Call After Midnight (3 page)

“Mrs. Fontaine,” he said, “I'm Nick O'Hara.” Instantly she recognized the voice from the telephone, the same voice that had shattered her world just ten hours earlier.

He held his hand out to her, a gesture that struck Sarah as too automatic, a mere formality that he no doubt extended to all widows. But his grip was firm. As he shifted toward the window, the light fell fully on his face. She saw long, thin features, an angular jaw, a sober mouth. She judged him to be in his late thirties, perhaps older. His dark brown hair was woven with gray at the temples. Beneath the slate-colored eyes were dark circles.

He motioned her to a chair. As she sat down, she noticed for the first time that a third person was in the room, a man with glasses and a bushy black beard who was sitting quietly in a corner chair. She'd seen him when he'd passed through the reception room earlier.

Nick settled on the edge of the desk and looked at her. “I'm very sorry about your husband, Mrs. Fontaine,” he said gently. “It's a terrible shock, I know. Most people
don't want to believe us when they get that phone call. I felt I had to meet you face-to-face. I have questions. I'm sure you have, too.” He nodded at the man with the beard. “You don't mind Mr. Greenstein listening in, do you?”

She shrugged, wondering vaguely why Mr. Greenstein was there.

“We're both with state,” Nick continued. “I'm with consular affairs in the foreign service. Mr. Greenstein's with our technical support division.”

“I see.” Shivering, she pulled her sweater tighter. The chills were starting again, and her throat was sore. Why were government offices always so cold? she wondered.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Fontaine?” Nick asked.

She looked up miserably at him. “Your office is chilly.”

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you. Please, I just want to know about my husband. I still can't believe it, Mr. O'Hara. I keep thinking something's wrong. That there's been a mistake.”

He nodded sympathetically. “That's a common reaction, to think it's all a mistake.”

“Is it?”

“Denial. Everyone goes through it. That's what you're feeling now.”

“But you don't ask every widow to your office, do you? There must be something different about Geoffrey.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “There is.”

He turned and swept up a file folder from his desk. After flipping through it, he pulled out a page covered with notes. The handwriting was an illegible scrawl; it had to be his writing, she thought. No one but the writer himself would ever be able to decipher it.

“After I called you, Mrs. Fontaine, I got in touch with our consulate in Berlin. What you said last night bothered me. Enough to make me recheck the facts.” His pause
made her gaze up at him expectantly. She found two steady eyes, tired and troubled, watching her. “I talked to Wes Corrigan, our consul in Berlin. Here's what he told me.” He glanced down at his notes. “Yesterday, about 8:00 p.m. Berlin time, a man named Geoffrey Fontaine checked into Hotel Regina. He paid with a traveler's check. The signature matched. For identification he used his passport. About four hours later, at midnight, the fire department answered a call at the hotel. Your husband's room was in flames. By the time they got it under control, the room was totally destroyed. The official explanation was that he'd fallen asleep while smoking in bed. Your husband, I'm afraid, was burned beyond recognition.”

“Then how can they be sure it was him?” Sarah blurted. Until that instant she'd been listening with growing despair. But Nick O'Hara had just introduced too many other possibilities. “Someone could have stolen his passport,” she pointed out.

“Mrs. Fontaine, let me finish.”

“But you just said they couldn't even identify the body.”

“Let's try and be logical, here.”

“I
am
being logical!”

“You're being emotional. Look, it's normal for widows to clutch at straws like this, but—”

“I'm not yet convinced I
am
a widow.”

He held up his hands in frustration. “Okay, okay, look at the evidence, then. The hard evidence. First, they found his briefcase in the room. It was aluminum, fire resistant.”

“Geoffrey never owned anything like that.”

“The contents survived the fire. Your husband's passport was inside.”

“But—”

“Then there's the coroner's report. A Berlin pathologist briefly examined the body—what was left of it. While
there weren't any dental records for comparison, the body's height was the same as your husband's.”

“That doesn't mean a thing.”

“Finally—”

“Mr. O'Hara—”

“Finally,” he said with sudden force, “we have one last bit of evidence, something found on the body itself. I'm sorry, Mrs. Fontaine, but I think it'll convince you.”

All at once she wanted to clap her hands over her ears, to shout at him to stop. Until now she'd withstood the evidence. But she couldn't listen any longer. She couldn't stand having all her hopes collapse.

“It was a wedding ring. The inscription was still readable. Sarah. 2-14.” He looked up from his notes. “That
is
your wedding date, isn't it?”

Everything blurred as her eyes filled with tears. In silence she bowed her head. The glasses slipped off her nose and fell to her lap. Blindly she hunted in her purse for a tissue, only to find that Nick O'Hara had somehow produced a whole box of Kleenex out of thin air.

“Take what you need,” he said softly.

He watched as she wiped away her tears and tried, somehow, to blow her nose gracefully. Under his scrutiny she felt so clumsy and stupid. Even her fingers refused to work properly. Her glasses slid from her lap to the floor. Her purse wouldn't snap shut. Desperate to leave, she fumbled for her things and rose from the chair.

“Please, Mrs. Fontaine, sit down. I'm not quite finished,” he said.

As if she were an obedient child, Sarah returned to her seat and stared at the floor. “If it's about the burial arrangements…”

“No, you can take care of that later, after we fly the
body back. There's something else I need to ask you. It's about your husband's trip. Why was he in Europe?”

“Business.”

“What kind of business?”

“He was a—a representative for the Bank of London.”

“So he traveled a lot?”

“Yes. Every month or so he was in London.”

“Only London?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me why he was in Germany, Mrs. Fontaine.”

“I don't know.”

“You must have an idea.”

“I don't know.”

“Was it his habit not to tell you where he was going?”

“No.”

“Then why was he in Germany? There must have been a reason. Other business, perhaps? Other…”

She looked up sharply. “Other women? That's what you want to ask, isn't it?”

He didn't answer.

“Isn't it?”

“It's a reasonable suspicion.”

“Not about Geoffrey!”

“About anyone.” His eyes met hers head-on. She refused to turn away. “You were married a total of two months,” he said. “How well did you know your husband?”

“Know him? I loved him, Mr. O'Hara.”

“I'm not talking about love, whatever that means. I'm asking how well you
knew
the man. Who he was, what he did. How long ago did you meet?”

“It was…I guess six months ago. I met him at a coffee shop, near where I work.”

“Where do you work?”

“NIH. I'm a research microbiologist.”

His eyes narrowed. “What kind of research?”

“Bacterial genomes…. We splice DNA…. Why are you asking these questions?”

“Is it classified research?”

“I still don't understand why—”

“Is it
classified
, Mrs. Fontaine?”

She stared at him, shocked into silence by the sharp tone of his voice. Softly she said, “Yes. Some of it.”

He nodded and pulled another sheet from the folder. Calmly he continued. “I had Mr. Corrigan in Berlin check your husband's passport. Whenever you fly into a new country, a page is stamped with an entry date. Your husband's passport had several stamps. London. Schiphol, near Amsterdam. And last, Berlin. All were dated within the last week. Any explanation why he'd visit those particular cities?”

She shook her head, bewildered.

“When did he call you last?”

“A week ago. From London.”

“Can you be sure he was in London?”

“No. It was direct dial. There was no operator involved.”

“Did your husband have a life-insurance policy?”

“No. I mean, I don't know. He never mentioned it.”

“Did anyone stand to benefit from his death? Financially, I mean.”

“I don't think so.”

He took this in with a frown. Settling back onto the desk, he crossed his arms and looked away for a moment. She could almost see his mind churning over the facts, juggling the puzzle pieces. She was just as confused as he was. None of this made sense; none of it seemed possible. Geoffrey had been her husband, and now she was beginning to wonder if Nick O'Hara was right. That she'd never
really known him. That all she and Geoffrey had shared was a bed and a home, but never their hearts.

No, this was all wrong; it was a betrayal of his memory. She believed in Geoffrey. Why should she believe this stranger? Why was this man telling her these things? Was there another purpose to all this? Suddenly she disliked Nick O'Hara. Intensely. He was flinging these questions at her for some unspoken reason.

“If you're finished…” she said, starting to rise again.

He glanced at her with a start, as if he'd forgotten she was still there. “No. I'm not.”

“I'm not feeling well. I'd like to go home.”

“Do you have a picture of your husband?” he asked abruptly.

Taken aback by his sudden request, Sarah opened her purse and pulled a photograph from her wallet. It was a good likeness of Geoffrey, taken on a Florida beach during their three-day honeymoon. His brilliant blue eyes stared directly at the camera. His hair was bright gold, and the sunlight fell at an angle across his face, throwing shadows on his uncommonly handsome features. He was smiling. From the start she'd been drawn to that face—not by just the good looks, but by the strength and intelligence she'd seen in the eyes.

Nick O'Hara took the picture and studied it without comment. Watching him, she thought,
He's so unlike Geoffrey. Not golden haired but dark, not smiling but very, very sober.
A troubled cloud seemed to hang over Nick O'Hara, a cloud of unhappiness. She wondered what he was thinking as he gazed at the picture. He showed little emotion, and except for the lines of fatigue, Sarah could read very little in his face. His eyes were a flat, impenetrable gray. He passed the photo briefly to Mr. Greenstein, then silently handed Geoffrey's picture back to her.

She closed her purse and looked at him. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

“I have to. I'm sorry, but it really is necessary.”

“For whom?” she asked tightly. “For you?”

“For you, too. And maybe even for Geoffrey.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“It will when you've heard the Berlin police report.”

“Is there something else?”

“Yes. It's about the circumstances of your husband's death.”

“But you said it was an accident.”

“I said it
looked
like an accident.” He watched her carefully while he spoke, as if afraid to miss any change in her face, any flicker of her eye. “When I spoke to Mr. Corrigan a few hours ago, there had been a new development. During a routine investigation of the fire, the debris from the room was examined. When they sifted through the mattress remains, they found a bullet.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “A bullet?” she said. “You mean…”

He nodded. “They think it was murder.”

S
ARAH STARTED TO
speak, but her voice refused to work. Like a statue, she sat frozen in her chair, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare at him.

“I thought you should know,” said Nick. “I had to tell you in any event, because now we'll need your help. The Berlin police want information about your husband's activities, his enemies…why he might have been killed.”

She shook her head numbly. “I can't think of… I mean I just don't know…. My God!” she whispered.

The gentle touch of his hand on her shoulder made Sarah flinch. She looked up and saw the concern in his eyes.
He's worried I'll faint,
she thought.
He's worried I'll get sick all over his nice thick carpet and embarrass us both.
With sudden irritation she shook off his hand. She didn't need anyone's rehearsed sympathy. She needed to be alone—away from bureaucrats and their impersonal file folders. She rose unsteadily to her feet. No, she was not going to faint, not in front of this man.

Nick reached for her arm and nudged her gently back into the chair. “Please, Mrs. Fontaine. Another minute, that's all I need.”

“Let me go.”

“Mrs. Fontaine—”

“Let me go.”

The sharpness of her voice seemed to shock him. He released her but did not back away. As she sat there, she
was acutely aware of various aspects of his presence—the faint smell of after-shave and fatigue, the dull gleam of his belt buckle, the wrinkled shirt sleeves.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to crowd you. I was just worried that…well…”

“Yes?” She looked up into those slate eyes. Something she saw there—a steadiness, a strength—made her suddenly, and against all instinct, want to trust him. “I'm not going to faint, if that's what you mean,” she said. “Please, I'd like to go home now.”