by Keith Yocum
She sat down and called Ruby. His phone went to voicemail.
“Hey John, this is Judy. Have you talked to Dennis today? Just curious. Looks like he tried to call me. Is everything OK there? Call me.”
Judy fussed around the hotel room, watching a little TV news while her body cooled down. Outside she could see the shadows lengthening as the afternoon slid into dusk. She ordered room service and ate a salad and had a glass of chardonnay.
At 7 p.m. she got dressed and rehearsed how she intended to entice Simpson’s wife into letting Peter and her see her husband. She was going to ask Peter to make up some intelligence emergency as a pretext. Inside, she was going to switch gears and ask about Louise’s disappearance and accost him with the knowledge that she followed Louise to his house the night she died. Judy anticipated he would protest until she dropped the bombshell of what she saw in the early hours at the rest area on the GW Parkway.
She did one final check in the mirror, before leaving the hotel room at 7:40. In the lobby she sat in an overstuffed chair, tapping her fingers on the armrest nervously. At 7:50 her phone rang; the number was blocked.
“Hello?”
“Judy, this is Peter.”
“Are you running late?”
“Actually, something has come up. My wife has had a heart attack, or we think she’s had one. An ambulance is on its way over. They don’t think I should drive her. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, well that’s pretty serious. It throws our plans out a little.”
“Are you comfortable going through it by yourself? I feel so bad—” Judy heard Peter talking to a woman in a reassuring voice. “Sorry,” he said. “She’s nervous. I guess I am too.”
Judy sighed heavily, less out of sympathy than out of exasperation. She had pumped herself up to confront Simpson, and now she was confused. Delay or just go for it? What would Dennis do?
“I feel bad for you, Peter. Good luck with your wife. I hope everything is fine.”
“Do you intend to go ahead?”
“Yes. I have Karl with me. I’ll get this thing over with.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. The tension is driving me batty, and you said he’s traveling tomorrow. I’m a nervous wreck and I think I’m going to explode. I need to save Dennis, and this is the only way out.”
“Would you call me afterward, please?” he said. “Leave a voicemail if I don’t answer.”
“OK. Good luck.”
“Good luck to you.”
Just as she hung up, her phone rang again.
“Ruby, how are you?”
“Fine. What’s up?”
“Have you talked to Dennis today?”
“No, I’m sorry I haven’t. He called my office five times today. He thinks he’s my only client. I have a trial today and an arraignment. If I get hold of him, I’ll let you know.”
“OK.”
Judy hung up and walked outside. The blast of humid air instantly began to curl her hair and she self-consciously tried to flatten it with gentle pats. She felt funny worrying about her appearance at such a fraught moment, but it gave her something else to concentrate on instead of Simpson and Broom-Hilda.
Karl pulled up in a Cadillac CTS and Judy jumped in.
“Fancy car,” she said snapping the seat belt into place.
“Where’s Harbaugh?”
“He’s not coming. His wife is sick. I told him I didn’t want to postpone.”
“I don’t like this. It’s not the plan. You can’t change the plan at the last moment.”
Maybe it was the heat, or her emotional tether being stretched a tad too far, but she said, “Goddamnit, Karl drive the fucking car.”
He shook his head and pulled out.
“I don’t like it,” he mumbled.
“Do you have my gun?”
“Yeah. Not a Beretta. It’s a Kel-Tec. Let’s hope you don’t have to use a gun tonight. Once you fire a gun, things get complicated. Reach under your seat.”
Judy found the pistol and gingerly pulled it out. Its compact size was perfect. She pulled out the magazine, slid it back in place, and toggled the safety off and on. She made sure the safety was on and chambered a round.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Thank me later. You sure you want to do this?”
She gave him a withering stare.
“Roger that,” he said.
They drove in silence except for the radio; it played songs from the 1970s and 1980s.
When they pulled onto Simpson’s street, the sun had set, though there was still a pink glow on the western horizon.
“In the glovebox is the necklace,” he said.
She opened the compartment, removed the small ziplock bag, and pulled out the necklace, untangling the chain. She undid the clasp and put it on. The pendant sat right below her neck, perfectly exposed. He shot a quick glance at it.
“Perfect.”
The only problem Judy had at this moment was that her palms were soaking wet as if she had plunged them into a bathtub. She wiped them off on her jeans. She swallowed hard at the memory of pulling up behind Louise in front of the same house.
Karl parked a half block before Simpson’s house. He reached around onto the floor of the backseat and pulled out the listening device. He plugged the earbuds in, turned on a switch and fiddled with a knob.
“Say something.”
“Testing one, two, fucking three.”
“Um, OK. Let’s do it.”
He pulled out and drove to Simpson’s house. The light was on over their front door, and the first floor was lit up inside. Judy had not paid attention to the neighborhood but now realized the homes were large and very expensive.
“If this thing goes sideways, just yell for me, and I’ll bust that goddamn door down,” he said.
She took out her business cell phone and unlocked it.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“As a backup, I’m going to leave my voice recorder on while I’m in there.”
“Are you sure you need that? Will it even work in your back pocket like that?”
“Doesn’t matter; it’ll make me feel better.”
“Your call.”
“Thanks, Karl. Everything is going to be fine. I have truth on my side if that means anything. Dennis says that’s the only partner you need.”
Judy leaned forward, pulled up her loose-hanging blouse at her back, and jammed the gun into the belt. She did not have a purse; instead, in her right front pocket, she had a rubber band around her plastic AFP photo identification and her W.A. driver’s license. She pulled the blouse over the gun, got out, and walked steadily to the front door.
Chapter 18
Jesus, I’ve been trying to call you all day, Ruby! Where the hell have you been?”
“You’re not my only client, Dennis, and you know that. It’s been a long day. What can I do for you?”
“Call Judy and tell her not to go ahead with her plan. Tell her to stop.”
“What plan?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just tell her that.”
“I talked to her a little while ago.”
“You did? What did she say?”
“She said you tried to call her.”
“Damnit Ruby, call her now.”
“I tried a minute ago and it went to voicemail. I’ll call again in a while.”
“Tell her to nix the plan.”
“Got it. Talk to you later.”
She rang the doorbell three times before it opened.
A tall, blond woman with high, prominent cheekbones answered the door. Her blond hair was pulled severely into a bun at the back. Her brown eyes and dark, manicured eyebrows peered down at Judy.
“May I help you?” the woman said in a heavy accent.
“Yes, I’d like to see Mr. Simpson, please. It’s very important. I’m afraid I need to talk to him in person.”
The woman wore a dark purple, long-sleeved silk blouse, stressed by an ample bosom. Judy was struck by the woman’s almost painful attractiveness, yet her facial expression was hard and cold. Judy thought she was the woman who got out of the SUV in the early morning and consulted with Simpson in the BMW.
Instead of pressing Judy for more information, she said, “Come in.”
She closed the door behind Judy and pointed down a twenty-foot hallway adorned with several paintings, an umbrella stand, and an antique marble-top table with a lamp on it.
Judy walked down the carpeted hallway past a huge, granite kitchen on her left. The hallway led to a large formal living room, with a fireplace, a large sofa with a coffee table planted in front, and several formal, wingback chairs spaced about. Her palms were wet again, and she wiped them quickly on her thighs.
A man sat diagonally across the room to her left in a chair reading a book under a lamp; he looked up over his reading glasses. Judy estimated he was perhaps in his late-fifties, gray-flecked brown hair, a pointed nose and a square chin with a pronounced dimple in the middle of it. She could not identify him as the man who was in Louise’s BMW that night since she was too far away to see clearly. But this was Simpson’s house, and this was the house that Louise entered.
“Hello?” he said. “May I help you?”
Judy nervously fingered the pendant, then dropped it quickly.
“Phillip Simpson? Deputy chief of operations at Langley?” she said.
He smiled.
“Well, that may be or not be. Who are you? What do you want? You don’t appear to be selling Girl Scout cookies.”
“I’m here to talk about Louise Nordland, Mr. Simpson. And Dennis Cunningham.”
He laughed, which caught Judy off guard.
“Excuse me? Louise Nordland and Dennis Cunningham? Who are they?”
“How about Dr. Forrester? Does that name ring a bell?”
His mouth twisted in concentration.
“Dr. Forrester, you say?”
“Yes. A psychologist.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. What is it you want? Why are you here?”
“I’m trying to save Dennis’s life, is the short of it. And get some justice for Louise.”
He chuckled, which surprised her.
“What’s your name?”
“Judy White.”
“You’re Australian.”
“Yes.”
“Australian and South African accents are easy to pick out. I have trouble with some New Zealand accents, though. They almost sound British.”
Judy again fingered the pendent unconsciously.
“Dennis is in jail in Las Vegas right now. I’m sure you know that.”
“Mmm,” he said. “Why don’t you sit down?” He pointed to the couch next to her.
“No, I think I’ll stand.” Judy was aware that his wife was out of view. She turned a little to see Daria standing to the far left, near another opening to the kitchen.
“Daria, can you get our guest Judy a glass of water?”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Well, then you could bring me a drink, please. Bourbon and water would be nice.”
Daria disappeared into the kitchen.
“If we’re going to talk, Ms. White, you’ll need to sit down. It’s not polite to stand. Please sit.”
Judy debated briefly whether to comply and decided that her jittery legs could use a place to hide. She sat at the far end of a fabric-covered couch with the coffee table in front of her.
Daria returned silently to the room; for a woman who was easily six feet tall, she walked like a panther.
“Thank you, darling,” he said. “Why don’t you leave Ms. White and me here for a few minutes to discuss some things?”
Daria looked uncertainly at Simpson, then lowered her eyes and returned to the kitchen. Judy sat ten feet away from Simpson and tried to keep her bearings. The hallway to the front door was almost directly behind her, which she found comforting. And she liked the metallic warmth of the pistol digging into her back.
Simpson took a long sip and put the drink down on a coaster.
“Do you read much history?” he said.
“No. Sorry, I don’t.”
“I’m nearly through a history of the Vietnam War by Max Hastings. Excellent story of a sad, tragic war. For all sides, not just ours. Heavens, the north suffered horribly. It’s difficult to know how the U.S. went off the rails so quickly and then stayed off the rails. Fascinating, really. But you know, we do that all the time, this great country. Off the rails with abandon and gusto, it seems.”
“I’m here to talk about Dennis and Louise, not the Vietnam War.”
“Yes, of course. You’d like to know what happened to them and why.”
Judy stiffened. She hadn’t asked the question in just that way, but indeed, that was why she was there.
“Daria?” he said, raising his empty glass. She entered from the far left again as silent as a cloud across the sky. “Another one please, darling.” She flowed in, took his glass, and returned almost immediately with a fresh drink.
“Sit,” he said to her. She sat in a leather armchair to his right.
“So, Ms. White. Do you want to know what happened to Cunningham? Is that correct?” The shift in his conversation—from apparent confusion and vague denials—to a friendly casualness unsettled her. She sat forward on the couch. Something was not right. She felt a drop of perspiration fall from her right armpit onto the inside of her blouse.
“Well, Cunningham got into trouble on his own. I tried to help him. I really did.” He looked to Daria as if seeking reassurance. “But he just wouldn’t give up on Forrester’s patients.” The two looked intensely at each other. Judy felt a strange sense of extraordinary intimacy between them.
“I’m confused,” Judy said quickly. “What do you mean that you tried to help Dennis? What are you talking about?”
“I’m trying to explain how he ended up in a jail in Las Vegas. I mean that’s why you’re here, right?”
Judy said nothing. She had not mentioned Las Vegas to Simpson. They had not got that far. Another drop of perspiration fell on the inside of Judy’s blouse, and she closed her right arm against her side to hide the expanding sweat stain.
“Your fellow there insisted on poking around in Washington. I told him he should be in New Zealand. But no, he insisted on fussing around with Dr. Forrester’s agency patients here. And he confronted poor Mr. Forrester. That was uncalled for.” He looked at Daria again, as if in confirmation.
Judy licked her dry lips.
The ambush was up. Why waste time, she thought. I have Karl outside. Let’s do this.
“Can we quit fucking around here?” she said. “Why did you set Dennis up? Why was it so important for you and whoever else is involved to stop the Forrester investigation? Why?”
“Oh, such language!” Simpson said to Daria, chuckling. “Well, I thought that would be obvious. But I guess not. I mean, Louise got it right away when I explained it to her. But I can’t expect you to have picked up on it. I mean, really. You’re just a divorced, working mother with an unsavory, incarcerated, former husband and a washed-up OIG investigator as a boyfriend. Why would you know anything?”
Judy’s mouth began to gum up; her saliva felt like overcooked oatmeal. She licked her bone-dry lips again.
“Since you asked, we’ll let you in on it, should we Daria?”
Daria shrugged.
“Oh, I think she deserves that much.” He turned and smiled at Judy.
Her heart roared in her chest, creating a loud thumping sound in her eardrums.
“You see, I started to see Dr. Forreste
r in therapy myself. I had to see someone. In the beginning, I was ashamed. It felt dirty. Why not see someone who could help sort it out? So, I found out that Dr. Forrester was on the approved list of therapists, and I started to see her. But I know how the agency works, and I wasn’t about to let those gossipy fools know I was seeing her.”
For the first time that evening he spoke with anger and resentment.
“They’re always looking for weakness, you know. Constant appraisals, evaluations, 360 reviews. You name it. So, I simply went to see Forrester without telling the employee assistance program. You know, Ms. White, at most honorable companies, you don’t even need to notify employee assistance or human resources that you’re consulting with someone on the list. But at Langley, oh, they need to know everything. Everything!”
“Why did you need to see Dr. Forrester, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Heavens no, I don’t mind at all. The reason I went to see her was that I liked it too much. I suppose I felt it was wrong to like it. But of course, there’s nothing wrong with liking it. Dr. Forrester tried to convince me otherwise, the stupid bitch.”
“I’m sorry,” Judy pressed. “What did you ‘like’ too much?”
“Making them suffer.”
“Who?”
“The prisoners,” he said.
“Prisoners where?”
“Abu Ghraib. Surely you heard of that place?”
“The prison outside of Baghdad, where the prisoners were tortured by the CIA?” she said.
“Yes, and get that dripping condescension out of your voice, young lady,” he said sternly.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I was trying to understand, that’s all.”
“What’s to understand? We were trained by psychologists to break those prisoners. So, we broke them. We had orders to break them! Is it my fault that I liked it? The waterboarding was messy but effective, I suppose. Too much gargling and slobbering for me, to be honest. The dogs were the best, though. We put the dogs on those men, and they were absolutely frightened out of their wits. Some of them actually soiled themselves just hearing the dogs. The blindfolds were a stroke of genius, though. First, we let the dogs go insane near a prisoner who could plainly see those apoplectic German Shepherds. Then we let the dog take a good bite. In the follow-up session, we blindfolded the prisoner and put them next to the dogs. Just hearing, but not knowing, whether the dogs were going to bite drove those men nuts. We learned a lot of important intelligence after the prisoners broke—and they always broke. Those psychologists who trained us were great patriots. Unsung heroes in the war on terror.”
