by Gene Riehl
“I didn’t see it—ATF took it to their lab before we got here—but Customs told us it looked the same. Like a block of gray putty. And the way the dog reacted made them even more certain.”
“What about fuses? Blasting caps.”
“None, thank God.”
Monk stared at the stack of boxes next to the table. “Where are they going, these DVDs? Who’s the customer?”
“Outfit called Digital World, Inc. Stores all over Maryland and Virginia. Dozens of them.”
He walked over to the boxes, ran his eyes up and down the stack, then glanced back at the box out of which the C4 had come, before looking at Lisa. “The black mark on your suspect box. Did Customs do that?”
“Good catch, Puller. I forgot to mention the mark.” She pointed at the suspect box. “That’s the only one marked. For obvious reasons, I would think.”
Monk nodded. How else was the intended recipient supposed to pick up the C4? He walked back to Lisa.
“Gonna be a ton of leads on this,” he told her. “Gonna take more than just the three of you.”
“I expect so. Let’s hope my supervisor agrees with you.”
“But even if he does,” Lisa said, “it’s still a question of manpower.”
It was thirty-five minutes later, and Monk and Lisa were sitting in a booth at the Taste of Bombay Restaurant in Alexandria.
“Barry Sonenburg is a great supervisor,” she continued, “but we’ve only got twenty-two agents on the squad, and every one of us is loaded to the gills with work.”
“The assistant director in charge will have to give you more people. Loaners from the other counterterrorism squads.”
Lisa shook her head. “The ADIC will do what he can, but everybody’s in the same boat.”
“It’s C4, Lisa. It came from …”
Monk stopped talking and glanced around. At nine-thirty on a summer evening the restaurant was still full enough that he recognized the danger. It was tempting to break the rule in a place as familiar as their favorite low-price restaurant, but Monk knew better than to talk business over a public dinner table. Especially in Washington. Half the breaking news stories in this town came directly from waiters and waitresses, and a surprising amount of their gossip found its way into one file or another around the District.
Lisa had seen his glance, and as usual had read his mind. One of these days, Monk was going to ask her how she did it. She held up her menu.
“I’m going to start with the chat papri,” she said. The small appetizer salad included yogurt and chickpeas, and was Lisa’s usual starter.
“Bhaji for me.” He was addicted to the potato-onion fritters.
As a matter of fact, Monk admitted, he was pretty much addicted to everything on the menu. The Taste of Bombay featured northern Indian food and prices low enough to suggest money laundering, although only to a government investigator. He and Lisa could stuff themselves with food and drink and not come anywhere near eighty bucks. That the place was small—thick Indian rugs and dark red wall hangings made it look even more intimate—and pretty much unknown to tourists only made it more perfect.
A lithe young lady in a powder blue sari glided up to the table and took their drink order. Manhattan on the rocks in a bucket, extra cherry juice, for Lisa, and a Grey Goose martini for Monk, with two onions. The server glided away and returned momentarily to set down their drinks and take their dinner order. Lisa stuck with her usual, a vegetarian selection of eggplant, potato, chickpeas, and homemade cheese. Monk went the other way. Lamb vindaloo, chicken curry with lentils, and a small bowl of fenugreek-laced fish curry.
“And a plate of the onion-baji bread with our drinks, please,” he added.
Again the server seemed to shimmer away. Monk lifted his martini in a salute to Lisa. “Confusion to our enemies,” he said.
“And may their children be acrobats,” she replied, a toast she’d been told at Quantico was popular in China, for a reason Monk couldn’t begin to fathom.
In due time the food came. They ate in companionable silence, punctuated by tidbits of small talk that nobody in their right mind would eavesdrop to hear. Lisa’s hairdresser had left her shoulder-length dark hair too long again, despite Lisa’s explicit instructions to cut the damned ends off. Monk’s real estate agent wanted to spend more money on ads for his late father’s persistently unsellable dome house in Fredericksburg.
“Darcy Edwards thinks I should advertise in San Diego, Los Angeles, and Seattle. That we should expand the market to the West Coast. Not a bad idea, but she wants five thousand bucks to do it.” Monk shook his head. “Might as well be a million. The way it is now, I can barely keep making the payments. That goddamned house is killing me, Lisa. And Darcy just keeps asking for …”
Monk stopped when he caught Lisa staring.
“What?” he said. He reached to brush at the corners of his mouth, expecting to find the piece of chicken curry she had to be looking at, but there was nothing on his face.
“You did it again,” she said.
Monk grinned. “I guess I did. I shouldn’t let it get to me, but that house …” He paused. “Just thinking about it pisses me off, but I shouldn’t bitch about it over dinner.”
Lisa shook her head. “I’m not talking about that, Puller.” She hesitated. “You told me the same thing yesterday, in exactly the same words. You told me what Darcy wants to do with the West Coast ads. You called me as soon as you got off the phone with her.”
Monk frowned. “Yesterday? What are you talking about?” A chill ran through his body. “I already told you this?” He couldn’t have. She must be mistaken.
Lisa laughed. “You ought to see the look on your face. I wish I had a camera.”
“Jesus, Lisa, I don’t really see the humor.”
She reached out and touched his hand. “Take a breath and relax. This isn’t the first time. You must have a lot on your mind. You did the same thing last week.”
“Last week?”
“You told me Kendall Jefferson’s getting a divorce. That you guys are going to take a day off and help him move.”
He nodded. “On the thirty-first, yeah. Get him into an apartment by the first of September.”
“You told me twice … the same story twice. Back-to-back days, just like the Darcy stuff.”
Monk stared at her. “You didn’t say anything … or did you?”
“I was busy, I was paying bills.” She laughed again. “I shouldn’t admit it, but I was hardly listening to you.” She paused. “Like I said, you must have a lot on your mind.”
He frowned again, and she continued before he could respond.
“Saturday night. The party … rushing away early, going back to work the same night.” She shook her head. “You work that hard, you’re bound to get confused.”
“Yeah, sure, but that’s no reason to …”
Monk stopped, then told himself to keep quiet. This was not a conversation he wanted to get into tonight, or anytime soon. He forced himself to grin.
“Maybe I should put in for disability right now,” he said, reverting to the blackest of humor. “Get the paperwork out of the way while I can still remember my name.”
Lisa patted his hand. “That’s what I’m here for, darling. I’ll make sure you get a nice room at the home. Look at the upside. They say the best thing about losing your memory is all the new friends you keep meeting.”
Monk stared at her, then laughed, and he was damned if it didn’t make him feel better. Talking about what he feared the most did make it seem a little ridiculous. He looked at what was left of the food on his plate. Suddenly it looked better, as well. He picked up his fork and stabbed a piece of lamb.
He was lifting it to his mouth when he saw Bethany Randall.
NINETEEN
Monk lowered his fork with the lamb still attached.
Where had Bethany come from?
As he did every time he was in a public place, Monk had scanned every face in the room as he
and Lisa had come in, but he hadn’t seen Bethany sitting alone in that booth in the far corner. Until just now. He leaned in her direction, suddenly unsure he wasn’t imagining her, that seeing William again hadn’t set him up for conjuring Bethany. It wasn’t dark in here, but just dark enough to make him wonder.
Then she turned face on to him, and he realized he was wrong. He’d never seen Bethany without her long red hair sweeping to her shoulders. This woman’s hair was pinned back behind her ears. Bethany wore glasses—for some reason she couldn’t wear contacts or have laser surgery—and this woman wasn’t wearing glasses. Monk smiled at her anyway, but she turned away as though she hadn’t even seen him.
“Puller?”
Monk felt Lisa’s hand touch his.
“Puller?” she repeated.
He turned back to her.
“See someone you know?” she asked.
“I thought I did, but I was wrong.”
“The redhead in the corner?”
“She looks like someone who used to date a friend of mine.”
“She’s pretty.”
“I prefer blondes.”
Lisa grinned. “You’d best learn to live with disappointment.”
He squeezed her hand, ready with a wisecrack that died on his lips as the redhead slid out of her booth. Christ, he thought, those have got to be Bethany’s legs. She was walking toward them now, and Monk couldn’t take his eyes off her. She glanced his way, her green eyes on his for a moment, but she didn’t react at all, just kept walking toward the front door. Monk felt a warm flush climb his face. He didn’t want to make a fool out of himself, but he couldn’t just let her walk by without knowing for sure.
“Bethany?” he called. “Bethany Randall?”
She turned to him, her eyes puzzled, before she stepped closer to their booth.
“Puller?” she said, in that voice Monk could still hear in his head when he wasn’t careful. “Is that you, Puller?”
Monk rose from his chair as Bethany approached. He stuck out his hand, but she put both arms around him and hugged him. Monk couldn’t see Lisa, but he felt her eyes on them before Bethany stepped back. Dressed in a black tailored suit, with a dark green silk scarf at her throat, she looked nothing at all like she had the last time he’d seen her. That night. That night in William’s …
“Bethany,” he said. “I thought it was you, but your hair is different, and you’re not wearing glasses.”
“And I can’t see five feet in front of me. That’s why I didn’t see you earlier.” She smiled. “What’s it been? Gotta be five years.”
Five and a half, Monk could have told her. “Has to be,” he said.
“Do you come here often?” she asked. “We—the three of us—used to eat here, remember?”
Monk nodded. He did remember now, although a Freudian might have tried to convince him it was the only reason he kept coming here.
Behind him, Lisa coughed quietly. Monk turned to her.
“Lisa,” he said. “This is Bethany Randall. She used to date a friend of mine.” He swung back to Bethany. “This is Lisa Sands. We … we work together.” Somehow that didn’t sound quite right, but before he could revise it Bethany extended her hand. Lisa took it, held on a moment too long, Monk thought. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said.
Bethany said pretty much the same thing, then turned to Monk.
“How is William?” she asked. “Are the two of you still working together?”
“No … no, we’re not,” Monk told her. A small lie, the kind so often necessary in his line of work.
Silence fell awkwardly, the three of them standing next to the table, until Lisa broke it.
“We like this place, too,” she said. “I didn’t get much Indian food in Texas.” She laughed. “If you can’t grill it or deep-fry it, a Texan doesn’t have a whole lot of interest.”
Bethany smiled. “Ohio wasn’t much better.”
Monk was trying to think of something to add when Lisa’s cell phone rang. She bent to grab it from her purse, talked into the phone for a few moments, then dropped the phone back into the purse.
“Damn it,” she said. “I’ve gotta go.”
“What’s going on?”
Lisa glanced at Bethany before answering. “Believe it or not, the same thing we just did. But it’s Baltimore-Washington International this time.”
Monk frowned. “Why isn’t the Baltimore field office handling it?”
“Because of what happened at Dulles. They want me there.” Again she glanced at Bethany, clearly uncomfortable about talking in front of her, even in terms as inexplicit as these. “But you don’t need to come this time, Puller. Stay and finish your dinner.” Lisa hesitated. “Catch up on old times with your friend.”
Monk nodded. “If you’re sure you won’t need me.”
Lisa’s smile included Bethany this time. “Listen to him,” she told William’s ex. “All he’d do is slow me down.”
She grabbed her purse, then stepped up to Monk and kissed him on the lips, something Monk had never known her to do in public. “See you at home, sweetheart,” she said. “I shouldn’t be all that late.”
“I hope this isn’t a problem,” Bethany said, after Lisa was gone. “Lisa doesn’t look too pleased.” She paused. “And I gather the two of you do more than just work together.”
Monk ignored the last part. “Lisa’s fine,” he said. He hoped she was. Because there was no way to explain Bethany to her. No way even to start. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“I’d love one … but can we walk across the street? I feel like a brandy, but they don’t have anything decent here.”
Monk looked at her. It wasn’t brandy that had started their problem that night, but something damned close. He opened his mouth to beg off, and was shocked to hear what came out.
“Great,” he said. “Brandy sounds great.” He hesitated. “I think I could really use one.”
Half a block from the restaurant, Lisa slid behind the wheel of her bureau-issue Grand Prix, shoved the key into the ignition and started to crank the engine, before dropping her hand into her lap and sitting back for a moment. Two shipments of C4 intercepted in the same day, she thought, both on their way to Washington, both in containers addressed to Digital World.
Puller had mentioned getting some help from the assistant director in charge of WFO, and he was right. The ADIC might very well turn out the whole field office for something like this … not that such a move would guarantee success. The frustrating part of her job was its near impossibility. Even with a hundred agents it would take weeks to run any sort of investigation on every employee of Digital World, and the overwhelming probability was that it wouldn’t turn out to be an employee at all. Whoever was shipping the plastique wouldn’t address the stuff to anyone the bureau could trace so easily. Which left any one of the scores of other people who’d have access to the boxes of DVDs before they ever got to the stores. But that didn’t mean she could shortcut the process. She and her people had to eliminate Digital World before they could go on to the next step.
Lisa stared through the windshield and admitted something even more frustrating. These wouldn’t be the only two shipments, Dulles and BWI wouldn’t turn out to be the only two entry points. If Customs agents had caught these two, how many others would get through? How many had already gotten through?
She started the car and looked over her shoulder, let a black convertible go by, then pulled out into the heavy traffic. Reaching for the air-conditioner switch, she turned it up to high. It was a quarter to nine, she saw on the dashboard clock. She’d be at the airport well before ten, but she wouldn’t get back to the loft until after midnight, and wouldn’t be able to go to sleep until at least one. Tomorrow morning would come way too soon, and with the Digital World leads ahead of her she wasn’t sure when she’d ever get back to bed. Christ, Lisa thought. Sometimes she wondered what she’d been thinking when she quit her job in the DA’s office to come
to Washington. Sometimes a life in Texas didn’t seem all that …
She hit the brakes when she saw them.
Puller and Bethany, walking across the street ahead of her.
Puller offering his arm and Bethany taking it. Bethany turning to him and brushing something off the sleeve of his shirt. The two of them heading for the front door of a bar as she slowed down to avoid having to wave to them.
Lisa felt a surge of … she wasn’t sure what … anger most likely … trepidation maybe, or … or premonition. Something. From behind, she heard the bleat of an angry horn. She stared into the rearview mirror and resisted the urge to raise her middle finger, then hit the gas hard. The car surged forward. The last thing Lisa saw was Monk holding the door for Bethany, a smile creasing his big fat face.
TWENTY
Monk followed Bethany through the door and into a green leather booth at Johnny’s, one of Alexandria’s oldest saloons, a mixture of 1700s ambience and twenty-first-century booze that attracted a full house every night of the week. Fortunately for them, it was about an hour early for the usual crowd, so they didn’t have to shout at each other to be heard. The seating arrangement helped keep the noise down even more. The booths circled the room, separated by an immense saltwater fish tank that distorted the customers’ view of each other, and blocked their conversations as well. In the center of their table a candle set in an amber bowl flickered with exactly the right amount of illumination for after-dinner conversation.
After they’d ordered brandy in snifters and the drinks had been delivered, Bethany dug into her purse for a pair of brown, very thin horn-rim glasses. She put them on before looking at him and smiling.
“Hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I’ve been dying to put these back on. I didn’t wear them at dinner, but there’s no need to be vain around you.”
“You should wear them all the time. They make you look …” He searched for the right word. “I always thought they made you look dignified.” He laughed. “Wait a minute, that’s not what I meant. Dignified makes you sound like a … like a …” He stopped trying. “Oh hell, you know what I’m trying to say.”
