Thin Air

by George Simpson

  Cohen snickered. "I could've told you that The Navy doesn't maintain any such psychiatric program, especially for ex-servicemen. No program, no McCarthy. Doesn't take a genius to figure that out."

  "Uh-huh," said Hammond. "Except, then, who is he?" They shrugged. "Thanks. Keep yourselves available."

  He opened the door for them just as Admiral Gault walked up. Gault stared after the departing Gold-dust Twins. "Some company you keep," he said, and flopped into a chair in Hammond's office. "Know where I've just come from?"

  "No, sir."

  "Brief meeting with John Allen Smith. He doesn't appreciate yesterday's bugging. Do you want his official reaction?"

  "Gutter language will be fine, sir."

  Gault sighed. "The Director of Naval Intelligence was so mad he didn't know whether to shit or go blind. Because of our security crackdown, he's got every hunk of brass in the building down on his neck. They want us out of here. They're saying our operations jeopardize the security of the Pentagon—we've got our own building, why don't we stick the rest of our people in it!"

  Hammond stared at him. "It's only one incident, sir."

  "That's all it takes, Nicky. Now, I like this little setup. I like coming over to the Pentagon for lunch and seeing my friends. But more important, the integrity of our bureau is at stake. After a mere thirty-odd days as an admiral, I don't intend to get booted out of the Pentagon!" His face was red. He took a couple of deep breaths and sat back. "Anyway...Smitty wants to be kept posted on nailing the buggers. You follow me?"

  "Does he want it daily, sir?"

  "I was hoping you'd say it'll be wrapped up by tonight. No, Hammond, call him when you have something." Gault heaved himself out of the chair. "And that better be soon," he added as he left.

  Hammond closed the door and grunted to himself. He didn't care what building they occupied. Brass politics, what a pain. He sat down and pushed it all out of his, mind. Jan—where the hell was Jan? He picked up the phone again.

  She answered on the third ring—with new problems. Fletcher's son in Virginia was causing trouble. Paul Mallory, the president of Tri-State, had helped her make arrangements with the funeral home and was acting as a buffer between Jan and the son.

  She was silent for a moment and Hammond sensed something coming. "Paul asked me something this morning...and it has me quite upset."

  "What was that?"

  "He was curious as to why the Navy was setting out to smear Harold's memory."

  Her tone was icy. Hammond was silent a moment, taken by surprise. Then he snapped back, "That's ridiculous. I'll straighten him out." He reassured her as much as he could and promised to join her for dinner. As soon as he hung up, Hammond dialed the Tri-State office and made an appointment to meet with Paul Mallory.

  The Tri-State offices were at 1839 M Street. As Hammond threaded through Washington traffic, he thought about what Jan had said. Smear Fletcher's memory, indeed. Where had that come from? He ruled out Medacre and the coroner's office; there was no reason for them to interfere. It had to be someone familiar with Hammond's interest in Fletcher, but who?

  9805CGN-166?

  Five minutes later, he was ushered into Paul Mallory's office. Paul Mallory stood a few inches over Hammond, six-foot-two and well-built. Hammond guessed his age at roughly forty-five. His thinning hair was neatly barbered, sideburns bracketing a pleasant, well-tanned face. He fit snugly into the mold of the successful executive. He radiated a smooth confidence Hammond could never hope to have.

  Hammond's eyes flicked over several photos displayed on one wall: three pretty girls and a good-looking young man, all bearing the stamp of family resemblance. Another showed Mallory standing next to his radiant bride. On the right was his best man, looking stiff and proud in a tux: it was Harold Fletcher, younger, thinner, handsomer.

  Mallory was toying with a small white envelope on his desk as he asked, "What can I do for you, Commander?" The tone was proper, but there was a distinct coolness to it.

  "I imagine Mrs. Fletcher has told you all about me."

  Mallory shook his head. "No, Jan hasn't mentioned you at all." He tossed over the envelope. "This arrived in the morning mail."

  Hammond drew out a single sheet of notepaper and quickly read it:

  13 OCT 1977

  Mr. Paul Mallory

  President.

  Tri-State Insurance Co., Ltd.

  1839 M Street, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  Dear Mr. Mallory,

  Please be advised that the U.S. Navy is looking into the background of your late associate Harold Fletcher. This investigation is being conducted by CMDR Nicholas Hammond of the Naval Investigate Service.

  It would be in the best interests of your company to discourage this investigation as soon as possible. It can lead to harm not only for Tri-State but to the memory of a man no longer able to defend himself.

  A friend

  Hammond noted the military dating and the identification of himself as "CMDR." Only someone familiar with the recent changes in Naval abbreviations would have used "CMDR" in capital letters. The postmark on the envelope was from Washington, dated the same day. Either McCarthy had moved around or he had "a friend."

  "That's a pretty strong letter, Mr. Mallory," Hammond said. "Inaccurate as hell, but strong."

  "Then there's no truth to it?"

  "None whatsoever. At the request of Fletcher's wife, I helped him check on his service record when he came to Washington. That's the extent of my involvement with him. Nobody in the Navy has been trying to besmirch Mr. Fletcher's good name. And no one will. Do you mind if I keep this?"

  Mallory regarded the letter with distaste. "Not at all. Frankly, I despise anonymous tips. And I've always prided myself on my judgment of men. Harold Fletcher worked for this company for many years. In all that time, he was never once involved in anything shady. He was a vice- president and a fr—" He choked. "My closest friend."

  "I understand," said Hammond. "His wife is an old friend of mine." Images of their "friendship" shot through his mind in the brief silence. Then he asked, "Mr. Mallory, how would an investigation of Harold Fletcher be harmful to Tri-State?"

  Mallory grunted. "It would and it wouldn't. Probably depends on our poison pen pal there." He sat up and sighed. "We suffer from gossip and rumor as much as any other industry. I suppose if one of our top men was under investigation by any legitimate authority, and word of it leaked out, we could lose a number of sensitive clients."

  "Could you give me an example?"

  "We underwrite government vendors, companies that do business on a large scale with institutions like your Navy. They're some of our biggest accounts. Any hint of scandal and they would drop us like a hot rock. With what's been going on in Washington these last few years, I could hardly blame them."

  "Mr. Mallory, could you get me a list of those companies?"

  Mallory regarded Hammond with hesitation. "Why?"

  Hammond waved the letter. "Just a stab in the dark. Wouldn't you like to know who wrote this?"

  Mallory relaxed and pressed Ms Intercom button. "Claire, would you make up a list of all the government vendors we insure and send it to Commander Hammond's office? He'll give you the address."

  "Yes, sir."

  He clicked off and managed a businesslike smile. "You'll have it in a day or so."

  Back in his own office, Hammond slid open his bottom desk drawer and pulled out his Jolly Roger skull-and-crossbones flag, his not-too-subtle signal for everyone to stay clear. He dropped it on the hooks outside his door, closed it, and sat down alone.

  He examined the letter Mallory had given him. It was the first hard evidence that someone didn't want him looking into Fletcher's past and that same someone was going to a lot of trouble trying to shut doors before Hammond could open them. Although the letter probably established a clear connection between the Fletcher case and the bugging incident, it wasn't proof enough to send up to Smitty.

  He put it aside
for the time being and began instead to prepare his assault on Yablonski's mind. He jotted down a list of questions, then tried to shift them into the proper order.

  After an hour, he was dead-tired. He stuffed the Jolly Roger back in his drawer and left the office, taking the work home with him.

  He stopped off to pick up steaks for dinner. When he entered his flat, only the kitchen light was burning. He put the meat out on the counter and went looking for Jan. He found her asleep on the couch. Gently, he woke her up. Through half-closed eyes she smiled at him—a warm bedroom smile that belonged somewhere in their past. It faded after a moment.

  She went to wash her face while he prepared the steaks. He shoved them under the broiler and remembered that Jan liked hers medium-well. She came into the kitchen and wordlessly threw together a salad.

  Dinner was quiet. Hammond was preoccupied, anxious to go to Work on the Yablonski list.

  Toying with her food, Jan broke the silence to tell him that arrangements had been made for Harold's funeral. She waited for a response. Hammond only grunted. "I was right about the family," she said. "Especially the son. This is turning into a convention for vultures."

  Reluctantly, Hammond gave her his full attention.

  "They insist on burial in Virginia," she said. "In the family plot. And I know Harold didn't want that. Oh God, Nicky, I have to go down there tomorrow. It's going to be an ordeal. Will you come with me?"

  Hammond stared at her.

  "Please come with me," she pleaded.

  He regarded his dinner in silence, wary about where this was leading. "I know this is the worst time to ask the question," he said finally, "but did you really love Harold Fletcher?"

  She looked at him a long time before answering: "Not as much as I loved you."

  She got up to clear the dishes and wouldn't even look at him. He followed her into the kitchen and leaned on the counter watching her wash. "You can stay as long as you like," he said.

  "Thanks, but I'll look for a hotel tomorrow."

  He was stunned at a feeling of imminent loss. He reached for her shoulder and gripped it. She looked up and he said, "No. Stay. Please."

  Hammond felt warmth flood through Jan again. She smiled at him.

  "How did it go with Paul Maflory?" she asked.

  "Fine."

  "You will...stop looking into Harold's past if that's what Paul wants...won't you?"

  "There's nothing left to look into," he lied.

  He helped her dry the dishes, then she went off to soak in a hot tub. Hammond closed the door of his office and sat down with the notepad in front of him, but he couldn't work. He sank his head down on his arms and tried to clear his mind. He hated this situation. Sooner or later, Jan would have to know what was going on and how it involved her late husband. How would she handle it? And what would her reaction mean to him...?

  The knock on the door woke him up. It was Jan, wrapped in a huge towel and drying her hair. "I didn't mean to disturb you, but..."

  "It's all right. I must have dozed off."

  Jan studied him. "You look terrible," she said. "I'm out of the bathroom. Why don't I make up the couch so you can get some decent sleep?"

  Hammond offered no resistance. He couldn't think anymore. Fifteen minutes later, he slid between the sheets, closed his eyes, listened to Jan moving quietly in the bedroom, and drifted off....

  He picked up the phone on the second ring, rolling off the couch in the darkened living room. It was the night receptionist at NIS headquarters in Alexandria.

  "I'm holding a call for you, sir—a Mrs. Yablonski."

  "Tell her I'll call right back."

  Hammond slammed the phone down and ran into his office. He rummaged for Yablonski's number, glancing at the clock as he dialed. It was just after four a.m.

  "Hello?"

  "This is Hammond, Mrs. Yablonski. What's the trouble?"

  Her voice choked with relief. "Commander, I'm sorry—I know it's late but I just didn't know what to do—"

  "It's all right, ma'am. What's happened?"

  She sobbed into the phone. "It's Cas...just terrible...since midnight—"

  "Why didn't you get in touch with me then?"

  "I couldn't," she said. "He wanted to call Dr. McCarthy—I wouldn't let him."

  "You handled it fine, Mrs. Yablonski. Where is he now?"

  "Taking a walk—around the pond. Sometimes that helps. But I don't know how long it will last. Please! He needs somebody right away!"

  "Now listen. I'm coming up to see him. I'll leave as soon as I finish speaking to you. I'll be bringing two Navy doctors with me. We should be there in four hours, maybe less. Don't worry about anything. Just trust me. The most important thing you can do now is keep your husband quiet. And keep him away from Dr. McCarthy. Understand?"

  "I-I'll try."

  "You've got to do better than that, Mrs. Yablonski. I'll see you in four hours."

  He hung up and called the headquarters receptionist back. "I need several things. Get hold of Larry Cohen and Tom Slater. Tell them to be at the MATS terminal at Washington National in forty minutes. Call operations. Have them fuel and warm up a Lockheed Jet-Star on my authorization. Then call Otis Air Force Base and make sure they have a car standing by for me. Got all that?"

  Hammond made her repeat the instructions, then hung up. He moved to the bedroom door, careful not to wake Jan. He went to his closet and pulled out a uniform, planning to dress in the kitchen. Then he noticed her sitting up in bed.

  "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you." He grabbed his shoes and headed for the door.

  "Christ, Hammond. The middle of the night," she said. "You haven't changed."

  Hammond froze in the doorway. Their former life together had been filled with moments like this—with him creeping out in the dead of night to accomplish she knew not what. And how she had hated it But how could he possibly explain to her what was going on tonight? He fought down a quick surge of anger and answered her quietly.

  "One thing's changed. I don't apologize for it anymore," He closed the bedroom door quickly.

  7

  Slater whistled at his first sight of the storybook cottage set in front of huge willow trees only forty yards from the water. Cohen got out of the car and assessed the surroundings.

  "This is a guy who likes to retreat from society," he announced to Hammond.

  "I could have told you that," Hammond said.

  "Yeah, but I've got the degree, so it means more."

  Hammond smiled as Mrs. Yablonski banged through the front screen door and waved anxiously at them. "Hello!" she hollered, and hurried down to meet them. "I'm so glad you came. Commander, I can't tell you..."

  Hammond introduced Cohen and -Slater as doctors and Naval colleagues. She glanced uncertainly at their white t-shirts and slicks. But they put on the charm and in a moment she was convinced.

  "How's your husband this morning, ma'am?" asked Cohen.

  Her'smile fell away. "Not good," she said, glancing at Hammond. "He had a terrible night. You should have heard the things he's been saying about you. I've been pumping him full of coffee since six this morning. He hasn't called Dr. McCarthy, but if you're unsuccessful, he won't hesitate."

  She took them inside and gave them coffee and homemade doughnuts. She urged them to make themselves at home, then went upstairs to get Cas. Slater worked on the doughnuts while Cohen roamed through the house, inspecting paintings, trophies, bric-a-brac—trying to get a clue to the tastes of his subject-to-be. He moved from one thing to another like he was touring a museum. Hammond followed, aware more of the overall impression—smallish rooms with old-fashioned furniture. The living-room sofa sagged with age and had a musty smell he remembered from childhood, sort of a doggy odor. The retriever probably slept here on occasion. The den and living room were filled with deep-sea mementos: a swordfish mounted on a wood plaque in the den and a small shark mounted in the living room.

  "He takes a certain pride in defeating dangerous game,"
Cohen analyzed. "Probably has the killer instinct himself."

  Hammond wanted to laugh. Yablonski a killer?

  "Look at this," said Cohen, bending down to inspect a collection of fishing trophies shoved haphazardly into a bookcase at floor level in the den. "Obviously, he doesn't care much for medals and awards. A real sport-fisherman would have these up here—" He indicated the mantelpiece.

  Slater appeared in the den, downing his second or third doughnut. "Okay, Sherlocks," he said, "I'm going to get my gimmicks from the car." He went out the front door.

  "There are only two things in his life," Cohen continued. "Deep-sea fishing and running his excursion boat. Look at this den. There's only one chart on the wall: Cape Cod to Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket. Mr. Yablonski lives in a very small world. I'm willing to bet Mrs. Yablonski manages the business as well as the household. And all her husband knows is fish."

  Hammond smiled. "What if this is her den?"

  "Then I'll go back to college."

  Cohen gave Hammond a smug look and returned to the kitchen to wait for the Yablonskis. Hammond remained in the den for a moment. Through the window, he watched Slater trudge back to the house carrying his recording equipment and a black medical bag.

  Hammond sat down at Yablonski's desk and admired it. It was the kind he'd always wanted for himself, with cubbyholes and little drawers and the varnished rolltop. The façade was beautiful: hand-carved antique cedar with triangular notches at the joins. He couldn't help himself; his fingers automatically explored the cubbyholes. He thumbed bits of paper and postcards Yablonski had tucked away. Then his eye caught the open book in the corner, a personal phone directory, open to the letter M.

  McCarthy, L. And after it, a WATS number: 800-676- 0999.

  Hammond picked up a pad from the desk and wrote the number down. He wondered anxiously if Yablonski had called the doctor after all. And what if McCarthy decided to respond with a house call? Hammond, fully intended a confrontation, but he didn't want to make Yablonski the battlefield.

  "Commander?" He heard Mrs. Yablonski calling and hurriedly shut the directory, put the paper in his pocket, and went to join the others in the kitchen.