Spilled Blood

by Michael R. Davidson

  “It’s what they’re calling the old Soviet Division these days. I think they’ve been watching too many movies out there at Langley. It’s a stupidly dramatic name.”

  This was the last thing she expected or welcomed. “The fucking CIA? What the hell are they doing here?”

  “Think about it,” he said, ignoring the slur on his old outfit. “You discovered that Gregory Davis was a Russian. Today we see a CIA Russian ops type at police headquarters. Seems a little too coincidental to ignore, don’t you think?”

  “The fucking CIA,” she repeated. “Why is it that every time I get involved in a case the damned spooks or the FBI show up? It’s like a curse.”

  He laughed out loud at this. “I think it’s a road to Damascus moment in this case and maybe the key to everything.”

  “Explain.”

  “Let’s go talk to Curry first. That should give us a clue.”

  “You’re still being spooky with me, and I don’t like it.” She crossed her arms and had no intention of moving until Strachey came clean about what he was thinking.

  “Look,” he said, “what I’m thinking will be confirmed or disproved by what Curry says. I don’t want to prejudice your thinking until I’m certain. One of us must remain unbiased until we have some facts. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. It’s the way I’ve always worked.”

  Krystal was doing a slow burn. “Damn it, Bob. You’re not in the CIA anymore, and I’m your partner, or so you say. In my world, partners share everything.”

  She could tell she was making him uncomfortable, and it gave her a small tingle of satisfaction. He needed to realize he wasn’t working for the government these days. He was in a different world when it came to criminal investigation, and it was her world where her experience was more relevant.

  He clinched his jaw, but then relaxed. “OK, you’re right. Here it is. I think the Agency is involved somehow with Gregory Davis. I think he might have been a defector. That would explain why he showed up a year ago and was given a position at the bank out of the blue. It’s the way the Agency works when it resettles a defector. They give him a new name, find him a job that suits his abilities, buy him a house, and so on. What this means for the investigation, I don’t know … yet. It’s going to require some more digging, and I doubt the Agency will cooperate.”

  “It’s definitely a curse,” she moaned. But she was gratified to have brought Strachey around.

  “Ready to see Curry?” he asked.

  “Let’s go.”

  *****

  Captain Abel Curry was not especially pleased to see them. In fact, he looked worried, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his shaved pate. He invited them to be seated after shaking hands. “What can I do for you today?” he asked without a trace of enthusiasm.

  Strachey did the talking. “Well, Captain, we’ve been looking into different aspects of the case. Yesterday, Krystal interviewed Gregory Davis’s boss at the bank and uncovered an interesting fact. Davis was a Russian. He appeared at the bank about a year ago and was given a job in the Internal Audit Division with no questions asked. His boss knew nothing about his background. Apparently, he was an excellent worker and got on well with everyone. We tried to interview his widow, but she refused to talk to us, which we found a little strange. It was as though she had been instructed to say nothing to anybody. We were wondering what you thought about Davis. You didn’t mention to us that he was Russian.”

  Curry arranged his features into a semblance of studied neutrality. “I don’t see how any of that is relevant to the investigation. Padruig Nessmith is the prime suspect, and we know he had motive. Davis was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Strachey watched the Captain carefully with eyes long trained to know when someone was lying. “We’re beginning to think it’s possible that Davis was the killer’s real target and the Nessmiths were the ones in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Curry squirmed a bit in his chair. “I don’t think so,” he said. “As you know, Padruig Nessmith is likely to be charged with first degree murder in a few weeks despite the judge letting him out on bail. The matter is nearly closed.”

  Strachey persisted. “Is there anything more you can tell us about Davis? Why won’t his widow talk to us?”

  “It’s her prerogative to speak or not to speak with whomever she pleases,” said Curry, not bothering to disguise his irritation. “I have nothing more to say on the matter.”

  “I see,” said Strachey. “Well, that sounds pretty conclusive. Just one more question, if you don’t mind, Captain. What were you talking about with the CIA today?”

  Curry’s façade of neutrality crumbled entirely, and his face turned red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Strachey. This meeting is over.”

  The Captain stood to signal they should leave. Strachey turned back at the door and said, “Thanks again, Captain. I think you’ve told us everything we need to know.”

  They left Curry standing open-mouthed behind his desk.

  In the hallway Strachey laughed out loud. “Well, I’ll be damned. We’re on the right track now for sure. He was lying through his teeth. Did you see his reaction when I mentioned the CIA?”

  “Couldn’t miss it,” she answered. “What do you think it means?”

  “It means there is a lot more going on than meets the eye.”

  “We’re not going to get anything more out of Curry, though,” she said.

  “You’re right about that. He’s one of those people easily impressed with Federal credentials. He’s been instructed to keep his mouth shut, and he’s going to obey orders. We need to find out why because there is something more than an open and shut murder case going on here.”

  Back in the car, Krystal asked, “Do you think you can find out anything from your old CIA contacts?”

  “That would be problematic, I think. I’ve been out of the business for a long while now, and Amy’s left the Agency, too. The guy I recognized back there is Tony DeLorenzo. We had a passing acquaintance back in the day. He’s a good officer and should have made senior grade by now. I guess I could try to get in touch with him directly and try to keep it off the books. But I think it’s likely he won’t be willing or able to tell me anything.”

  She had an idea but was reluctant to say it out loud. After a long silence, she said, “You know I have a good contact in the FBI.”

  He turned toward her. “You mean Enoch Whitehall.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s the Executive Assistant Director for Counterintelligence.”

  “Right again.”

  “Pretty powerful guy.”

  “He’s another damned spook legend, but he’s always been good to me.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he said. Whitehall had literally saved Krystal’s life a year earlier when she had been held prisoner by a mad man on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. “But I’m not sure he could help. DeLorenzo is CIA.”

  “Whitehall has good contacts at the Agency, and how about the guy DeLorenzo was with? Could he have been FBI? CIA doesn’t operate inside the States, does it?” She wasn’t so sure about where and how the CIA really operated.

  “I guess it could have been the FBI. And if it was, it would have been counterintelligence. That’s Whitehall’s bailiwick.”

  “So, should I call him?”

  Strachey thought about this. “I don’t think so. He’s too cagey to say anything over the phone. You’ll have to go to Washington.”

  “Shit.” She hated the idea.

  “It’s the only way we’ll get anything out of him,” persisted Strachey, and with a sinking feeling she knew he was right. She began to wish she’d never mentioned Whitehall.

  “We might not get anything out of him even if I go to Washington,” she ventured.

  “Do you think it’s worth a try?”

  “I guess it can’t hurt,” she answered reluctantly, surrendering at last. “Christ, I hate the idea of going back to Washingto
n. It’s full of crazy people.”

  Strachey couldn’t restrain a chuckle at this. “I can’t argue with you there but think about it.”

  “Okay,” she said, and a cloud of gloom settled over her.

  CHAPTER 14

  Strachey insisted that she fly to Washington rather than drive. It was a short flight, which only intensified her dread of returning there. She viewed Washington and its environs as populated by busy people, each and every one of whom believed he or she and the government institution they worked for was the absolute center of the universe. The self-importance of government bureaucrats never failed to amaze her.

  The plane descended along the Potomac River, and she could see the city with its alabaster monuments slide by on the left side of the aircraft until the water of the river rose up to fill the window as they landed at Reagan National Airport. She picked up her rental car and threaded her way out of the airport onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway, heading north. Within minutes she was on the 14th Street Bridge which took her across the top of the National Mall, with the Smithsonian buildings stretched away to her right and the Washington Monument towering on her left. Soon enough she turned east onto Constitution Avenue hoping to find a spot to park. Naturally, she failed.

  It was late morning, and it was summer, which in Washington meant the humidity was high and the heat sweltering, driving the city’s denizens to madness or to seek out air-conditioned refuge wherever they could find it. Only the tourists braved the heat. Krystal’s mood was not improved by at last finding an open parking space on the Mall six blocks from the FBI building. The trek to Pennsylvania Avenue convinced her she would have been no less comfortable in the Mojave Desert. Funny thing about heat. There is wet heat, like now in Washington, and dry heat like in Spain, which Strachey assured her was very pleasant. She had found the heat even in Miami compared favorably to that in Washington, something she attributed to the easy-going culture of Miami compared to the rat race, with literal rats, in the nation’s capital.

  Having arrived at the crumbling facade of the J. Edgar Hoover building a scant five minutes before time for her appointment with Enoch Whitehall, she was ashamed of how grateful she was for the air conditioning. Not for the first time she was escorted to Whitehall’s office by a somber young man dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and conservative tie. He was wearing wingtips, too, probably hoping that his emulation would win him a junior man in black badge someday. He opened the door so she could enter the antechamber, guarded as always by a stern woman of indeterminate age. Krystal thought of her as the dragon guarding Whitehall’s lair, and the only thing she knew about her was that her name was Jeanne, although she would never have dared to call her by name.

  “Good morning, Miss Murphy. Right on time, I see.” Jeanne greeted her in a crisp formal voice while her eyes examined her as if to determine whether she met the standard required to meet with Whitehall. “Please take a seat. The Director will be with you in a moment.”

  About ten minutes later, Jeanne stood from behind her behemoth desk and announced, “The Director will see you now.” She held open the heavy wooden door that led to the inner chamber. Whitehall’s office was notable for its total lack of personality. There was not one object in the room that was not government issue, and the only decoration was a framed photograph on the wall behind the desk of a younger Whitehall shaking hands with J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover was smiling up at the taller Whitehall whose face somehow gave an impression of pleasure without smiling. Not for the first time, she wondered how old Whitehall was.

  She found him standing behind his desk to greet her, thin, bony hand extended, and once again she wondered at the nearly phantasmic impression he gave. His normal dark suit, charcoal she thought, hung a bit more loosely from his cadaverous frame than she remembered, and his hatchet face, dominated by a blade of a nose seemed ever so little gaunter. The intensity of his gray eyes, however, had not diminished, and now they surveyed her with benevolent curiosity.

  He invited her to take a seat in one of the wooden chairs that faced his desk and said, “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Krystal, but an unexpected pleasure. What brings you back to Washington?”

  She was almost embarrassed to admit that she had come once again seeking a favor. “We’re working on a case in Charlotte,” she began, “and we seem to have run into an official roadblock.”

  “In Charlotte.” He said in a neutral voice, as if confirming a fact.

  “Um, yes. Strachey thinks we’ve run into a CIA stonewall of some kind concerning a Russian named Gregory Davis.”

  Whitehall went still for a moment staring at her, his eyes nictating like some reptile as a mask of detachment slipped over his face. At that moment Krystal remembered that this legendary and mysterious man was a powerful denizen of the most profound depths of the Washington swamp. As a swamp creature of the first order, his first loyalty was to the swamp and its many secrets. Her spirit sagged with the realization that it had been a mistake to come here.

  Finally, Whitehall spoke, and his voice was cold and precise. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  Krystal had not expected much would be gained by this trip, but she had not anticipated provoking Whitehall’s hostility. Foolishly, as she later realized, she gave it one more try. “Do you mean it is a CIA matter, and the FBI can do nothing?”

  “As I said, I can’t help you,” he repeated in a voice cold enough to drain all the warmth from the room. He rose abruptly to his feet. “I’m afraid I have no more time, Miss Murphy. So, if you will please excuse me …”

  Krystal could not help but notice the switch from “Krystal” to “Miss Murphy.” She stood and said, “I’m sorry to have bothered you with this. Thanks for your time.”

  “Goodbye, Miss Murphy.” Whitehall did not offer his hand in farewell.

  Jeanne the dragon summoned another escort who led her to the exit and retrieved her visitor’s badge. The long, debilitating walk back to her rental car did nothing to improve her mood. By the time she had the engine running and the air blasting, she was angry. Angry with herself, angry with Strachey, and angry with Whitehall. In fact, she was angry at the world. She was unkind to other drivers on the way back to Reagan National, liberally using her horn and weaving in and out of traffic. She sat sullenly on the rental company’s shuttle bus as the driver waited for other passengers, mentally cursing Russians, the CIA and the FBI, as well as the Charlotte police and Bob Strachey. She wanted a drink badly, but that would have to wait until she was back in Charlotte. She hated the idea that Whitehall would think of her as the sort of person who came whining to him for help every time she ran into a problem. More importantly, she worried that she may have blotted her copybook permanently with the man who had been a powerful ally in the past.

  *****

  When Murphy was gone, the FBI’s Executive Director for Counterintelligence rose from behind his desk and walked slowly to the window which looked out over Pennsylvania Avenue and stood there, deep in thought, oblivious to the busy street below. He reached a decision and returned to his desk where he lifted the receiver from its cradle and pushed a button. “Jeanne,” he said, “would you please get the Deputy Director for Operations of the Central Intelligence Agency on the secure line?”

  *****

  “So, he went cold and clammed up when you mentioned Gregory Davis?” Strachey leaned back and swirled the whisky in his glass. He’d invited Krystal to join him in enjoying the 10-year-old Talisker, but she declined. As much as she was tempted after the difficult day, she was only too aware of her weakness for alcohol.

  “Yeah. The portcullis came crashing down and the drawbridge was pulled up as soon as I mentioned him. It was an amazing thing to see, almost like a physical transformation. It was clear that I’d stepped over some line. I should never have gone to Washington.”

  Strachey took a contemplative sip of the Talisker and gave his glass a complimentary nod. “I dunno, Krystal. Could be, you’ve confirmed my
suspicions. Whitehall’s reaction suggests he knows what’s going on.”

  “And what good does that do us or Padruig?”

  “Well, we know more now than we did before.”

  “I repeat, what good does it do us?”

  “If I’m reading things right, Whitehall’s reaction confirms what we suspected. There’s something fishy about Gregory Davis, and the Government guys are up to their necks in it. The trick now is to find out what’s really going on and how Padruig fits in.”

  “You think Padruig is involved with the CIA?” Krystal was incredulous.

  “No, of course not, but he has a role in whatever’s going on. I just can’t figure out what it is.”

  This was not especially comforting.

  CHAPTER 15

  Most Saturday mornings Strachey liked to laze around the house, drink a lot of strong, black coffee and catch up on the newspapers. He was often interrupted by six-year-old Robert Thomas who enjoyed running at full tilt through the house with a beach towel tied around his neck shouting “I’m Thor.” A large wooden spoon served as Thor’s magic hammer, and it had taken considerable effort to convince him not to throw it in the house. Robert Thomas’s behavior was not improved by the attitude of his maternal grandfather, Thomas Jefferson Dawson, who delighted in almost anything his grandson did. Strachey’s wife, Amy, was out on her morning five-mile run.

  Robert and Amy enjoyed their new more laid-back life in the slower pace of Charlotte. She had been reluctant to leave her work at the CIA but in the end was persuaded by both her husband and her father that Charlotte would provide a better environment for Robert Thomas than the frenetic suburbs of Washington. She did some work at PSI, putting her ability to navigate the Internet to good use, although background checks were mere child’s play compared to what she had been doing at the Agency. The bottom line was that she had more time to spend with Robert Thomas who was now in the First Grade at Charlotte Country Day School and enjoying it greatly.