Murder in Foggy Bottom (26 page)

39

That Same Day
Washington, DC

“Max?” Jessica Mumford said into the intercom in response to someone buzzing from the lobby.

“Max?” the male voice said. “No. It’s Skip.”

Hearing his name and voice startled her. She managed, “What are you doing here?”

A laugh preceded his response. “I’m here to see you. Anything sinister about that?”

“No, of course not. I—”

“Hey, Jess, I may be your former husband but that doesn’t mean I can’t stop by to say hello to my ex-wife.”

“Do you want to come up?”

“Unless you want to come down to the lobby.”

She pushed a button releasing the downstairs inner door to the elevators. A minute later he knocked and she was face-to-face with him.

“Well, well,” he said, “you’re more beautiful than the last time I saw you.”

“Really?” She didn’t return the compliment. The man standing in the hallway was not the man she remembered from when they’d conducted their whirlwind courtship and ran off to cement their folly. Dissipation ruled his once boyish face. His hair had begun to recede and had become curly, corkscrews growing haphazardly on top, shaggy and untended at his temples and over the back of his neck. He wore a lightweight yellow-and-brown plaid shirt, khaki pants in need of pressing, brown hiking boots, and a lightweight gray windbreaker.

He walked past her into the living room and took it in. “Very nice, Jess. Looks like you.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it reflects you, the furnishings, the decorations, everything in its place. Perfect order, like birds in flight.”

He went to a wall covered with framed eight-by-ten color photographs. “Ah hah,” he said, “still tracking down our little feathered friends.”

“Yes. The Bureau is trying to locate you. A Special Agent Wingate called.”

“The Elephant Man.”

“The—?”

“He has unusually big ears.”

“Oh.”

“Serving drinks, or should we go to a bar?”

“What would you like?”

“Still partial to bone-dry martinis, straight up?”

“Would you like a beer?”

“Sure, anything but a light,” he said, sitting on the couch.

She went into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator, where a lonely bottle of Amstel Light represented her beer stock. “All I have is light beer,” she called.

“If I must,” he said from the living room.

A bottle opener eluded her until she found one that had been put in the wrong drawer after dishwashing. She paused for a moment to choose an appropriate glass. As she started to open the bottle, she remembered that the photos she’d been examining through the magnifying glass were still on the coffee table in front of the couch. She came to the kitchen door. Traxler was holding the glass and peering through it at the picture from the top of the pile. He sensed her presence, looked at her, and asked, “Where did you get this?”

“What, that picture? Cindy Pearl took it.”

“When did she take it?” His voice was suddenly heavier.

“I don’t know, a few months ago.” She came to the table and reached for the picture, but he held it away from her.

“You’ve been looking at this, Jess?”

“I—no, I was going to but—”

He looked up at her with hostile eyes, then took the shot of the men in the valley near Plattsburgh and put it in one of his windbreaker’s pockets. There was no joy in his smile. “I wish you hadn’t seen it, Jess.”

“I’ll get your beer,” she said.

“Don’t bother.” He stood and came around the couch until he was between her and the apartment door.

What had been apprehension hardened into defiance. She locked eyes with him. “I did look at that photo, Skip. I saw you in it.”

“I should be flattered, or concerned, considering what I do for a living, that you still know what I look like.”

“I have things to do, Skip, and parrying with you isn’t on the list.”

“No, Jess, I think talking to me should be at the top of your list.”

“Get out, Skip. Leave me alone. What you do with your life doesn’t interest me, even if—”

“Even if
what
?”

“Even if you were the agent who infiltrated the Jasper group.”

“Oh, yeah, I sure was that agent. Scope in action— again.”

Her concern reappeared. She considered trying to change the subject, lighten the mood. But the heat his face and body language gave off caused her to realize that words wouldn’t alleviate what was in the air.

“Was it really this Jasper group behind the missile attacks on the planes?” she asked, going to the sliding glass doors to her small balcony, which were partially open. “That reporter who’s been on TV claims you attacked the wrong people.”

“I didn’t attack anybody. You believe this reporter, right?”

She shrugged and wrapped her arms about herself, leaned against the closed portion of the doors. “I don’t know what to believe. The reporter claims it was a hate group up on the Canadian border, near Plattsburgh, where—”

“Where this picture was taken.”

“Yes.”

“And that fertile brain of yours has already written a script in which I’m the heavy, the bad guy, the black hat.”

“No, that’s not true.”

“You’ve been hearing things about me.”

“That isn’t true, either. I just wonder why you would be out in a field with other men in the same area where this other hate group operates. Were you undercover there, too?”

“You might say that.”

“Are the other men in the picture hunters? Guns in those bags?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Jess, always did. Let’s take a ride.”

“I’m expecting someone.”

“Max.”

“Yes, how do you—?”

“You said his name when I arrived.”

“Oh, right. Yes, I’m waiting for someone named Max.”

“A beau?”

“A friend.”

“I see. Does he work with you at State?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Meaning it’s none of my business. Come on, Jess, I didn’t ask you to stick your nose into this.”

“How have I done that?”

“This picture,” he said, patting his jacket pocket.

“You know, Jessica, I came by today to touch base with you. It’s been a long time. We had our problems, that’s no secret, but we were both young—impetuous youth, as they say. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about where I am in life and where I want to go. I’m through with the Bureau, through sticking my neck out for civil servant pay. I thought . . . I thought it might be time for you and me to get together again, try to make a go of it.”

Jessica listened, wishing the buzzer would sound, announcing Max’s arrival.

“You’ll hear a lot of bad things about me, Jess, concerning the Jasper assault. Yeah, I was the one who infiltrated the group and brought back the evidence linking Jasper and his crowd to the missile attacks.”

“Then it
was
the Jasper group behind the missiles. You should be proud.”

“That’s right. But sometimes you make mistakes. Easy to do in that circumstance.”

“A mistake? About whether it was Jasper?”

“Uh huh. Not that it’s a big deal if I did make a mistake. Jasper just represents another hate group put out of action. They’re all the same, Jasper, Freedom Alliance, Aryan Nation, Silent Brotherhood. Like the mob. What difference does it make if you put the wrong capo in jail, or kill the wrong godfather? They all have to go eventually.”

His cavalier analysis of the situation was chilling to Jessica. Was he admitting to her that he had, in fact, made a mistake in fingering the Jasper Project, and was justifying it?

“I don’t agree with you, Skip, but—”

“I don’t give a damn whether you agree with me or not, and if your friend hadn’t taken that picture, it wouldn’t matter whether anybody agrees with me. What could they do to me for making an honest mistake, a slap on the wrist from those clowns at the Bureau, a reprimand, a bad report in my file? That doesn’t matter because I’m resigning.”

He pulled the photograph from his jacket, looked at it for what seemed a very long time, slowly shook his head, and returned it to the pocket. “But this changes things, Jess, this picture, and you knowing what’s in it.”

“Why? I don’t understand. I don’t know anything about it, Skip. You were on a hunting trip, fishing with friends?”

As she said it, she knew the gathering of men in that valley on the Canadian border was neither a hunting nor a fishing expedition. It was what the reporter spoke of on television, the right-wing hate group that had really been behind the missile attacks.

As though reading her thoughts, Traxler said, “Yeah, you’re right, Jess.”

“You were undercover with them? You were—you were
part
of them?”

He closed the gap between them and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I meant it, Jess, when I said I came here to see whether we could take a stab at getting together again, ride out whatever comes of this mistake I made. If I know Templeton, he’ll smooth it over, spin it a hundred and eighty degrees to make the Bureau look good. It’s just this reporter claiming we were wrong. A bloodsucking reporter against a decorated FBI special agent. There’ll be some controversy, the do-gooders in Congress will insist on holding hearings, the press will sell newspapers, and it’ll blow over. At least that’s the way I had it figured until I came here and saw that picture of me with them. That changes things.
You
change things.”

He tightened his grip on her shoulders. She shook loose, but there was nowhere to go.

“Let’s take that ride, Jess. Give me a chance to explain things to you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Skip.” She slid to her right. He stepped back. She thought for a moment that he might decide to leave—until his hand went into another of his jacket’s pockets and came out with a small revolver.

“Put that away, Skip,” Jess said, her quavering voice betraying her fear.

“No,” he said. “I’ve been planning my future for too long to let you and one Kodak moment screw it up. Come on, Jess. You haven’t seen our lovers’ nest in a long time.”

“Lovers’ nest?” She realized then how far apart they had grown.

“Our cabin in the woods. We used to enjoy the ride there. Remember? Nice this time of year. I don’t have a convertible anymore but—I’m losing patience, Jess. Don’t underestimate me. I have no problem shooting you right here. We haven’t seen each other in years, and the gun can’t be traced to me.” His eyes darted about the room. “I’d hate to mess up your neat apartment. We can talk on our way, maybe figure out how we can resolve this nicely, like two reasonable adults.”

“All right,” she said. “I . . . I need to go to the bathroom first.”

“Go ahead. I hate to stop on the road.”

Jessica started for the bedroom, paused, picked up the pile of photos, and went to the desk in the living room.

“You never change, do you?” Traxler said. “Always the neatnik.”

She smiled at him as she made a careful pile of the pictures. When he looked away, she removed the second of two shots of the men in the valley from the middle of the pile, and shoved it in her blouse.

“I’ll only be a minute.”

Traxler followed her into the bedroom. “Hurry up,” he said.

She entered the bathroom, closed the door, and tried to collect her thoughts, think clearly, make use of the few minutes she’d have alone. She pulled the photo from her blouse and laid it on the vanity. A pad of orange Post-its was on top of the toilet tank. She opened the medicine cabinet; a glass held a variety of eyebrow pencils, and a Flair pen.

“Come on,” Traxler said through the door.

Jessica flushed the toilet and started writing:
Max—
Taken by Skip to Gauley Bridge, W.V.—Cabin deed in
desk—Help!

She placed a towel on top of the note and photograph.

Traxler banged on the door, then opened it. She spun around. “I’m ready,” she said.

“Yeah, so am I,” he said.

As they went to the apartment door, Jessica in front of him, the gun pressed against her back, Traxler stopped and picked up her binoculars and bird book from a table.

“Why do you want those?” she asked.

“Maybe you can teach me to be a bird-watcher,” he said, moving her forward with the revolver. “Better take your slicker, Jess. They’re forecasting rain.”

She pulled down her yellow rain jacket from a row of pegs in the entranceway and put it on. They went to the hall and she locked the door behind them. As she did, the sound of the phone ringing in the apartment was heard. It had to be Max, she thought.

“Come on, come on,” Traxler said, pushing her toward the elevators. They exited the building and went to his rented silver-blue Ford Taurus. He held the door open for her, came around the other side, slipped behind the wheel, started the engine, and backed out of the space.

Pauling, showered and in a fresh pair of jeans, blue button-down shirt, and running shoes, listened to Jessica’s outgoing message on her answering machine. Strange, he thought, that she wasn’t home. She’d sounded anxious to see him. He tried the number three more times before deciding to drive there, use his key, and wait for her in the apartment.

The moment he stepped through the door, he sensed something wrong. He tensed, reflexively, eyes open a little wider and unblinking, ears tuned to the room’s silence. Her purse was on a chair just inside it. She wouldn’t have left without it. Her car keys were hanging on their usual hook in the kitchen. An unopened bottle of Amstel Light sat on the counter, next to an empty glass and an opener. She’d never leave it out.

He returned to the living room and noticed the sliding doors to the balcony were open. Jessica Mumford was meticulous about closing those doors before leaving, even for a few minutes.

He saw the desktop, picked up the photos, and flipped through them. Where are you? he wondered. He headed for the bathroom. Another dissonant sign struck him, a towel on the sinktop. Towels were always neatly hung, never left on the edge of the tub or the sink. He lifted the towel and saw a photograph, picked it up, and read the note.

It took him a few minutes to locate the photocopy of the deed to the cabin; Jessica had made it before handing the original over to Traxler as part of their divorce settlement.