15th Affair (15 page)

“I’m waiting for a call,” she said.

Then she leaned in.

“Joe was involved in some heavy stuff, Lindsay.”

Was?

“When you met him he was with Homeland Security, right?”

I nodded. A group of six people came into the bar and the maître d’ led them to a table about ten feet away. The group settled in noisily, laughing, their chairs scraping the floor.

I said, “He’d just been appointed deputy director.”

June said, “Well, as you know, he had been with the FBI before that, DC Bureau, but it isn’t commonly known that right out of college and for the following ten years, Joe was CIA.”

“What? He…never told me.” Was that true?

“Nor me. But it’s come to my attention recently. Do you know the name Alison Muller? Sometimes she goes by Alison Khan. Sometimes by Sonja Dietrich.”

Yes, indeed. I pictured Ali Muller with her Gucci shades and slow-motion blond hair. Then Joe flashed onto the flat-screen in my mind.

I said, “Ali Muller showed up on security footage around the time of a quadruple homicide last week.”

June said, “I thought so. She was seen by our people, but not positively identified. I have to ask you to keep this between us, Lindsay. I could get in very deep trouble, but look. Joe is missing and I know you must be in hell.”

I nodded dumbly as June said, “Joe and Muller worked together in the CIA.”

“They
did?
Worked together how?”

“This is what I know,” said June Freundorfer, tugging on her diamond necklace. “Muller sets what’s called, in the trade, honey traps. She uses her, um, appeal, to entice her subject, get close, and once she’s learned what she needs, she’s gone.

“Joe was her superior, I think. At any rate, they were an effective team. Muller had connections to foreign ministers, foreign intelligence operatives, military leaders—you wouldn’t believe the names. She’s not only brought in actionable information, she’s turned enemies into defectors to our side. She’s kind of a legend in the CIA.”

I must have been blinking like a bat under a bright light. I was trying to process information that just didn’t compute. Joe. Managing a Mata Hari for the CIA? No. No way. June could be making this up, but why would she? I thought she was being sincere. Maybe she really could help me. I had to ask.

“June. Is she working with Joe now?”

“I don’t know, Lindsay. But you should know that it’s not impossible. Alison and Joe were close.”

There was a lot of static in my head. “Close.” Meaning sexually. Romantically. Joe and that blond flytrap. I could actually picture that.

“I’m just guessing,” June said, “but maybe his relationship with Alison Muller got out of hand. Maybe that’s why he moved over from the CIA to the FBI. This is speculation built on rumor—but then, that’s my stock in trade.”

I took a swig of the whiskey and coughed most of it up. June handed me a cocktail napkin, and as I dabbed at my face and the table, she said, “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“No. But I’m almost completely in the dark.”

Not just dark, pitch freaking black. I remembered what the horrible Brooks Findlay had said to me: “I don’t think you know who you’re married to, Lindsay.”

Wasn’t
that
the truth?

June said, “To your knowledge, when was the last time anyone saw Alison Muller?”

I told June that the video featuring Alison Muller was shot Monday a week ago.

“And the last time you saw Joe?”

“I saw him on surveillance video that was shot the next day.”

June sighed and sat back hard.

I managed to ask, “Is Joe alive?”

“I don’t know,” June said. “He hasn’t answered my calls. Look. I have a name for you. John Carroll. He used to go by the tag Number Six, because that was his number on our CO’s speed dial.”

June laughed.

“Funny guy. He was my mentor at the time, and he knew both Joe and Alison before he retired. He may still be in touch with Alison or know someone who is. You can trust him.”

She wrote a name and number down on the cocktail napkin, then answered her phone. When she clicked off, she said, “I’ve got to go. Good luck, Lindsay. Call me if you need to talk.”

THAT MORNING’S THREE
a.m. wake-up call had nothing to do with Julie. It was utterly silent in my big hotel room, but my mind was far away and it was very busy.

I ran my memories of Joe in fast forward, picturing him when I’d first met him. How he looked. How impressed I was with the way he worked our case. How smart and funny and solid he was. I tried to skip over the first time we made love, but the pictures took up a whole room in my mind.

My apartment. Our second date. Even now, as scared and as angry as I was, I could still feel the chemistry.

After that, Joe flew across the country to see me, time upon time. And then he left DC and his job and moved to San Francisco so that we could get off the roller coaster of bicoastal relating. That was meaningful. Job vs. Lindsay. He chose me. And I couldn’t have loved my big handsome lover more.

When my apartment on Potrero Hill burned to the ground, Joe said, “Move in with me.”

I did it.

I thought about the fights we’d had, and how he’d walk us back down. I liked that he was older than me, and I saw a good husband and father in his values and his manner and his actions.

When he proposed marriage, I had no hesitation, and since then, no regrets.

Until now.

Now it seemed that he had lied to me. Not “No, you don’t look fat.” This was enormous, a huge honking omission the size of a city. He’d not only left out a telling chunk of his life story, but he’d also skipped right over a relationship with a woman who’d been very important to him, a woman who might be a killer.

I couldn’t fool myself any longer.

Joe’s disappearance alone was a betrayal. And if he had been “involved” with Alison Muller once, he could damned well be involved with her now. It could not be a coincidence that Joe and Alison Muller had been in the same place and had disappeared at the same time.

A closetful of lacy lingerie flashed into my mind.

I couldn’t stand my thoughts.

I could not bear to be alone in this hotel with no moves at all. It was too late to call Claire or my sister. And I could not call June.

I thought of the last time Joe and I had made love. How warm and silly and wonderful that romp had been. I’d held him and kissed him and loved him up and then we’d had breakfast with our baby girl in a shaft of morning sunshine.

And now?

Was he in bed with another woman?

Or was he lying dead somewhere with a bullet through the back of his skull? Had Alison Muller killed him?

Had that bitch killed my husband?

I DRESSED FOR
my appointment to meet John Carroll at seven-thirty that morning. I put on yesterday’s trousers, a clean blouse, and my best blazer.

The National Mall, a long tree-lined park with iconic views of the Lincoln Memorial and the Capitol, was only three blocks from the hotel. I crossed Constitution and walked along the center path, and I have to say, the grandeur of the place was just wasted on me.

All I wanted to do was meet Mr. Carroll and listen to him say my fears were ridiculous. That he knew for a fact that Joe was working on a job that was vital to national security. And that Joe was safe and had nothing to do with Alison Muller.

I saw a man sitting by himself on a bench, staring across a wide grass median to the Reflecting Pool. He was white, rangy, about fifty years old, with thinning brown hair. He wore blue pants, a black Windbreaker, and running shoes. As I got closer, I saw that he was gripping an aluminum cane in his right hand.

I said, “Mr. Carroll?”

He looked up and nodded, and I told him my name.

He indicated that I should sit down, which I did. And he said, “June said you wanted to know about Ali Muller, but she didn’t say why.”

“I’m with the San Francisco Police Department, Homicide. We think Alison may have witnessed a violent crime.”

“Oh. I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time. So you’re looking for her as a material witness?”

“Exactly. Can you help me?”

“The short answer is no. I haven’t seen Alison in years. Thank God.”

He wrapped his fingers around the handle of his cane and dug the tip into the ground, preparing to stand.

I said, “Wait. Mr. Carroll, I’m also trying to locate my husband, Joe Molinari. June thinks they may be working together.” I heard myself saying these awful words out loud. “So if you can give me any kind of lead to their whereabouts…”

“Joe Molinari? Hah. That’s a blast from the past.” John Carroll settled back on the bench. He actually smiled.

“I don’t doubt that Muller knows where Molinari is. Do you have any idea what you’re poking into?”

“I think I do,” I said stiffly. He didn’t notice.

“I worked with Joe in the early nineties,” Carroll was saying. “Bright man. With a future. I was surprised when he switched agencies. But who knows why anyone does anything?

“She was another one. Sonja Dietrich. Alison Muller. Bright as a star. Men fell in love with her, to their long-term detriment. They would do anything for her. Tell her everything. I was in love with her myself.”

I didn’t speak or even clear my throat. I had to hear this story. And Number Six was ready and willing to tell it.

“I was married when I knew Muller. Had a lovely wife. Sadie. Two terrific kids. She made me forget all about them. When I was in so deep with her that I couldn’t see over the edge of my own grave, she went to Central Command and said I couldn’t be trusted.

“Well. In a sense that was true. I’d told her things, and she had recorded our conversations. I couldn’t believe she did that to me. To
me
.”

The retired CIA operative gazed at the still waters of the Reflecting Pool, lost, no doubt, in memories of Alison Muller. He’d already told me he was a dead end, but I gave it another shot.

“Mr. Carroll. If you were me, where would you look for Muller? Any kind of a lead would help me and the SFPD.”

“The last time I heard from Alison Muller was the night before she ruined my career and my marriage and my belief in myself. All I’ve got for you is the benefit of my experience.

“I believe she actually loved Joe when I knew them. I thought he must be the luckiest man in our galaxy. But here’s the thing. If she’s got her hooks into Joe again, I advise you to call your lawyer and get ready to dissolve your marriage.

“Or hope for the best. See how that works out for you.”

“Thanks. For your time,” I said. If I’d had my gun with me, I might have shot him through the heart.

Just like he’d done to me.

I HAD MY
carry-on bag slung over my shoulder and was outside the hotel with a loosely connected group of people who, like me, were waiting for the shuttle bus to the airport.

I was thinking,
There’s the evil you know, and then there’s
this
place.

I couldn’t wait to get home.

A limo pulled up to the bus stop and the window buzzed down. A voice called out to me. A beautifully manicured hand waved through the open window.

“June?”

I walked over to the limo.

“Lindsay, I called and the desk said you’d just checked out. I’m glad I caught you.”

June Freundorfer opened the door, said, “Get in,” and slid along the backseat, making room for me.

“I have to catch the bus,” I said. “My flight…”

“We’ll give you a lift. Virgin America?”

How’d she know?

I got into the car and closed the heavy door behind me. June pressed the com button and gave the driver instructions. Then she leaned back.

“What’s going on?” I asked her.

“Lindsay, completely off the record, maybe we can help each other. I hope you don’t mind, but I did a little poking around on your Four Seasons Hotel case.”

“Really? Why?”

“We were tracking Michael Chan.”

My blood was beating against my eardrums. I was still in shock from my meeting an hour ago with John Carroll, that prick. And I wished more than anything that I could turn back time to—when was it? A week ago, when I’d had lunch with the girls and I was so high on my life. Now I was in a long black car with June Freundorfer, who wanted to be my friend. Crap. I was starting to like her.

“The reason we were keeping tabs on Michael Chan,” June said, “was because we were interested in his wife.”

June definitely had my attention.

“Shirley Chan has been on the CIA watch list for years. Ours, too. She was working for MSS, China’s intelligence agency. The Ministry of State Security. MSS recruits heavily from the academic sector. This is a big talent pool for industrial and military spies, and they also plug into the universities to keep informed about our trends and advances.”

I remembered Shirley Chan crying in the backseat of our squad car after learning that her husband was dead. She had been an emotional wreck. She was a Chinese spy? Now I pictured the woman with the “striped hair,” taking her out with three well-placed shots from across the kitchen table.

June was saying, “We were thinking that maybe Michael Chan was also MSS. That could explain Muller’s interest in him. Or maybe Chan was just a way to get information about his wife. You met her, didn’t you?”

I gathered my scattered wits. I had no top secret information on Shirley Chan. Her murder was on the record in Palo Alto and, to a lesser extent, my very minor report for our files. We’d informed her that her husband was dead. We’d hoped she could tell us why Michael Chan had been killed. That was all.

I said to June, “My partner and I interviewed her after her husband was murdered. We went back out to her house again three days later.”

I told June that I’d found Shirley Chan dead and that her daughter’s description was vague. It seemed possible that it had been Alison Muller who had pulled the trigger.