The journalist kept her private life private. She was hardly ever at the paper that broke her stories, and frequented no known personal haunts. Whenever Cordelia thought she had sniffed out her whereabouts, Kidd had come and gone. She was left with only one choice. To stake out her house, which also proved difficult. If she owned a home, it was probably held in trust since she couldn’t find a Vikki, Vicky, Victoria, or V. Kidd on the assessor’s tax rolls. Then she found out Kidd had been divorced five years ago from Lawrence Goldsmith, a gastroenterologist with a practice in College Park. Public records listed a single-family residence in Chevy Chase owned by Victoria K. Goldsmith.
“Found you!” she said aloud, and sat back with satisfaction.
“Found who?” Farrow looked up at her, his face curious but also amused.
“Nothing,” she said innocently.
In view of their new partnership and the nature of their mission, Taggert assigned them a double office, forcing Cordelia to work side by side with the jerk. She raised a stink. She liked her soft-sided cubical tucked away in a quiet corner and wanted it back. He wouldn’t budge. So here she was, in a claustrophobic office with a locking door but minus her potted plants, which she packed up and carted home. If she was going to reside for time indeterminate in a sterile office, make it sterile.
“Nothing?”
“Well, okay. Something. You can drive.”
She stewed about her new quarters for one day and got back to work, vowing she would make Taggert pay in the worst way possible ... in bed. He knew it and didn’t give a damn. As a last recourse, she sent a novena straight to the Patron Saint of Holy Losers, not that any such saint existed, or that she was in any way pious, or that God would strike down Jonathan Taggert just to please her. Besides, there was something faintly endearing about Farrow, almost like a snotty kid brother. From behind his smirks and owly stares, he was always laughing at her, making fun of her, teasing her ... and flirting. Despite a most fervent vow to ignore him, she smiled at his antics and was flattered by his come-ons. And anyway, she reasoned with herself, he was polite, sharp as a magazine cover in his buttoned-down shirts and ties, and tolerably clever. He was also eager to please and owned a few indispensable characteristics, such as springing for coffee and buying lunch. She was coming to rely on him for a good laugh.
“How was Tucson?”
His profile was a curious one, hard-edged yet calm and in control. She was still trying to figure him out. Half the time he wasn’t very serious. The other half, he was. She wondered which version was the real Farrow. In a way, she saw him as a guy much more comfortable in a tropical setting than inside his corporate skin. Sandals, cargo pants, and a colorful shirt would have made him more approachable, though this straightlaced version was beginning to relax, showing more confidence, getting into the rhythm.
“Mostly desert, cactus, and mountains, in that order. Don’t get me wrong. Coyote’s aunt was gracious and very open about her nephew, but only up to a point.”
On the flight from Tucson with a stopover through Dallas, she had more than enough time to think over everything said between her and Jacci Coyote. Also to shuffle through mounds of government dossiers, newspaper articles, and character accounts from people who knew Coyote best. Finally, to piece everything together as best she could, even given the incomplete picture she had of him. Nothing about the boy who started life with more disadvantages than most, matured under the protective wings of his adoptive parents, emerged into the world with a curious mind and a better than average intelligence, and worked his way into a topline government job pointed toward a homegrown terrorist. Seemingly he was an ordinary man with lukewarm ambitions, just an ordinary guy trying to find his way like everybody else, only to find himself in the middle of an international scandal that vilified him as one of the most notorious figures of modern times. She wanted to put a finger on his pulse and get inside his head. Find out what made him tick, sense where he was now, and puzzle together his goals. Even after speaking with his aunt, she was no closer than she had been sitting behind her desk at MonCom, when all she had was an electronic folder filled with wire transfer records and few answers.
“Do I rub you the wrong way or something?” Farrow’s voice brought her out of her reverie. “Maybe I have a zit on my chin. Or use the wrong aftershave.”
She gazed at him, a hand raised to her brow to cut the noontime glare pouring through the windshield. “You’re too tall.”
“Taggert,” he said simply, understanding. “He’s been giving you a rough time.”
She lowered her arm. “Go fuck yourself.”
He pointed his sunglasses ahead. “Sure, Farrow, mind your own business. What does it matter if the boss makes his pretty financial analyst?”
“And while you’re at it, do it twice.”
“Nothing personal, Burke,” he said, briefly looking at her before focusing the lenses of his sunglasses straight ahead. “It’s not easy moving in on a relationship. Look at it from my position. Being the unwelcome member of a threesome is a drag. I don’t care what you do in your private time, so long as Taggert gets off my case. While you were away, he called me into his office just to ream me out, like I’m a kid or something.”
“You’re just saying that to humor me.”
He shook his head, chuckling. “By the way, your friend was right about what happened down in the Caymans.”
Cordelia had cultivated a contact working inside the CIA. He wasn’t a focal figure in the overall hierarchy, but he had worked in Washington long enough to be exceptionally useful when it came to imparting snippets of curious and often classified information.
“Authorities originally thought the first drowning victim was accidental. Plastered babe walks on beach, trips, falls, meets with tragic accident, that sort of thing. Except she’d been beaten, raped, and left as bait for the sharks. The night before she had dinner with an American calling himself John Fox. Tall. Lean. Dark. Good looking but not very friendly. Some described him as Caucasian. Others as interracial.”
“Coyote.”
“Had to be. Fox visited Hertford’s earlier in the day, inquiring about an account registered to your vanilla name. Directed to a vice president with the bank. Name of Keri Parris. Originally from Northumberland. Been in the Caymans for four years. Respected, from all reports. Must have made a dinner date with this Fox character because she showed up at his hotel.”
“He works fast.”
“Or she does. According to associates, it was out of character for her. Never mixed pleasure with business. They dined in the hotel restaurant. Witnesses described their meal as cordial. No kisses or love pats or moony eyes. Afterwards, they took in the sights, walked along the beach, kissed in the moonlight. Seems it didn’t go any further than that. They parted when the night was young. A valet brought her car around. Fox went into the hotel alone. The woman made a brief phone call inside the car. Then she drove off. It was the last anyone saw her alive.”
“Except the killer.”
“Except for him,” he said, nodding. “Fox didn’t go straight to his room. He took in a cabaret show at the hotel. Said good night to the concierge on duty. Returned to his room sometime after midnight. Took a swim in the hotel pool in view of several witness. Almost like he wanted to be seen or something.”
“You’re thinking he’s the killer.”
He made an indecisive gesture. “Let’s just say he could have done it. Her car was found a mile from the hotel. Parked on the side of the road, out of gas, keys still in the ignition. Maybe a prearranged meeting, but who knows. Anyway, how long would it take to meet up with her murderer, do some hinky stuff with him, then go with him on a long trip down a short path? Fifteen, twenty minutes? Fuck, an hour can go by in a flash. Casual eyewitnesses wouldn’t have noticed a woman and a man taking a swim. And wouldn’t have any reason to check the exact time. Important thing is this. Local police corroborated every one of Fox’s movements and cleared him.”
“Tim
e of death?”
He hopped onto the 495 heading north. Traffic was slow. Lanes were congested. Tempers were short. Horns were honking. “Round about midnight.”
“Plenty of time for him to do her in.”
“The second victim checked into the hotel as Dani Nguyen. I called someone I know at CIA. Yeah, you’re not the only one with connections.” He gave her a jolly look. “She as good as confirmed Nguyen worked for them. Whoever the killer was, was more careful about disposing of her body than the Parris woman. Dumped her on the other side of the island in a mangrove. Did a rush job of it.” This time he gave her a quick look. “Now don’t get sick or anything, but what they found of her was dismembered. The going theory is that a salt water croc finished off what the killer started. Crocs aren’t native to the islands. Were once, until they were killed off. This one’s an eight-footer, they say. Came up from Cuba. Been hanging around for a few years. Prefers gobbling up goats and hogs and yapping dogs instead of people. Anyway, like the first victim, she’d been strangled. Neck broken. Croc could have done it, I guess, but the question remains. What was she doing way out there?”
“The murderer brought her there.”
He nodded agreement. “Last anyone saw of her was the same day the first victim was found. She spoke with this Fox character at least twice. At the hotel the night before and in a shopping mall the day of the murder. Nothing implicates Fox in that murder, either.”
Where’s he now?”
“He was given leave to go the day after the banker was found. Took a flight to Miami later that night. The trail ends there.”
“Very clever, isn’t he?”
“How do you figure?”
“He must’ve lined up a collection of aliases ahead of time.”
“Never thought about that.” He gave her another one of those quick looks, this time of admiration. “According to a big shot down at the bank, everything this Parris woman did in relationship with Mr. Fox was done in accordance with policy. The funds were originally wired to them from Vanuatu and almost immediately rerouted to a Stateside bank.”
“Kansas City Federalist.”
“Exactly so. Only a hundred thou was left. Coincidentally, most of the remaining money was wired to Nauru the day before Fox showed up. The balance was disbursed to him in cash, and the account officially closed.”
It was all coming together. But where was it leading them? “What did you threaten this big shot with?”
“I never threaten.”
“Let me put it another way. How did you persuade him to be so cooperative?”
Seemingly embarrassed, he slid a finger beneath is collar. “I said that if my boss ... meaning you ... had to get involved, she would authorize a full formal audit. Not just the Cayman branches but the Wall Street branch, too. Also laid out the scope of said audit, such as them coughing up a full list of foreign bank customers along with any accounts related to the identification and risk assessment of nested bank activities, especially when used by high-risk foreign customers who effect fund transfers on behalf of third parties, who in turn present higher than usual risks of money laundering and terrorist financing.”
“You threw the book at him.”
He grinned, pleased with himself.
“And he took you seriously?”
“Why shouldn’t he?”
“It must have been your charm.”
Ever since Jason walked out and left her alone with her mincing cat, she was searching her soul, rethinking her goals, and analyzing what she wanted from life. She also examined her relationship with Taggert. Irrespective of Farrow’s irksome presence, she was her own woman, realizing it now more than ever before. Win or lose, the cornering of Jack Coyote was on her. To hell with Farrow. And Taggert. And fair warning to any other man or woman who stood in her way.
Kidd lived in a classic two-story brick colonial in Chevy Chase nestled between two cape cods on a quiet street. Farrow pulled in front of the modest home and reached for the door handle.
Cordelia shot him a look of disapproval.
“Tie crooked? Shirt coffee-stained?”
“Now don’t get defensive, but if she thinks we’re Seventh-day Adventists, she won’t open the door.”
“Who says I’m getting―”
“You don’t understand about women, do you?”
“I―”
“There’s some things a woman can do better than a man. Like talking to another woman. Like worming shit out of her. Like finding common ground. Things like that. She sees a guy, she’ll clam up.”
He pondered, angling his head to the side, eyes narrowed. “I guess ... well, I guess I never thought about it that way.”
“That’s because you’re a man.”
He sighed. He moped. He cranked the door shut and raised his hands in surrender.
Cordelia decided Paul Farrow was like a puppy, easily trainable with treats and praise and the words Come, Sit, Stay, and No. She climbed out of the car, leaving him with his music cranked up and his temper cooling down.
A lengthy walkway led from the curb to the front door. Three shallow steps brought her to the raised porch, painted gray and outfitted with rocking chairs and planters, two of each, symmetrically set at angles on either side. A white-trim portico with an embellished crown hung over the stately double door. Symmetrical windows bracketed either side of the portico. Second-story windows and attic dormers on the third story repeated the symmetry. The doorbell set off classic Westminster chimes. Quiet stirred within. She waited before ringing a second time.
Someone bolted downstairs, peered through one of the side windows, unlocked two dead bolts, and cracked open the door, security chain in place.
The woman of the house seemed tough. Her face was weathered. Furrowed lines ringed her pursed lips and descended from her wide brow. She wasn’t wearing makeup. She appeared frumpy and middle-aged. A riot of wavy auburn hair bloomed around a sour expression. Her eyes were penetrating. She looked like who she was. A woman forced to go it alone. A woman who knew how to handle herself in a man’s world. A woman who made a mark using the best tools available to her. Her intellect and a pair of metaphorical balls.
Dressed in shorts and a sleeveless T that showed off muscular limbs and a flat tummy, she didn’t stand on formality. “Yes, what is it? What are you selling?”
“Ms. Kidd? Ms. Victoria Kidd.”
“Yes.” She was in a hurry, impatient, grumpy, and slightly out of breath.
“My name is Cordelia Burke. I’m with the Monetary Compliance Network. I wanted to talk to you. About Jack Coyote.”
Her face became animated, almost cheerful. Cordelia hadn’t expected this reaction. She expected pushback and evasion, certainly not welcome.
“I’ve heard of MonCom, but I’ve never heard of you.”
Cordelia felt like a schoolgirl in her presence, almost embarrassed, as if she had something to apologize for. After deciding Vikki Kidd was anything but frumpy, she slipped her business card through the crack.
The journalist read off the information, her mouth moving with the words. “Always wondered what kind of people worked for MonCom, and here you are, looking exactly like an accountant.” Despite her gruff incivility, which didn’t match her charming Southern twang, she was a good-looking woman who didn’t try to hide her full-figured assets or overt sexuality. Cordelia wanted to grow up to be exactly like her. Brashly feminine, unapologetic, and abrasive.
“We’re investigating a case of probable money laundering.”
“You wouldn’t mind me calling your office, would you?” She reached into a side pocket, extracted her cell phone, and looked up the switchboard number on the web. After punching it in and waiting brief seconds, she asked to be connected to “Ms. Cordelia Burke.” The voice over the speaker said she was out of the office but did she want to be transferred to her mobile? With a droll smile, she considered Cordelia. “Yes, indeedy, I would very much like that.” Seconds later, Cordelia’s phone jingled. Kid
d smiled broadly, closed the door, unlatched the security chain, and swung the door open in welcome. “Let’s have a heart-to-heart, shall we?” Without formality, she led the way upstairs to her office.
During the interview, Cordelia learned two things about the journalist. When it came Jack Coyote, she was more direct than Cordelia expected. But when it came to the Spinnaker Papers and anything else related to the exposé, she was tight-lipped. “Not much I can tell you, except this. I wouldn’t be chasing this story if I didn’t believe in Jack. And I mean, a hundred percent.” She eyed Cordelia, daring her to put up an argument.
The upstairs office occupied the full length of the dormer. File cabinets abounded. Bookcases were overloaded. Piles of documents and newspapers were strewn all over the place, on floors, in corners, everywhere. The accommodations barely left a path wide enough to enter and exit. They sat side by side on a convertible sofa, sipping hot coffee delivered from a handy single-serve brewer.
“And his story is ...?” Cordelia prompted.
“He was set up. Wrongfully accused. I thought you knew that. I thought that’s why you looked me up.”
“Why was he set up?”
“For what he knows.”
“What does he know?”
“You’ve read my articles.”
“Word for word. But I can also read between the lines. You’ve been teasing your readers, haven’t you? This isn’t just about data collection or privacy concerns or Fourth Amendment breaches, is it? There’s more to it, isn’t there? You’re holding back the best for last.”
Vikki twisted her head at an angle and considered Cordelia with a waggish look. It was written into the job description of all respectable investigative journalists to suspect everyone, from the most dignified billionaire to the lowliest janitor. Probably she trusted janitors more by a margin of nine-to-one. “Why is MonCom involved?”
“The money trails.”
“The fifty million. Then you must be cooperating with other agencies. FBI. CIA. DOJ.” She capped off her list with the only other agency that truly mattered in this conversation. “HID.”
Espionage Games Page 21
