Spilled Blood

by Michael R. Davidson

  She turned the thumb drive over in her hand. “What’s supposed to be on it?”

  “The records of an audit Grigory Pushkin was working on at the bank. He was worried about security and brought his work home.”

  “Pushkin was one of the victims in the picnic murders, wasn’t he?” Amy had not been involved in the Nessmith case until now.

  “That’s right.”

  Merely opening the files on the thumb drive would not exactly be a daunting task. She plugged the stick into her computer and opened it and suddenly things got more interesting. Line after line of meaningless gibberish appeared on her screen.

  Strachey, who had been leaning over her shoulder, as much to inhale her perfume as to see the screen, was disappointed. “Crap,” he said, “what’s all that. Is the information corrupted?”

  She knew what she was looking at. “Well,” she said, “it looks like Pushkin encrypted some of his files. The ones in the clear seem to be financial records from the H.P.H. Investment Office.”

  “Can you break them out?”

  “Maybe, but it might take some time.”

  “We don’t have a lot of that, and we might have to return the thumb drive.”

  She smiled. “Not to worry. I’ll make a copy. How did you get this?”

  “Better you don’t know,” he said.

  “This isn’t going to get you into trouble, is it?” Unlike her husband, Amy was not a natural risk taker.

  “Well,” he drawled, “trouble is a relative concept. Will there BE trouble? Oh, yes, for sure. Will I be in trouble? Maybe a little. I probably pissed off some people, some powerful people. But is there anything they can do about it? I don’t think so. But just to be safe, make a copy of that thumb drive right away and give me the original back.”

  It took her only seconds to accomplish that task. Strachey dropped the thumb drive into his pocket and went out the door whistling Dixie.

  *****

  His wristwatch told him it was nearing five P.M. which signaled it was past time to break out the scotch and light a cigar. He gave Krystal a ring on the intercom and asked her to join him. The day’s skullduggery had put him in a buoyant mood, and he decided it was an appropriate occasion to break the seal on his prized bottle of Lagavulin 25-year-old single malt. The bottle had cost over a thousand dollars, and he had been waiting for an excuse to open it. From his humidor, he selected a cigar that would marry well with such a noble potable, one of his few remaining Cuban Hoyo de Monterey double coronas.

  Krystal knocked and entered and gasped when she saw what he was doing. “You’re kidding! What’s the occasion?”

  He grinned like a little boy. “Oh, I’m just feeling good. It was a little like old times today, and I feel like celebrating nostalgia.”

  “Your spookery, you mean?”

  “Damn straight. I enjoyed every minute.”

  “What happens next?”

  “We share some of this nectar.” He poured them each a generous measure of the deep, tawny scotch and beheaded his cigar with a silver clipper. He took some time caressing its tip with the flame from a long wooden match before saying more, enjoying her impatience. Satisfied the cigar was properly combusted, he lifted his glass. “To skullduggery,” he toasted.

  They both sipped carefully and rolled the complex 102 proof liquid over their tongues until the initial dry smoky flavor dissolved into fruity sweetness before swallowing to be rewarded with a spreading and pleasant warmth in their midsections. They looked at one another and smiled.

  She knew she should not accept the drink, especially after the disastrous night before. It was illogical. But her body told her otherwise, and there was that old ‘hair of the dog’ saying. “Holy shit,” she said, “I’ve never tasted anything like that.”

  “Neither have I.” He leaned back in his chair, a sublime smile on his face. The light from the window illuminated the wreath of cigar smoke around his head.

  She regarded his bliss with curiosity. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so content.”

  “Ah, it’s just the lull before the storm. Let’s enjoy it while we can.”

  She nodded, wondering what he meant, and they sat there quietly enjoying the scotch waiting for the storm to break. They barely had time for another finger of scotch before a commotion in the reception area drew their attention to the door, through which a visibly angry Tony DeLorenzo and a man in a dark suit who could be mistaken for nothing other than a feebie burst in, followed by a white-faced Angela Kensington and an outraged Ruth Scatterfield.

  Strachey’s grin widened into a smile as DeLorenzo, face red, advanced on his desk. “Hey, Tony,” he said, “Nice to see you again.”

  “You sonuvabitch,” gritted DeLorenzo between clenched teeth. “You promised you’d stay out of this, and you’re in trouble now, real trouble. It’s a Federal offense to impersonate a CIA officer.” He gestured behind him at the solemn faced feebie. “This is Special Agent Ron Salinger. I hope he arrests you right now.”

  Salinger was a tall man with dark hair, a long upper lip, and a solemn air. “Mr. Strachey,” he intoned, “As my colleague from the CIA said, you have committed a federal offense that is punishable by a fine and a jail term. This is very serious. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Krystal stood and took a step to the side of her boss’s desk to face the intruders, wondering what would happen now.

  Strachey laid a hand on her arm that told her to say or do nothing. He then leaned back in his chair and drew on the fat double corona. He slowly exhaled the luxurious smoke, visibly enjoying it, before speaking. “I didn’t commit any offense.”

  DeLorenzo became even more furious. “Yes, you did, Bob. You pretended to be a CIA officer so you could talk to Natasha Pushkin. After you promised to keep your distance.”

  “No,” Strachey took another leisurely draw on the cigar. “I did no such thing. Ask Alicia here.”

  DeLorenzo put his hands on the edge of the desk and leaned toward Strachey. “I did ask her. She’s the one who reported what you did.” He straightened and turned to the young woman. “Tell him, Alicia.”

  She was obviously frightened. Strachey figured DeLorenzo had threatened her job, and he felt sorry for her, but she probably could find employment more appropriate than the CIA. She was demonstrably unsuited to intelligence work, and he was probably doing her a favor. “H-He came to the door and said he was from the Agency and needed to speak with Natasha. I-I didn’t know what to do.”

  All she needed do, reflected Strachey, was to demand to see his I.D., and the matter would have ended there and then, but she was too green and too easily intimidated. As he recalled, she hadn’t even demanded to know his name. DeLorenzo must have recognized him from her physical description.

  Strachey’s voice overrode her. “Now, Alicia, think back. Did I ever once say I was from the Agency?”

  “Y-you said Mr. DeLorenzo sent you.”

  “Now, now, Alicia. That’s not right. I said DeLorenzo had briefed me on the Pushkin matter. I never once said I was from the Agency or any other Federal outfit, now did I?”

  Alicia was thoroughly confused. “I-I’m not sure. But I thought you were from the Agency.”

  “Never mind that now,” interjected DeLorenzo. “Natasha gave you something, and we want it back.”

  Strachey reached into his pocket and withdrew the thumb drive. “You mean this?” He held it out, and DeLorenzo snatched it from his hand.

  “So,” continued Strachey, “let’s clear this up right now. I never said I represented any agency of the Federal Government or any other government for that matter. I spoke nothing but the truth - that Tony here had briefed me, which he did, and I wanted to speak with Natasha Pushkin. No one asked to see any credentials.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said DeLorenzo, his black stubbled chin sticking out. He shot an evil look at Alicia.

  “Well, Tony,” said Strachey, “that’s too bad, but I really don’t care what you do
or don’t believe. What’s more, I recorded the entire visit to the Pushkin house so there could be no mistaking what I had said or how I represented myself.” He had not actually done this though he now wished he had.

  DeLorenzo looked helplessly at the feebie who was studying Alicia. “Think hard, Alicia,” he said, “is Mr. Strachey correct? Did he say he was from the Agency or did he not?”

  Alicia looked to DeLorenzo for help, but the feebie stopped her. “Just tell us the truth about what happened. Is what Mr. Strachey says correct?”

  She concentrated for a moment, searching for a clear memory. “I just don’t remember,” she blurted at last. “He got me all confused.”

  Strachey thought the feebie might be enjoying DeLorenzo’s discomfiture. “Well,” he said, “in the absence of solid evidence, I don’t think we can go any further with this. But I warn you, Mr. Strachey, if you interfere in our business again, in any way, I repeat, in any way, there will be consequences of a sort you will not like. There could be a review of your license to operate here in Charlotte, your credentials could be questioned, your taxes might be audited. There are a lot of things that could happen if there is a repeat of today’s performance. As it is, you are teetering on the line between legality and illegality. I strongly suggest that you take a step back.”

  DeLorenzo’s lips twisted into a nasty smile.

  Strachey returned the feebie’s stare. “I understand, Special Agent Salinger. I can assure you we have no more interest in your investigation or Russian illegals. But I feel badly to have put you to so much trouble. Would you folks care for a drink? I have some Johnny Walker in the bar.”

  He wasn’t about to offer them a taste of the Lagavulin. Krystal quickly covered her mouth to conceal a smirk.

  Salinger’s eyes scanned the bottle of Lagavulin. “I think we’ll be going, thank you,” he said, and the three visitors trooped out the door.

  As soon as they were gone, Ruth, who had waited nervously just outside the door, rushed in. “What in the world was that about?” she asked. Then she caught sight of the one-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch. “You opened it!” she exclaimed.

  “And we were just about to call you when that gang broke in,” said Strachey. In fact, he had been so full of himself that he had forgotten about Ruth.

  CHAPTER 20

  Ruth was not a scotch drinker, but she enjoyed the conviviality of Happy Hour in the office, and she was delighted to work with Strachey. She refused his offer of the Lagavulin and settled for a glass of fino Sherry instead, which she quaffed quickly without sitting down. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “Edward is waiting for his walk.” Edward was her dog, a fat pug that she doted over and occasionally brought to the office where he lay at her feet dozing and snoring loudly all day long. Krystal thought the flat-faced creature was the ugliest and laziest animal she’d ever seen. Her family had always had a dog back on the farm, but it had been a working dog, not a weird Chinese experiment in genetic engineering.

  Strachey poured them more scotch, a more generous pour this time, which left the level in the bottle at about half. In the back of Krystal’s mind an alarm bell was clanging, but her body’s hunger had been switched on by the first taste which had warmed her throughout and calmed the tempest in her mind. A little more wouldn’t hurt.

  Strachey’s cigar had developed a long ash which dropped onto his desktop and disintegrated into a messy pile on the shiny surface which he surveyed with the look of a three-year-old who had just spilled his milk. Krystal snorted, expelling some scotch through her nose. Recovering her dignity, she asked, “Why did you hire that woman? Wouldn’t we be better off with some young, pretty thing at reception?”

  Strachey took a slightly imprecise swipe at the pile of ashes, leaving a long, gray smudge on the desk. He looked up, surprised by the question. “Ruth? She’s a treasure. There’s no reason you should know about her, of course. Back in the day she was married to a guy who was a Chief of Station in Eastern Europe. He dropped dead of a heart attack, and Ruth came back to work at Langley. She’s smart, competent, and efficient, and she knows how to keep her mouth shut when required. I knew she’d retired here in town and looked her up. Believe me, we’re lucky to have her. You just haven’t learned to appreciate her yet. You’ll see.” He poured them another drink and lifted his glass. “To old friends,” he toasted.

  She found something inexpressibly sad in those words and was horrified to feel a large, oily tear roll down her cheek. She tried to wipe it away before he had seen it but failed.

  Her throat momentarily refused to make the sounds required for speech, so she downed the rest of her scotch to cover her embarrassment and held out the empty glass for a refill. She decided she wouldn’t mind getting wasted again.

  Strachey’s face was expressionless as he poured them each another measure. The former spook was not as adept at hiding his thoughts as he believed. Whether it was the whisky loosening her inhibitions or the fact that Robert Strachey was one of the few people she felt she could trust, she blurted, “It’s that fucking Cuban, Bob. I’m not sure if it’s only one of us or both to blame, but I think it’s over.”

  Now that she’d broached the subject, Strachey clearly wished she hadn’t. “I don’t know what to say, Krystal, but I’m willing to listen.”

  So submerged in her own thoughts that she didn’t hear what he said, the details of the disastrous weekend spilled out. “And why should he put it all on me?” she asked. “He could move, too. I like Miami, but it’s not a place I want to live. But maybe it’s not really about that. Maybe I’m just not made for a permanent relationship. Maybe it’s impossible for me. We’d probably end up hating one another, and it all would be wasted anyway. There must be something wrong with me - wrong inside, in my head.”

  Finding herself in such a fragile and uncertain state was unnerving. Her normal reaction to adversity was to challenge it. This was self-flagellation, and she didn’t like it because it could eat at her until it consumed her entirely.

  Strachey tried to sound convincing. “Krystal,” he said, “there’s nothing wrong with you. Everyone hits a rough patch now and then.”

  The words were banal, the sort of thing your mother might say to you if you skinned your knee, and from the look on his face, Strachey realized it. He was feeling the strong whisky now, too, and in lieu of saying more, he poured them each another dollop.

  Reinforced by the scotch, he began, “Krystal, that was lame. Now, listen to me. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. You’re smart, brave, and absolutely lovely.” His face reddened under his tan, and he finished lamely. “Any man would be lucky to be with you, and only an idiot would pass up the chance.”

  Fortunately, before he said something he would truly regret, Amy poked her head through the door to announce she had broken Pushkin’s code.

  They had been rather sadly contemplating the nearly empty bottle. Strachey was leaning forward, his tie loosened, and looked embarrassed and vaguely guilty. Krystal was gripping the arms of her chair as though she feared she might fall out of it.

  “Oh, my God,” said Amy, eying the bottle, “You two drank an entire bottle?”

  Both stared at her uncomprehendingly, apparently having a little trouble focusing, and assumed quasi serious miens. “It was not just any bottle,” said Strachey defensively. It was L-lavalugin, er Lagavulin 25-year old shingle malt. An’ it was worth every penny of the thousand bucks I spent on it.”

  Krystal nodded her head perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. She suddenly felt dizzy and didn’t dare try to speak.

  CHAPTER 21

  Krystal opened her eyes and rubbed the sleep from them with the back of her hand. She was disoriented until she recognized the outlines of her own apartment in the dim light coming through the curtains. Someone had closed them. She was lying on her living room sofa, fully dressed except for her shoes. She started to sit up but was immediately engulfed in a wave of nausea, and a shard of pain shot through her eye and out
the back her head. Her mouth was dry. She lay there, one arm over her face, gathering the strength to attempt to sit up again. She tried to focus on a single object to make the room stop spinning. Another quarter hour passed before she thought she could stand. She was desperate for a glass of cold water, and the kitchen was tantalizingly close.

  She got unsteadily to her feet, and the room started spinning again, nearly causing her to fall, but she regained her balance and staggered into the kitchen feeling her gorge rise. She made it to the sink before she vomited a pale slightly green, bitter liquid. She stood there, both hands on the sides of the sink for support, ran some cold water and splashed her face, and then filled a glass from the tap and gulped it down.

  She had no memory of how she had gotten home. She drank another glass of water and forced down a third to combat the dehydration. The nausea receding a fraction, she made her way to the bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet until she found a bottle of aspirin and swallowed two.

  She shed her rumpled clothing on the bedroom floor and ran the shower. She stood under the steaming water for a long time.

  What time is it? The living room curtains had been drawn, but sunlight was pouring through the kitchen window. Belatedly, she checked her watch which fortunately was waterproof because she’d worn it into the shower. It was nearly 11:00 AM.

  She wrapped herself in a robe and returned to the kitchen where she brewed a cup of strong coffee in her Keurig. She needed something solid in her stomach but was certain she could keep nothing down. She brewed another cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table until she could think beyond her physical condition. The previous day came back in bits and pieces, and she was jolted by the fuzzy recollection of telling Strachey about her problem with Ray Velazquez. She’d blabbed the whole sad and embarrassing tale to him like some lovesick schoolgirl. He must think I’m a total jerk. How could she face him again? That damned scotch.