a Lieutenant Commander in the Navy.
“Career over all?” said Dana.
“I’m not sure. Maybe, or maybe it was an excuse. No one got near, so I never lost anyone.”
“Being orphaned, that’s not surprising.”
I looked up, sharply. “Maybe, or maybe not,” I was surprised by how much her words angered me.
She withdrew her hand, and apologized.
We paused. Then, slowly, I reached across the table and put my hand over hers. I watched my hand on its long voyage, and when her hand stayed in place, I raised my eyes to meet hers. “I get touchy over things that I shouldn’t. Sometimes, I try to push people away,” I said as softly as I could. “And Dana, you can put me into prison. I’m innocent, but I know how things can happen when the pressure comes on. I don’t understand why I’m feeling,” I hesitated, “like this.”
“Like what?”
My mouth was too dry for this conversation. I decided to continue, but held onto her hand. It turned over, and her fingers enfolded mine.
“Can I get you some coffee and dessert?” said our waitress.
“Just coffee, black,” we both said at once.
I smiled, she smiled and the waitress smiled. I wished that this were a date. On the other hand, it was miles from interrogation. I had no idea what we were doing. I looked at Dana, and she smiled. My hand and hers were still together. She was an FBI agent, investigating the murder of a United States Congressman, and I was probably her best suspect. She was holding my hand and listening to my story as if it was fascinating. She was wearing a date outfit.
The waitress returned with our coffees, and left the pot on the table.
As if she’d read my mind, Dana said, “I might be tossing my career away. I’ll be in Bismarck, North, or is it South Dakota?”
“What about your tickets to the show?”
“Ticket, singular. I was going to go alone.”
I grinned. It appeared that I could talk with a beautiful woman and let her know that I enjoyed her company, found her attractive, and liked to talk with her. Talking to her about my wife made it guilt-free somehow, and I was beginning to relax. I reminded myself that she was still the opposition until she proved otherwise. The conversation had slowed, so I took a sip of coffee.
“I cleared Isabel at the end of the interview.”
The CIA officer who originally interviewed her asked me, “What
the fuck was that? An interrogation? An interview? A date? What? She batted her big brown eyes, and she played you. Since when do we tell them they’re cleared until the committee decides they’re clear? Fucking squid. She would have spread out on the table for you to get out of there.”
He wound up curled in a ball on the floor. When he could breathe and talk he spoke with a hiss, “You fucking swab-jockey. You just assaulted a federal agent in front of a witness, right jarhead?” He was speaking to the marine guard who was posted just outside of the interview room.
“With respect sir,” said the lance corporal, “members of the Corps do not appreciate being referred to in that manner. This Marine wasn’t watching. This Marine was visually scanning the corridor, as ordered. Sir.” No one is better at telling a superior to go to hell in a proper way than a Marine.
“You may think I’m done, squid, but believe me, it ain’t over. You too, jarhead.” The agent limped off, but I had Isabel’s file and my clearance for her in my hands when he left.
Isabel Martel was given a temporary visa, along with an application for asylum. She had sponsors in Miami. When she left the internment facility, I was waiting at the gate, in a rental car. She got in without a word, and I took her to her sponsors’ home to be introduced for the first time. I handed her a booklet, outlining the requirements for licensing of psychologists and social workers in Florida, along with the correct application forms. I also gave her my mailing address. I asked her if I could call her, just got it out as she got out of the car. “I was interned for four weeks, one day, and seven hours,” she said. “I wish to be free for at least that long. You will have your chance.” Her smile lit up, finally.
I found myself on shuttle runs, from Washington to Key West to San Diego, with infrequent stops in Fall River to visit my grandparents. My grandfather told me to marry the woman immediately and he could meet her afterwards. My grandmother glared at him, and hissed in Portuguese. He laughed until she started to smile and then giggle, covering her mouth.
I was in a motel in Key West, when Isabel’s time limit was reached. I picked up the phone in my room and punched in the number. She picked it up as soon as the second ring started.
“Hello, Commander,” she said, before I could speak, and we laughed together for the first time. We were married a few months later, with her sponsor pulling some strings to get us through the Catholic preliminaries. I bribed the sneakiest yeoman in the Navy to get my paperwork through. We spent our honeymoon on Martha’s Vineyard after an overnight in Fall River. My grandfather was smitten, my grandmother asked her about grandchildren before she hugged her. Then she warned me to treat my new wife well. Isabel pronounced my grandparents to be just like her own.
Since I had no real address, there was no home to bring her to. There was quite a bit of money in my savings though. I hadn’t spent much for most of my career, except for necessities, so it was a matter of finding a fixed location that wouldn’t upset my superiors. We wound up in Virginia. I had already finished a pointless investigation at the Naval War College in Rhode Island, looking for a mole. Since I had to be there as a student, I completed the Command Course.
“Anyway, when I got back to our headquarters, I was told that my marriage to Isabel had ‘compromised my ability to remain impartial,’ I had no business ‘establishing a relationship with a vetting subject,’ et cetera. On the other hand, she was absolutely clean, and aside from falling in love and marrying her, I was clear. There was a question of possible assault charges, affecting my second shot at full Commander. Long story short, I was invited out.”
They told me, unofficially of course, that the rest of the Navy didn’t want me. Forcing me out completely wasn’t justified, so they gave me an option, and I resigned my commission to enter the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.
So after training, I was headquartered in New London, with a home for the first time since I entered the Naval Academy. Isabel took the license exams for Connecticut, passed them with her routine flying colors and started making us a home. She found an office and began seeing patients. My grandparents were aging and not as healthy as I wanted them to be and we both wanted them to see their first great grandchild.
Our first was lost in the eighth week, the second in the tenth. We had been told it was unlikely that she could carry a child to term, assuming she could get pregnant again. Isabel was inconsolable and I was at a loss, so I took her for a visit to my grandparents. My grandfather and I sat in the living room, supposedly so we couldn’t hear the women talking. My grandmother held her like a child for a long time, sitting in her kitchen. I heard Portuguese, and even the lullabies she sang to me as a sick, scared or lonely little boy.
They came to the living room to sit with my grandfather and me, and we were all quiet. I could smell coffee and soup. I watched my grandfather doze, smiling, as he held my grandmother’s hand. A couple of years later, they were both gone, in their sleep, months apart, she first, then him. They had arrangements made and were buried, side-by-side on a hill facing the rising sun. Isabel was pregnant with a lot of time in bed, bored out of her mind. She swore it was with my grandmother’s help that she gave birth to Marisol. I was there, I cut the cord, and I held her and cried, looking from her to my wife.
Isabel and I began spoiling ‘Sol. We read books. We had three baby carriages, used a diaper service and had to move a mountain of dolls and stuffed animals out of her crib before we put her to bed. Isabel nursed ‘Sol, for a long time. She loved it. I loved to watch over them as they rocked and the child suckled. I’d never seen an act more beautiful, loving and pure.
I worked and was away, often. The nastiness and dangers of my job never really touched me. At night, I would call and read stories to our child over the phone, not worrying about the cost. When I was home, we spent our time together. I was married to the most beautiful and brilliant woman I could have imagined. I had a little girl who was loving and well loved. I had a job that gave me a lot of satisfaction and I was good at it.
Isabel would sometimes get a sitter and come to visit with me if I was within driving distance, for what she called a “Jintera night.” Jinteras were good time girls in Cuba. People would look at us as we left my motel room because of the noise we made all night long.
It was right before Christmas, and we hoped to do some shopping, but I was called away to Newport. Nothing serious. Isabel called and left a message at the hotel, telling me to expect her by nine that night. I should have called and told her to stay home. I should have told her how tired I was. I missed her, so I let her come.
At nine I was in the hotel room, showered and shaved, with a bottle of her favorite wine on ice. At nine-thirty, I was irritated. By ten I was worried. At eleven, I called home, and got the sitter. At midnight, things came together. The police reached the sitter, who called me, sobbing. I called the state police and drove to the hospital. By two that morning, she was gone, massive chest and head trauma. Her car, not “the tank” like the Saab I still drove, but a cute little Honda, was crushed into abstract art, with metallic tears and pulls where she was cut from the wreckage. It was awful to see the little Hula doll that I’d given her as a joke, still stuck firmly onto the back sill. Of all of the images from that night, that grinning and swaying little figure remains vivid. It was such a tacky little thing, so “not her” in its garish poor taste, that we both laughed and occasionally played with it, making it sway. ‘Sol thought it was cute.
Later, I had the car crushed by a junkyard. I made it a point to be sure that the little hula girl was crushed with it.
I talked about trying to drink it away for the first two weeks, then the Intervention, and the ongoing therapy that ‘Sol and I worked so hard at. My realization that I couldn’t remain an investigator, if I was going to be father and mother both, about applications to the bar and the turndowns because of my dead-ended records. I resented that, since the Navy only had to account for the time, not give specifics. I hadn’t left on the best of terms, b
ut I had served well and the rigid refusal spoke of some bureaucratic vendetta.
I told her about using the last of my savings to buy the house in Newport, and going to the six-week bartending classes, my early jobs in biker bars, neighborhood bars, restaurant bars and finally at the hotel. I told her about how much better things had become, and how well my daughter was doing. Finally, I wound down and stopped, almost in the middle of a sentence.
The coffee pot was empty, and both of our cups were drained
“We have to leave, Dana, they’re ready to close here.”
“I have some things to say, and some questions to ask.”
“I know a place, can you follow me?” I thought about that for a second and laughed.
“Your car is pretty easy to pick out.”
“Okay, so follow me.”
We argued over the check, until Uncle Sam won out. I was not unaware that we were holding hands, until we got to the door. She slid free.
Chapter 6
I led her south until I reached a small municipal airport, where we parked. The air was summer warm, so we sat down at a picnic table under a streetlight, with the shadows of moths tumbling over us. She started without preamble. She was a navy brat, and had moved from one station to another as her father climbed the slippery rungs upward to his own flag. He wanted her to attend Annapolis, since women were considered admissible by then. She elected a liberal arts school, majoring in psychology and criminal justice.
She joined the FBI, hoping to become one of the “profilers.” She was gaining experience as a field agent. She didn’t mention her mother at all. I remembered that I had never seen the woman at any of the social functions where she would have been expected.
I listened without interrupting her, wondering if this was still a prelude to questioning me. I learned how and where she lost her virginity. Back seat of a car, at seventeen, to a guy she convinced herself she loved. How she cried over the loss, later.
Last Call Page 7
