The Prodigal Spy

by Joseph Kanon

  It was still early, so he decided to make another pass at Chevy Chase. The black Navy man seemed unlikely somehow-would Silver pass on sub designs? — and Brown, whatever his taste in magazines, was somebody at Justice. The street still seemed asleep, only a garbage truck clanking its way down the row of cans, but after two cigarettes Nick saw the door open and Brown come out, his mother on the stoop waving to him after a kiss goodbye. He was carrying a suitcase. He got in the car without even looking at the street.

  This time he didn’t leave Wisconsin but headed toward the river, past the Georgetown cliffs and then over the bridge Nick had expected Ruth Silberstein to take, so that Nick found himself back on the parkway, going in the opposite direction. Not toward the Justice Department.

  The car turned off for National Airport and inched its way through the crowded, winding access roads to the terminal’s long-term parking lot. Nick circled around, to see if Brown actually went into the terminal, then pulled into a space and sat, not sure what to do. The Eastern entrance. New York. Or maybe New York to somewhere else. For an instant Nick was tempted to go after him, hide behind a newspaper a few rows behind, follow his taxi. But what if it turned out to be as pointless as the adult store?

  He drove back to Washington. Anacostia was down to his right, the Pentagon behind him, Chevy Chase beyond, a little necklace of spies-what did they actually do? — ringing the unsuspecting city. Or half of it, the only part he’d seen. He looked up at the Capitol in the distance. If he kept going straight on Constitution, he’d be there. The house on 2nd Street. He turned a sharp left. Never.

  “I think he spotted us,” he said to Molly when he got back to the hotel room, slumping on the bed. “Going away the next day.”

  “It might not be the next day to him. Maybe he’s on vacation.” She smiled slyly. “That’s why he got a magazine for the plane.”

  She took out the telephone book and flipped some pages.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m finding out. If you want to know something, the easiest way is to ask.” She started dialing.

  “What about Irina?”

  “She works at the embassy,” she said over her shoulder.

  “So.” Then, to the mouthpiece, “John Brown’s office, please.” A minute. “Yes, is he in, please? Oh, and he told me to call today. I see. Well, when do you expect him? Uh-huh. All right, I’ll try back. No, no, it’s just a friend of his mother’s.” She hung up and turned to Nick. “Was that hard? Not a vacation. He had to go out of town today, she doesn’t know why, he just called from the airport. But I should try back. He’s very good about checking in.”

  “Which tells us what?”

  “That he wasn’t planning to go. Something came up. I suppose we could try the New York field office, but that’s probably stretching it. I mean, what if he is there?”

  “We don’t even know if he’s actually with the Bureau,” Nick said.

  “Mm. Or just someone down the hall.”

  “So now what?”

  “Well, I knew you’d be bored. While they were at work. So I had a little idea of my own. Remember the police report on Rosemary? I got the name of the signing officer. Retired, but still alive. So I called. He’ll see us. I think he was amazed.”

  “I’ll bet. Where does he live?”

  “Actually, not too far from Ruth Silberstein. Al McHenry. He wheezes. Maybe he drinks. Still.”

  The house smelled of medicine and old age, an oxygen tank and face mask standing guard near the lounge chair. He made tea, shuffling around in a cardigan and slippers. “It’s the emphysema. There’s not a damn thing you can do for it, either. It’s all the smokes, I guess. Well. Just throw it over there,” he said to Nick, who was fiddling with the bulky sofa pillow. “So what can I do for you? I wasn’t on that case long, you know. The FBI took it over. Moved right in, the way they do. National security. Noses up in the air, all of them. Like we’re just flatfeet. But I don’t see they got anywhere either, did they? We did everything right, you know, at the scene-the dusting, the plastic bags, the whole works, the way it should be. They’ll say we didn’t, but it’s a lie. We did it all. The fact is, there was nothing left for them to do, that’s the truth of it. If there’s one thing I’m always careful about, it’s the scene of the crime.”

  “So you didn’t think it was suicide?”

  He looked carefully at Nick. “Well, let me put it this way. If it was, someone drove her to it. Right there with her. She was entertaining, you know. That’s a crime to me, never mind what the book says.” He stopped and looked again at Nick. “No, I never thought it was suicide. They didn’t either, the Bureau boys, that was just the official line. I could never see it. They have a lovers’ quarrel and she gets hysterical and jumps out the window? Hell, by the time she got it open he could’ve stopped her. No.”

  “Unless he never turned up. Maybe she got depressed, waiting, knowing he wasn’t coming,” Nick said, playing devil’s advocate.

  “Oh, he was there all right. They had a drink. Now look, you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to get the lay of the land here. Girl checks into a hotel. No clothes, just her nightgown-not the wool kind, the other kind. You know. And she brings her douche.” He turned to Molly. “Pardon. Then she orders a setup from room service. For two, mind you. Ice, bottle, mixer, two glasses. I’d say she had company.”

  “But no one saw anybody going in.”

  “No. That was a bad break. You know hotel people. Notice everything. Can’t wait to help you out, whether they’ve seen anything or not. Gets them off work. But that night-well, they had everyone running around with that dance. People everywhere. Nobody’s got time to notice anything.”

  “Like somebody leaving the dance and taking the elevator to the sixteenth floor.”

  McHenry looked up from his tea. “I thought about that too. Couldn’t prove it, though. Couldn’t prove it. Might have been anybody. The only one I can prove went into that room was the waiter.”

  “And he didn’t see anybody.”

  “No. Hadn’t got there yet. But she was getting ready for company. Said she was putting her lipstick on when he brought the setup.”

  “Then how do we know he was there?”

  “There was liquor in both glasses. Why pour two?”

  “Prints?”

  “No,” McHenry said slowly, looking at Nick, as if trying to assess where the question came from. “But he was there. He was there and he killed her. I’m sure of it.”

  “Because both glasses had liquor?”

  “Because it makes sense. And there were the marks on the window.” He waited for Nick’s reaction. “You see, I thought to look. Even a flatfoot could figure that out. They had those sash windows, you know, you lift it up.” He stood up to demonstrate. “Now you don’t usually push someone out face first. I mean, what would they be doing at the window in the first place, getting some air? Usually their back’s to it and you surprise them, they don’t know there’s nothing behind. Then they start falling, and the natural reaction is to grab on to something. Like this.” He turned his hands around and lifted them as if he were holding on to the sash, then fell back in the chair. “The nails dig in, you see? Then they slip. Or someone loosens them for you. And down you go. But you’d leave the scratches.”

  “And she did.”

  “Yes, sir, she did. But I couldn’t prove that either.” He gasped, out of breath from the demonstration, and sucked some air from the mask. “These days, there’d be all sorts of ways. Just one little flake of something under those nails and the lab boys’d have it licked in a minute. But back then-” He took more air. “We just had eyes.”

  “The report says you found a lighter,” Nick said, getting to it.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “My father’s.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you think he killed her.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said flatly, looking up at Nick. “Does that surprise you? You thought he did, is tha
t it? Well, he didn’t. I’m not trying to be nice. As far as I’m concerned, he was a traitor. I’d have put him away for that in a minute. But murder, that’s something else, that’s police work. I suppose it isn’t easy having a traitor for a father.

  “Course, mine thinks he has a fool for a father, so take your pick. But you don’t have to have this hanging over your head too. No, I don’t think he did.”

  He took a deep breath, wheezing slightly, then continued. “Everybody else thought so. Everybody wanted it to be him. Nothing makes me more suspicious than everybody wanting it to be someone. I think, you know, they just wanted to nail him for something. They couldn’t get him for what he did do, but if they got him for this, it sure as hell would look like he did the other-why else kill her? Of course, in the end they couldn’t get him for anything. You can’t try a man who isn’t there, not even the Bureau.” He smiled. “I have to say, I guess they were frustrated, the bastards. They keep the murder stuff out of the papers, thinking they’re going to get him-you know, pull the rabbit out of the hat the way they liked to do. I kept my mouth shut. They want to say it’s suicide, fine, I can’t prove otherwise. I can see they’re just waiting. Then by the time they find out where he is, it’s too late. Who gives a rat’s ass? You can’t hang a man who isn’t there. You can’t even accuse him. No point.”

  “If you’ve already proved your point. That he’s a traitor,” Nick said, thinking.

  “Well, he gave them that one himself. From what I saw, they weren’t going to prove nothing. But I guess he was right to go. For him, I mean. They sure as hell would have got him for this. He had the motive, all right.”

  “And you had the lighter. Why didn’t you think it was him?”

  “Well, there was a funny thing about that lighter. Very funny, I thought. No prints. None. Wiped. We dusted right away, don’t let them tell you different. I knew about prints. We got hers all over the place. But the lighter’s all smooth and clean. You asked before about the glass-no prints there either. Now that I can understand. You have a drink, you kill somebody, you wipe the glass, nobody knows you’ve been there. But who’d wipe their own lighter and then leave it behind so we’d find it anyway?”

  “Somebody who wanted it found.”

  McHenry nodded. “Right. I mean, if you’re worried enough to wipe it, why not take it with you? Somebody else planted that lighter.”

  “Who?”

  “That I don’t know. They were all out to get him, but who’d want to get him that bad? Like you said, he had the motive and we had the lighter. Case closed.”

  “Even if you didn’t think he did it?”

  “Well, it wasn’t my case, was it?”

  “No.” Nick paused. “You know, the lighter never appeared in the Bureau report.”

  “It didn’t? Well, they sure as hell had it. I gave it to them myself. In a bag, sealed, everything the way it should be.”

  “Why wouldn’t they mention it?”

  “That I don’t know either. Who knows why they do anything there? It’s all politics over there, not police work.”

  “Who did you give it to? Who specifically?”

  “The guy running the case, the Canuck. French name. La something.” He snapped his fingers. “Lapierre. That’s right. One look, he’d freeze your blood. Snotty little bastard.” Again to Molly, “Pardon. Anyway, that’s who had it. After that, I don’t know. Maybe they got it over there with Dillinger’s prick, who knows?”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  “No idea. Still there for all I know. Well, twenty years-” He did a mental calculation. “Maybe not. Not with their pension. I wish I had it. Not this chickenshit they give you on the force.” He waved his hand around the room, living proof. “You want to see him too?”

  “Maybe there’s something else.”

  “Well, I doubt it. Like I said, we did everything right. What are you expecting to find, anyway? Who did it?”

  “No, just who didn’t. My father did a lot of things, but I never thought he did this. I just wanted to be sure. Anyway, thanks. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “No bother, no bother. What else would I be doing but hacking my lungs up?”

  He walked them to the door, reluctant to see the meeting end, his eyes lively with interest, back on the case. “One other thing that never came out. Not about your father,” he said to Nick. “About the girl. It was really out of respect to the family.” This to Molly, tentative. “We figured they had enough on their hands already. Terrible thing, suicide, for a Catholic.”

  Molly looked at him, waiting.

  “Maybe she didn’t know it herself,” McHenry said. “She didn’t need the douche. She was pregnant.”

  Molly was thoughtful in the car.

  “Is that possible?” Nick said. “Not to know?”

  “I suppose. For a while, anyway. Maybe she did, though. Maybe that’s why she wanted the money. Not for a dress.”

  “A good Catholic girl?”

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  “I don’t know. Remember in the letter how she made this big point about his not being married? I’ll bet she thought it was going to be all right. Once they got past the hearing.”

  “I wonder if he knew.” She moved her hand, brushing the thought aside. “Anyway, you don’t kill somebody for that. You get it taken care of.”

  “He did.”

  Molly worked her phone magic again with the Justice Department’s Personnel Office, pretending to be unaware that her old friend had retired, and got Lapierre’s address out in Falls Church. They decided not to call first.

  “What if he says no?” Nick said. But when they got there, a condo development pretending to be colonial row houses, there was no question of his not opening the door-he was in the garden. A slight man, still wiry, digging on his hands and knees. When he got up, slowly, his whole body seemed wary, not standing but uncoiling. His face was blank when they explained themselves, then drew even further behind an official wall. But his eyes stayed on Nick, curious, as if he were looking at an old photograph. “I can’t discuss cases.”

  “It’s not a case anymore,” Nick said. “The statute of limitations was seven years.”

  “On espionage. Not murder.” He wiped some dirt from his hands. “It’s still an open case.”

  “My father’s dead.”

  “Yes? I hadn’t heard that.” He looked at Nick again. “You were the kid. I remember you. At the house.” A man holding his hat, his face unfamiliar, just a blur even then. “Said you were playing Monopoly, wasn’t that it?”

  “Scrabble.”

  “Scrabble.” He nodded. “Right. Scrabble.” Noncommittal.

  A woman opened the back door. “Dad, you all right?”

  “Fine. We’re just talking here.”

  She looked at them suspiciously, wanting more information, then had to give it up. “Don’t forget your pills,” she said, reluctantly going back in.

  “My daughter,” he said. “She’s worse than Hoover.” But the interruption had the effect of drawing him to them, like a little boy not ready to be called inside. His body relaxed. “Tell me something, since you’re here. I always wondered after. Did he tell you to say that, about the Scrabble? Did you know he’d skipped?”

  Nick shook his head. “I thought he was hiding somewhere.”

  Lapierre took this in and nodded again. “He had us all going, didn’t he?” he said, his voice reminiscent. “They must have had every man in the Bureau on it. Turning over rocks. And all the time we were just chasing our tails. But who knew? The director didn’t want to hear it. Just find the sonofabitch. I remember that all right. Of course, we were too late. We started late. You get the locals in, trail’s cold before you get to it.” He glanced at Nick. “Kid says he’s home all night. Why not? We never thought he skipped. We checked everything. How’d he do it anyway? Do you know?”

  “He went to Philadelphia, then Detroit, Canada.”

  Lapierre’s
face was busy putting pieces in his own puzzle, but all he said was, “Philadelphia. Huh.”

  “Now can I ask you something?”

  Lapierre looked at him, wary again.

  “He wasn’t being accused of murder,” Nick said. “That would have been a police case anyway. Unless they asked you in. Which they didn’t. You just came.” Lapierre didn’t respond. “He wasn’t being accused of anything else either. So why the big hunt? Every man in the Bureau.”

  “Well, when you don’t turn up at a congressional hearing, that’s-”

  “The excuse,” Nick finished. “You put a dragnet out for a subpoena violation?”

  Lapierre glanced at him shrewdly, intrigued. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  But Nick kept staring at him until finally Lapierre nodded, conceding the point, wanting to go on, playing one more hand to see what Nick knew. “Let’s just say the Bureau likes to take care of its friends. Welles was a very good friend to the Bureau, close to the director. Nobody likes to lose a star witness. All of a sudden you’re sitting there holding the bag. So I would guess he asked for a little help. That’s just a guess,” he added quickly.

  “You did it as a favor?” Nick said skeptically.

  “Maybe you don’t understand how things work. Everybody thinks the Bureau’s on its own, but it isn’t. Hoover’s got his boss too. Sometimes the AG’s on your side, sometimes not. Depends on the man, whatever his agenda is. That was a funny time. Tom Clark had just left-never any problem with him. He never gave a damn one way or the other. But the new one-” He left it unfinished, still discreet. “And you never knew what his boss would do. The director hated Truman. Mutual, probably. So it was important to take care of your friends in Congress. Kind of an insurance policy.” He stopped. “Well, that’s the political side. The director wasn’t going to let Welles hang out there. He made Welles. But the fact is, Kotlar was guilty-you don’t need an excuse to go after a spy. You can’t blame the director for that one. I don’t say he does everything right-that case was no picnic for us, I can tell you. No let-up. But hell, you’ve got a Red spy and you don’t go after him? That’s like putting blood under a hound’s nose and then sticking him in a cage. He’s got to do it. I don’t think you can blame him for this one.”