He saw the detective’s long shadow before she appeared at his side. “Good morning.” She was gripping a coffee mug in her left hand while her right hand was poised near enough to the firearm at her hip for quick action.
Jack glanced up at her. “Is it a good morning, Inspector?”
The severe hat of her uniform was gone. She had let her hair down, allowing the dreadlocks to flow over her shoulders and frame a profile of noble bearing that drew attention to elegant cheekbones and voluptuous lips. There was no greater beauty than a woman who wore her handsomeness with pride. If it weren’t for her stiff uniform and her equally stiff posture, she would have been a wholly striking woman possessed of all the attributes of a lady who knew who she was, and further, was unapologetic about any shortcomings, including her overbearing tallness and the patrician profile that was more off-putting than welcoming.
“It rather depends on one’s perspective,” she said. “For all you know, I could be up late.”
“It would appear there’s not much difference between us. But you haven’t answered my question.”
His comment elicited one of her few smiles, brief though it was. “Remind me again? The question?”
“Is it a good morning?”
“Again I say, it rather depends on your perspective.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“I didn’t mean it to.” She thought about it for a moment and shrugged. “Come to think, it was meant to sound ambiguous. Habit. In my profession, you never want to raise hopes. Or destroy them.”
Seeing that she had not come with reinforcements, he took her words and demeanor as promising omens. Still, he had to chuckle. She was an unpredictable lady and smooth as honey.
Tamara was looking him over as a woman and not as a police officer, picturing the man beneath the khaki shorts and tropical shirt, a man possessed of a strong physique but unassuming nature, also a man cautious in many ways and somewhat detached from his good looks. Jack had always toned down those good looks with silly smiles and careless costumes that shielded him from the many come-ons and turn-ons that often led to painful entanglements and awkward leave-takings. His intentions, as decent or as crass as they were, had not shielded him often enough. The armor had acquired dents and cracks and an accumulation of rust, shaping him into an average fellow in need of female comforts, his cautious ways having made him more of a magnet than he ever intended.
She angled herself slightly forward and to his right, eyes focused on the sea. “Your account of events have checked out, Mr. Fox. According to witnesses, you and Ms. Parris dined from half past seven until ten-thirty or so. You took in some sights. Then you saw her off. The valet remembers bringing her car around. He also remembers you giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek. She waved before driving away. It seemed to him that you might have had a prior ... shall we put it kindly ... assignation. Whether you did or didn’t is none of our concern. You retired to the nightclub and ordered several drinks, properly spaced for sobriety. You stayed for the length of the show. You left. You were seen heading back to your room by the concierge on duty. She remarked that you wished her a good evening. You took a swim in the hotel pool at about one in the morning. I gather you’re a good swimmer. Two hotel guests, both young women, admired you from their balcony.”
Jack looked around. “You left your bodyguard behind.”
“Constable Johnson is my partner. I don’t need a bodyguard. I can handle myself quite well, thank you very much.” She wasn’t boasting.
He gave her a knowing look, smiling as he did so. He wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Detective Inspector Collingsworth. “Just be kind to me, lady. I break easily.”
She suppressed a smile. After a moment’s hesitation, she gathered up a chair from a nearby table and set it beside his, nestling the coffee mug between her hands.
The sea breezes coming off the waters were gentle, so gentle as to lull him into complacency. He could ill afford to be complacent. To embrace it would be to surrender to deadly forces. It didn’t matter how vigilant he had been or how careful he was to hide his identity, someone or several someones had a bead on him. The significance was quite evident. They knew where he would go because they knew what he had to do, must do, if he was ever going to clear his name. They were following him by following the money. The incident of the woman on the beach was a message. It told him he was open season. In future, he would watch his back and his flanks before stepping forward. And yet ... ah, yes ... and yet, he had few alternatives. The money was the key. Wherever it led, he must follow.
She took a sip of her coffee and licked her lips, her eyes taking in the lazy sea. “When you approached me yesterday morning, bold as brass, I could tell the same thing about you. You can also handle yourself quite well. You’ve had run-ins with law enforcement before.”
Before him lay the white sands of a seemingly endless strip of beach, pristine and devoid of the bustling midday crowd. Sometimes a barefoot jogger ran past, slapping through the wash. Or a sun worshipper left footprints in the sand. Otherwise it was just him and the sea. And the woman seated amiably by his side. “What male who has reached his majority hasn’t.”
“And there you go again. Another glib comment.” Her eyes took in the dancing waters. “Yes, you can handle yourself quite well.”
She wore overlarge sunglasses, signifying her unapproachability. She removed them now and cast her sea-green eyes on him. “You’re in the clear.”
He was slow to respond. It was good news but with a catch. There always had to be a catch. “How did you arrive at your verdict?”
“Shortly before her estimated time of death, the victim was seen with a man.”
A gap of silence came between them while Jack took in the information and the inspector took in his reaction.
“In many ways, he could be mistaken for you. Described as tall, fit, and quite handsome. Dark complexion. Dark for a white man, that is. Dark longish hair, almost black. Dark eyes. European accent. Always smiling.” She paused and glanced at him. “Of course, there could be dozens of males vacationing on our island who answer to a description such as this one. Naturally we’re following up on all leads. We also posted men at the airport. However,” she said with a sigh, “this mystery man undoubtedly left the island as soon as his undertaking was completed.”
“Probably so.”
“Would you know what that undertaking was?”
He shrugged.
“According to preliminary forensics, Ms. Parris died around midnight, give or take an hour or two, conveniently during the time you were at the club. I’ve seen the show, by the bye. It’s filled with nubile girls and too many feathers.”
“Has the coroner established cause of death?”
“Preliminary. Though there was water in her lungs, it looks as though she was strangled. In any event, she died of asphyxiation.”
“Raped?”
“Appears not.” Silence intervened for nearly a minute before she said, “You don’t seem terribly surprised.”
“Regretful is a better term. Ms. Parris was an innocent victim.”
Jack reminisced about a woman he had known for a brief day. Her lovely figure. Her fetching face. Her cool regard. Her patrician bearing. Her standoffishness. Her over-rehearsed words. Her probing questions. Her veiled proposition. Her disappointment at being rebuffed. And finally, the way she gazed at him through the lowered window of her car as she drove off, annoyance evident on her face, alongside disappointment.
“You’re quite composed, Mr. Fox. Very cunning. As if you already knew what I was going to tell you. As if you planned it that way. As if you set out to have the perfect alibi with ... shall we say ... aforethought. As if ... and pardon me for saying this ... you had an accomplice.”
The irony wasn’t lost on him. He wanted to snigger. On balance, it was a laughing matter if it weren’t so damning.
She let another minute elapse. The sun ducked behind a cloud, cooling the air. “There’s b
een a second victim.”
He stared at her placid face, at the puckering lines around the tip of her nose, at the deep-set dimples on either side of her mouth, and at the calm repose of a woman who knew who she was. “Same cause of death. Different circumstances. Her body swept up on the other side of the island.”
He tried to stay cool and nonchalant, but from her expression, his surprise must have shown through. “Has she been identified?”
“Danielle Nguyen. Vietnamese by heritage. American by birth. She was a guest at this very hotel. It would seem coincidental.”
“Not coincidental,” Jack acknowledged. “She tried to come onto me the night before.”
She gamely looked him over. “You’re a very popular man.”
“I also spoke with her yesterday. In the market.”
“It was noted. You parted without incident.”
He smiled before saying, “Your department is very thorough.”
“We have to be. Our numbers may be small but out obligations are large.” She gave him a pointed look. “She is ... was ... an agent with the CIA. One of the numbers on her cell phone led us to Langley. After getting the runaround, we were put through to an authorized spokesman who confirmed the obvious. They’re coming down to make arrangements for the body. Curiously, they asked after a particular gentleman. Name of Jack Coyote. It appears this Coyote fellow is wanted for jumping bail in connection with the murder of his lover. His face has been all over the news. The photos and videos rather resemble you, Mr. Fox.”
He said nothing. Breathed easily. Studied the waves coming ashore. Followed a gull spiraling overhead.
“Ordinarily I would take you in. But even if you are this man, I have nothing to charge you with, dearly as I would like to. I’m not a stupid woman. Or naïve. By rights, I should haul your ass in like they do in American films and throw away the key. But we are a nation of laws. Having said that, I suggest you leave the island as soon as possible. Sooner. I have a case to solve, a case you had nothing to do with, though I highly suspect it had something to do with you.” She waited for a response.
He would have enjoyed her little game had his life not been on the line every second of every breathing moment. Jack carefully set aside his drained coffee mug and sat back, looking out toward the sea and holding his eyes steady. “I’ve enjoyed our little chat, Inspector, and I admire your common sense. May I suggest something?”
She gave him a perfunctory nod, dubious but also interested.
“Your description of this unknown gentleman is good. I will add to it. Look for a Frenchman. I don’t know his name. He’s charming. Cunning. And very dangerous. Works out. Moves like a dancer. Good with a knife. Enjoys killing. If you meet him, make sure you have five very large men at your back.”
She glanced askant at him. She was wondering whether she should trust him or laugh in his face. “Dangerous, you say?”
“Very.”
“Are you dangerous?”
“Only in bed.”
“Now you’re getting personal. Or perhaps ...?” She thought over his words, words that were clearly suggestive but delivered with a hint of irony. “It’s said that the woman Coyote is accused of killing was murdered in his bed.”
“Not by him.”
“Oh no?”
“He was out cold at the time. Drugged.”
“Self-administered?”
“It’s sort of embarrassing. Someone slipped him a date rape drug.”
Her eyebrows arched with keenness. “A curious turn of events.”
“If it weren’t so tragic.”
“By the murder victim herself?”
“A different woman who took him for a sucker. Which he was.”
“For what purpose?”
“To set him up for a more shameful crime.”
“That of?”
“Betraying his country.”
She tilted her head, thinking about what he told her, trying to make sense of the peculiar events that brought this interesting man to her shores. “Either you’re being very honest or very sly. A wolf in lamb’s clothing, as they say. The devil incarnate.”
“The Devil would never willingly let a woman dupe him.”
She acknowledged the self-deprecating confession of her chief person of interest before saying, “I am still inclined to lock you up and hold you over for extradition.”
“It would be an exercise in futility. Think of the paperwork, the expense. You could put your time to much better use, such as tracking down the Frenchman.”
“If he exists.”
“He’s real enough. I have the scars to prove it.”
She reacted with the slightest shift of her posture and the subtlest lift of her shoulders. She should not have believed him, but she recognized his statement for what it was. A confession. Not of murder, but of being had in the worst possible way. She nodded, straightened her posture, took in the view, finished her coffee, sighed, weighed the alternatives, wavered in her decision.
If she decided one way, Jack would have lost the bet. If she decided another, he would take his winnings and get the hell out of town.
“Well then. I won’t waste any more of your time, Mr. Fox. Or of mine.”
She got up and extended a hand. Jack stood with her, lingering over the handclasp. She gazed seaward, the breeze whipping her hair. A slight smile came to her lips. She turned and looked directly at him.
“We’re very good at our jobs, Mr. Fox. Americans always consider the Caribbean as island paradises filled with toadying natives, hands outstretched for tips. May I suggest the opposite? We’re a proud people. Highly professional, very efficient, and quite thorough. Before I forget ...” She reached into her breast pocket and handed him his passport. “You’re free to leave the islands as soon as you wish, the sooner the better. You never know when we might find evidence that could implicate you in the murders. Or our superiors decide it would be politically expedient to make a grand gesture that could ingratiate them with your government.”
They yet clasped hands, lightly, friendly, almost endearingly, their warm feelings for each other mutual.
It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Fox. I wish we had more time to get to know one another.” She slipped her hand from his and turned to go. Hesitated. Twisted around. “A word of advice from one fellow traveler to another. It’s better to be a live coward than a dead hero.”
She made her way back to the hotel, her shadow seeming to leave a permanent impression on the sand along with her footprints.
28
Washington D. C.
Wednesday, August 13
VIKKI PUT IN a call to Sam Soderberg. He answered on the fourth ring. She identified herself before mentioning a mutual friend who was out of town and would be for quite some time, perhaps indefinitely. “Said to tell you Birdwatcher sent me.”
The phone seemed to go dead. Then he heaved a sigh. “Keep going.”
“If you remember, we met at a Defense Department event. I asked you about a rumor concerning the prime minister of Pakistan. You declined to answer, which I took as a confirmation.”
“Yes, I remember. I’m a little busy right now. Can I call you back? In say fifteen minutes?”
Instead of calling, he sent her a text message with a date, a place, and a time. She acknowledged, then scrubbed the message just as he would.
Early the next day, she drove to Falls Church. After parking her car at the terminal station, she boarded a Metro train heading into the city. It was rush hour. All the seats were taken. She was more than satisfied to grab a handhold. It gave her freedom to visually sweep the railcar from end to end, looking for suspicious characters. Doubling down on her watchfulness, she traveled the length of the car and crossed over to the adjoining one. She took the same precautions there, eyes wide open and vigilance keen. Maybe she was being paranoid and overcautious, but it didn’t hurt to be on guard. Though new at playing spy games, she was certain no one had followed her or taken the least bit of interest in h
er.
From the fluorescence of a bright interior, she peered past the tinted windows at a landscape of squat industrial buildings, summer foliage, and vehicles speeding by at a fast clip. She shifted her focus to the grayed-out portrait of a determined woman in the prime of her middle years along with the reflections of disinterested fellow passengers in the vicinity. The car crash had scared the bejesus out of her, but she wasn’t going to let a few aches, pangs, and bruises slow her down, even if she had a splitting headache and every movement brought on muscle spasms down the length of her back.
Once she reached the downtown hub, she transferred to the Orange Line and took it toward her destination. After disembarking at the L’Enfant Plaza Station, she took the escalator to street level, exited onto 6th Street, and walked north toward the National Air and Space Museum. The Capitol dome rose to her right and the Washington Monument to her left. Sidewalks teemed with tourists and government workers, everyone in a hurry to get where they were going. The usual pall of morning smog yet lingered over the city like a woolen blanket, making the heat and humidity cloying and sticky, and giving off an acrid odor of defilement in a defiled town.
She crossed Independence Avenue and entered the museum, passing beneath the Spirit of St. Louis. Suspended by guy-wires against a backdrop of girders and windows, the airplane flown solo by Charles Lindbergh from Long Island to Paris was a testament to American ingenuity and sheer gall.
She met her contact in the World War II gallery on the second floor. He was easy to spot. His lofty height resembled a watchtower looking seaward. Instead of heading straight towards him, she strolled from exhibit to exhibit, avidly reading placards and gazing up at winged beasts of the sky, each emblazoned with insignia and buffed to like-new shines. Her contact followed suit, circling in the opposite direction. They met beneath a Japanese Zero restored to wartime production standards.
Enemies Within Page 18
