Espionage Games

by J. S. Chapman

  “Even if you’re not French?”

  She laughed heartily. “I do believe I like you, Simon Digby-Jones. I think I like you just fine.”

  Amber leaned close. Gave him an eyeful and a knowing smile that said everything. And coolly meandered away.

  Molly noticed the byplay and gave him a knowing smile of her own. “Your date ... she’s not a connoisseur?”

  Amber was taking a passing interest in a large canvas of a street scene featuring the same model as the umbrella painting. Simon knew she wasn’t into art and didn’t have the vaguest notion of what separated genius from amateur.

  “She understands the dynamics,” he said.

  Molly assumed a gay expression. “You mean money?”

  “She’s very practical.”

  “Like me. Like you.”

  “She’s a woman of many talents.”

  “I’ll bet she is.” She glanced around, pondering, relying on her intuition, or whatever women relied on when picking up a man in the presence of the woman he came with. The tautness of her smile disappeared and became dazzling. “I’m wrapping up here in a bit. Can you hang around?”

  She didn’t wait for his answer but turned away and sidled up to a patron dripping in diamonds.

  11

  Annapolis, Maryland

  Monday, August 18

  AT A POPULAR café off Main Street in Annapolis, Vikki ordered a lunch combo of soup and salad, the salad an Asian fusion of baby romaine lettuces and chicken, and the soup their black bean special. After picking up her order, she found a table near a bank of windows.

  At a nearby table, another lone female diner was picking at a monstrous vegetarian salad bowl swimming in ranch dressing. She was studying the monitor of her laptop, more engrossed in the screen than on the food she was eating, which she shoveled past her lips at regular intervals and chewed unthinkingly while reading her emails. She was a pale woman with short-cropped hair. Ordinarily she would have melted into the background as just another government employee in a sea of government employees. Except there was a singularity about her. She had an inborn flair for standing out in a crowd while being completely unaware of the effect her presence had on others. Her eccentricities were as much a part of her as her pert nose and small chin. She wore her personality on her body instead of her face. Her wardrobe was garish and colorful, and a throwback to another century. In a way, she was a present-day manifestation of the flappers and hippies of old, a garish representation of the Woodstock nation, wearing feathers in her hair, jangly earrings from her earlobes, a Cleopatra necklace around her throat, and an ankle bracelet riding above sandals affixed to slim feet by braided ties. There was a flip side to her, too, that of a studious GSA-grade worker fully dedicated to her job and her career, the two inseparable in her mind. Between reading and then deleting emails, her free hand idly fondled the company badge hanging by a lanyard from her neck.

  The tables of both women were juxtaposed close enough to engage in conversation. Vikki leaned over and made a comment. “A good friend of mine told me the food here is good. Especially the coyote burger. Turns out, he was right.”

  The din in the café was at high pitch, forks and knives clinking, conversations nonstop, and elevator music interlaced. The other woman looked up, unsure of whether the stranger seated across the aisle was addressing her. She gave Vikki a quizzical look, which over time, subtly changed to recognition and then to curiosity. She skittishly swept her vision around the dining room. Her eyes lit on a distant booth where a group of government types were in engaged in a lively conversation, and no more interested in the quiet interaction between the two women as they were of anyone else in the dining room. Determining their conversation couldn’t be overheard, she made an imperceptible nod.

  Bringing her meal over, Vikki sat opposite Allison Dovecot, a senior liaison officer with the Homeland Intelligence Division. They shook hands over the salt and pepper shakers and resumed lunching, remarking on the food, the ambiance of the noisy café, and the weather, pretending theirs wasn’t a clandestine interlude but rather an opportunity to feel each other out.

  Vikki introduced herself by sliding her business card across the table.

  Dovecot fingered the card.

  “A mutual friend of ours told me you’re a person who can be trusted.”

  “Did he really?” Allison’s response was both a question and a statement, indicating she was intrigued but doubtful. Her eyes were skittish, constantly darting around. For her petite stature, her neck was unusually long and quite graceful, giving her a fragility, as if the slightest sound, word, or glance would make her shrivel up in fear. She wasn’t fearful. She was curious. Perhaps even bold. After eating a forkful of food and chewing thoughtfully, she said, almost as an offhand remark, “I’ve been reading your articles with interest.”

  Vikki likewise took a bite of her meal before saying, “And your opinion?”

  “They pose interesting questions. And more interesting suppositions.”

  “What’s it like back at the office?” Vikki relished both her meal and the conversation, even given its cryptic nature, maybe particularly so.

  “Tense.”

  “Not surprised.”

  They finished their meals while discussing the President’s impending trip overseas, the illness of a prominent senator, the upcoming elections, the shuffling of cabinet members, and the café’s menu.

  Allison idly said, “Everyone’s running scared.”

  Vikki gave her a pointed look and nodded.

  “Me included.”

  “Will you resign?”

  “They’ll have to push me out on a stretcher. But we shouldn’t talk here.”

  In tandem, they deposited utensils on their respective trays and commented about the hot weather.

  Vikki stood first, saying loudly, “So glad to have run into you. We should do this again sometime.”

  “Soon,” said Allison, smiling up at her lunch chum.

  Vikki left a tip on the table and made her way out of the café.

  A few minutes later, the women casually joined up, striding side by side in a companionable cadence. They headed west on Main Street and intermingled with the sidewalk crowd. Few words passed between them. They strolled around Church Circle, absorbing the clear summer skies and the fine breezes coming off the harbor. After leaving Main Street behind, they veered onto College Avenue and walked at a leisurely pace, eventually entering St. John’s campus, and meandering along brick-paved sidewalks and past stately buildings. A smattering of students roamed past them, each more interested in making it to class or returning to dormitories than noticing two women speaking in low tones of conspiracy.

  Vikki gave Allison a sidelong glance. “You work with the NSA.” She put it as a statement rather than a question.

  Two co-eds headed their way. Allison waited until they were out of earshot. “We cooperate on logistics.”

  “Informational?”

  She nodded before adding, “And missions held jointly with the CIA.”

  “That would be Clyde Kelly.”

  At first Allison eyeballed her with an amused look. Then her manner stiffened. “You’re well informed.”

  “Do you ever get advance knowledge of special ops?”

  Allison remained silent.

  “Persons of interest?”

  Her silence continued.

  “Useful intelligence?”

  Vikki took her continued silence as confirmation.

  “Anything you can share?”

  “Maybe.” Allison knew what Vikki was angling for. “Provided it’s off the record.”

  “Agreed.” Casually she brought up another subject near and dear to her heart. “What do you know about Spinnaker?”

  “Probably as much as you do.”

  “Can you memorize a phone number?”

  Allison nodded. Vikki recited the digits. The women separated, each to go their own way and leaving both to ponder about the kind of world they l
ived in where they were forced to strike dubious connections in an increasingly dangerous world.

  12

  Fairfax County, Virginia

  Monday, August 18

  SERGEANT JAIME BENEDICTO lumbered out of his squad car, patted his breast pockets for sunglasses, and hitched up his pants. Working the stiffness out of his joints, he hugged the shoulder of the road while rush-hour traffic roared past. Bad knees or not, by the time he reached the automobile pulled over by the side of the road, his sunglasses were set in place and his stride was strapping and confident. The driver rolled down her window. He asked for her registration and license.

  Cordelia already had them in hand and passed them through the window. “What did I do wrong, Sheriff?” she said sweetly but with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Sergeant.” He nudged his head back down the road apiece. “Ran a stoplight.”

  “I’m sure I didn’t. But even if I did, aren’t you slightly out of your jurisdiction?” It was the end of the day. She was exhausted. She wanted to go home, stand under a cold shower, put up her feet, dine on reheated pizza, and catch up on the latest crime shows. “In fact, aren’t you on the wrong side of the state line?”

  His eyes narrowed. “And didn’t you recently trespass on a crime scene?”

  She was flustered. She was flabbergasted. She was on the defensive. It was one thing for her to know he was the man who arrested Jack Coyote. It was something altogether different for him to know who she was and what she was up to. “Excuse me.”

  A semitrailer roared past, upsetting his shirt though not his bad mood. His moment of pique had passed. “My mistake. Let me rephrase that ... made an appoint with a real estate agent.” Despite the crisp shirt, the pressed slacks, and the short-cropped haircut, the detective was packaged in a shelf-worn box.

  “Ah. I see. She called you.”

  When Farrow dropped her off at the office, Cordelia checked her email, picked up her messages, packed up her laptop, and left early for the day. She glanced to the rear. “Did you follow me from my office?”

  “You were at the funeral, weren’t you? Thought I recognized you.” He studied her ID with keen interest, his brow furrowed and his craggy face bemused. “Cordelia Burke. Financial analyst with the Monetary Compliance Network, otherwise known as MonCom. Apparently your fiancé is Mr. Paul Farrow, likewise employed by the same agency.”

  She craned her neck. “I hadn’t realized all that information was on my driver’s license. But for the record, Mr. Farrow is most definitely not my fiancé.”

  The sergeant was a handsome man in an unconventional way. The word rugged came to mind. Another word came to mind. Dangerous. She wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Sergeant Jaime Benedicto.

  “What’s this all about, Sergeant?”

  Though it was difficult to discern much past his stoic expression, she detected yet another bemused look on his face.

  “Your agency is investigating a person of our mutual acquaintance.”

  “Are we?”

  “For financial crimes.” When she said nothing, he went on. “You’re chasing down the fifty million dollars.”

  “I take the Fifth.”

  “It would seem we’re on the same side.” He squinted at the passing traffic.

  “Maybe so,” she said, “but now may not be the best time to break out with a verse of Kumbaya.”

  “Just to clear up any confusion, the real estate agent and our office exchange considerations. She alerts us whenever a buyer expresses interest in seeing the property. In return, one of my deputies accompanies her at a discreet distance for safety concerns. As a woman, I’m sure you would understand. But I have to confess. Your name came up earlier.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not long ago, you approached an accountant in Kansas City whose name now escapes me. He wound up dead by the end of the day.”

  “You’re not accusing me of―”

  “—Killing him?” The sergeant was an imposing fellow. It came naturally to him. The way he breathed evenly through slightly flared nostrils and hid his eyes behind reflective sunglasses made him resemble a bandit instead of a law enforcement officer. “Far from it.”

  As if reading her mind, he removed the sunglasses and pinched the inner corners of his eyes. The whites were bloodshot with fatigue. He was a man who worked long hours. Cordelia sensed in him a gentle surrendering. He must have recognized her as a worthy adversary. Or a pushover. When he replaced the sunglasses, his facial muscles were more relaxed, his jowls not nearly as constricted, the plains of his face not quite so tense, and his jaw no longer grinding. He returned her license to her. After his initial irritation, no further signs of crossness or even of curiosity escaped the chiseled jaw or serrated cheekbones, even though the phlegmatic stare never once left his face.

  He asked her a pointed question. “What exactly is your interest in Coyote?”

  “Same as yours. I intend to bring him to justice.”

  “For murder?”

  “A different kind of justice,” she said. “My agency’s kind of justice.”

  He looked around, then pointed the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses toward the western sun. “Talking through a window is all very well and good, but I’m wondering. Are you hungry?”

  Cordelia followed the good sergeant to a Mexican restaurant where the proprietor and the chef were identical. Alva was her name. She was the size of a monument, and served up a mean Tex-Mex menu and an even meaner salsa. Benedicto flirted with the buxom woman, at least ten years his senior, but a lady who must have been a scorcher in her day. She advised Cordelia to ignore anything the sergeant said since he lied like a thief and exaggerated like a storyteller, especially if it had to do with work. “He comes from a long line of banditos. Has he told you? Wait until he’s had a few. Then ask.” The wink was for the detective, who arched his back and puffed out his chest. Alva sidled away, chuckling.

  Benedicto pocketed the sunglasses. Cordelia was surprised to find affable brown eyes beneath. “Tell me. Why has your agency become so interested in Coyote?”

  “They weren’t to begin with.” When he looked at her quizzically, she elaborated. “I convinced them.”

  He considered her with laughing eyes, eyes that could also be as menacing as sledge hammers. “It’s personal with you.”

  “Same as you.”

  “You haven’t met the man.”

  “Would it matter if I did?”

  “He’s not what you would expect.”

  “In a good way? Or bad?”

  His expression hardened. He glanced down at the water glass before him, reached for it, swallowed several gulps. He didn’t want to answer her. Maybe because he was still trying to nail down the truth. Or because he didn’t know what to think, despite the antipathy he felt for his escaped felon. Up close, the sergeant was much bigger from initial impressions. He ate well, that much was obvious, but it wasn’t only his bulk. It was the way he held himself, the way he crowded her personal space, and the way he looked down on her as if he could eat her for breakfast and ask for a second helping afterwards. Finally, he said, “He’s smart.”

  “That much I know.”

  He acknowledged her with a slight nod. “He could talk your head off.”

  “Sounds like a dangerous man.” She smiled pleasantly before saying, “Did you get a chance to talk with Mrs. Sessions? And if so, whether she told you anything important?”

  He angled his head curiously. His face had changed from neutral to attentive. “Like who had it in for her husband?”

  Cordelia took his response as a No and a No. “Then why attend the funeral?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “To observe the chief suspects.”

  Once again, he tilted his head, this time his eyes twinkling. “Coyote is the only suspect on my roster.”

  “Do you believe Lindsey-Marie Moffatt was murdered? Seeing that she and John Sessions spoke minutes before he jumped.”

  A loo
k of respect attacked his eyes. “Who told you that?”

  “You did. Just now. I heard they were lovers. Do you think it’s true?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “If they shared information on more than a professional level, it sure as hell does. She would have known more than she should have. I think Sessions was a man with an uneasy conscience. I think the article in the Washington Gazette scared him. I think he was about to talk to the Feds. I think someone was desperate enough to cover their tracks, even if it meant another suspicious death. I think Sessions was pushed off that roof. I also think Moffat’s overdose wasn’t accidental or suicidal. And I don’t think your chief suspect could have managed that all by his lonesome.”

  “That’s quite a statement.”

  “What do you know about the Virginia couple the press doesn’t know about?”

  He looked down at the place setting and unfurled his napkin, a way for him to avoid looking at her.

  She pressed him. “Was it murder-suicide? Or an execution?”

  “Virginia isn’t my jurisdiction.”

  “But you suspect the murders are connected to Coyote.”

  “Where Coyote is concerned, isn’t everything connected?” He sat back, folding his hands over his belly.

  “That’s why you struck a deal with the real estate agent. Because murderers often return to the scene of the crime.”

  “This one won’t. He’s too smart for that.”

  “Who’s kidding who?” She nearly laughed. “Do you think he did it? Do you think he killed the woman?”

  “I’m not judge or jury.”

  “Sure you are. You can’t help it. None of us can.”

  She lifted her water glass and drank, using the action as a shield against his probing eyes. Except there was no defense against a man with X-ray vision. Nearness sometimes makes a man more or less handsome, more or less imposing, more or less threatening. In his case, he was more handsome and more imposing but less threatening. Carefully she set down the water glass and nudged it aside.