Fonduing Fathers (30 page)

I reminded myself that Vaughn had been a dead end. He’d been either reluctant or unable to share information. Part of me believed that the aged man really was losing touch with reality; part of me wondered how much of his forgetfulness was an act.

I took another sip of coffee, which had cooled. I stuck out my tongue at the stale bitterness, then considered my options: get fresh coffee, sit at my kitchen table all day feeling sorry for myself, or find a more productive endeavor.

Vaughn had nothing to do with Pluto, so Yablonski couldn’t begrudge me another visit to the old man. Even Gav concurred on that score.

“Watch out ‘Uncle Eugene,’” I said to the clouds, “I’m coming back.”

AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, I WAS SHOWERED, dressed, and driving to Eugene Vaughn’s home. I had plenty of time to get back to the White House by three to work with Josh.

I pulled up just past noon, took a deep breath to calm myself, and prepared to do my best to politely pry. Roberta was on duty again, answering the door with a smile of recognition. “Olivia,” she said, “how nice.”

“I don’t mean to bother Eugene,” I began, “but—”

“Don’t worry.” She opened the door wide to allow me in. “He’s been expecting you.”

“He has?” I asked as she led me back into the living room.

“Uh-huh,” she said.

If it weren’t for the fact that he wore a different color shirt, I would have believed he hadn’t moved since I’d been here. He assessed me sharply with those elfin eyes. “Don’t stand there staring, young lady, come over here and talk to me.”

When I moved closer, he asked Roberta to bring us sweet tea again. She returned a moment later with our teas and a tray on which she’d prepared his lunch. “I made enough for both of you. It’s important Eugene eats on schedule.”

I desperately wanted Roberta to leave us alone, but she was required to hold Eugene’s plate for him in easy reach, so he could choose items, one at a time. Thus trapped until lunch was over, Eugene, Roberta, and I made small talk over tea, red grapes, a sliced apple, chicken noodle soup, and a small supply of crackers spread with peanut butter.

The entire respite couldn’t have lasted more than twenty minutes but I was itching to ask my questions.

When Roberta finally cleared everything away, she winked and said, “You two will want privacy.” She pointed over her shoulder. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

Eugene watched her go. “Don’t be listening at doorways, now.”

She was out of sight but her voice rang through the small house. “I’ll put on some music if that makes you feel better.”

“It does.”

Turning his attention to me, he asked, “What have you started?”

My spirits took a decided turn upward. “You
know
what’s going on?”

“I know that you came here asking about your father’s
troubles at Pluto. A week later, one of his former co-workers storms the place with a loaded gun. That’s more than coincidence. How did that happen?”

I shook my head. “I’d prefer you tell me.”

Keeping silent, he stared.

“I’ve got all day,” I said. Not true, but he didn’t need to know that.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-uh. You know more than you’re letting on. Don’t try fooling me again with your feigned forgetfulness. You know precisely what went on at that company, and you probably even know what’s going on there now.” As I spouted off, he watched me, too patiently for my tastes. I wanted to get a rise out of him. Maybe then I’d learn something.

“You are your father’s daughter. No doubt about that,” he said at last.

I was through with the wistful reminiscing. “Don’t start,” I warned him. “I’ve talked to everyone I could think of. I’ve asked questions and now a man has been killed. Don’t you think I feel responsible for that?”

“Don’t feel guilty about Fitch’s death.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“You prefer being called Ollie, don’t you?”

I sucked back my impatience. “Yes.”

He glanced past me as though to ensure Roberta wasn’t about to come creeping around the corner. “Ollie,” he said softly, “I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”

“Why not?”

He watched me, shrewdly. “It isn’t for me to tell.”

“Listen,” I said, trying a different approach, “I understand that you don’t want to get anyone into trouble. I’m guessing there are still loose ends and people who could lose their jobs if your interference in the Arlington matter was discovered. I understand why you can’t—”

In a flash, his bony hand had closed the space between
us. He gripped my arm hard enough to hurt. “You do
not
understand.”

I didn’t wince, even though I wanted to. “Then explain it to me.”

Speaking slowly, he said, “You must let this matter drop.”

When I opened my mouth to protest, he cut me off. “No argument. Not anymore. You are playing a game you don’t understand in a field laden with land mines.”

I tugged my arm away. “Fine,” I said. “I know I can’t have all the answers. That’s been made abundantly clear to me of late.”

At that, Eugene raised his eyebrows.

I ignored that. “Tell me one thing, then. Just one.”

He shook his head.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“Yes, I do. When all is said and done, all you really want to know is how your father came to be buried at Arlington. I gave you the best answer I could when you were here last time: He deserved to be there and I made sure he was. Child, you need to stop. Right here, right now.”

I sat back, frustrated with him as well as with myself. This had been a waste of time. I shouldn’t have bothered. Too late, I realized that no matter how much I’d believed I’d convinced myself otherwise, I’d gotten my hopes up after all. “So that’s it?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” I asked.

His hand reached out again, but this time he clasped my fingers. “Very sorry.”

After a moment, I stood. “Thank you for your time.”

He looked up at me, from beneath his wiry eyebrows. “You’re not coming back, are you?”

I didn’t understand. “Coming back?” I repeated.

“You’ve asked me for answers I couldn’t give you. Am I so useless to you now? You’re walking out of here, convinced
I’m the bad guy. It doesn’t matter to you that your father and I were good friends. It doesn’t matter that I’ve followed your life since you were a little child.” He pointed to his front door. “Because I can’t give you the answers you want, you’re going to walk out that door and I’ll never see you again.”

I didn’t know what to say.

His hand dropped back into his lap. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” I said honestly. “Why would you want me to come back? I obviously bring trouble wherever I go.”

“Come back and visit me, Olivia. To talk. About you, about your life. I want to know you. For your father’s sake. Please?”

Had I been so focused that I’d lost sight of others’ feelings along the way? Apparently I had.

“I’m sorry.” If it were possible, I felt even worse than I had when I’d first arrived. I glanced at my watch. “If it weren’t so late, I’d stay a bit now. But I promised someone I’d be back at three.”

He nodded. “Go on, then. Don’t forget me.”

I was about to answer when the doorbell rang. “Who are you expecting?” I asked. Not that it was any of my business.

“No one,” he said, then shouted, “Roberta, someone at the door.”

“I can get it while I’m here,” I said.

He waved as if to say “whatever.”

I started for the door, but Roberta hurried in, iPod in hand, earbuds pulled down around her neck, wires running along her chest. “Sorry, I’ll get it.”

“I’m leaving anyway,” I said.

“Ollie,” Eugene called to me, curling a finger, “one more thing.”

I returned to stand next to his chair as Roberta swung open the front door. “Hello,” she said. “May I help you?”

“What is it?” I asked Eugene.

In the background, a male voice said hello. I could make out very little else.

“Friends of Mr. Vaughn’s?” Roberta asked, sounding perplexed.

“What did you forget to tell me?” I prompted.

With his eyes on the door and a solid grip on my wrist, Eugene said, “You must remember to be careful. Very careful. You understand?”

“I do,” I said.

The voice outside was answering Roberta. “Here to see Mr. Vaughn.”

“He wasn’t expecting—”

She barely got the words out when her face flipped upward, backhanded by an unknown assailant. I didn’t have time to react before a man rushed through the door, then another. Seconds later, a third. The first two trampled past Roberta. The third picked her up, dumping her onto the floor in the center of the living room. Curled into the fetal position, she held both hands to her face and sobbed.

It all happened so fast, I couldn’t do anything. All three men were young, tall, and powerful looking. I was shocked into paralysis even as they ordered us not to move.

Finding my voice, I shouted, “What are you doing? Who are you?”

I didn’t have to wait long for my answer.

Another man, blonde and instantly recognizable as the guy I’d run into outside the coffee shop—the fellow looking for his blind date—entered the home, pushing a wheelchair ahead of him.

“Olivia, my dear.” From the chair, Harold Linka raised his hand in greeting. “You’re just like your father,” he said. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

ROBERTA’S SOFT CRIES WERE THE ONLY sounds following Linka’s pronouncement. “What’s going on?” I asked.

His men swarmed the room, brandishing switchblades as long and deadly as my chef’s knives. As if we needed additional proof that we were in trouble.

The way they surrounded us, efficiently and without exchanging so much as a word, led me to believe we were in the presence of professional bad guys. As much as I tried to fight it, my voice quavered when I asked, “What’s going on?” again.

Eugene Vaughn had become visibly agitated. He shook a fist at the men and bellowed, “Get out of my home.”

Linka rolled deeper in to the room, regarding Eugene with curiosity. “Who is this, Olivia?”

My knee-jerk response would have been to snarl a sarcastic, “Like you don’t know,” but the genuinely inquisitive
expression on Linka’s face stopped me in time. Better to keep the truth to myself until I could figure out what was going on here. “A former professor of mine,” I lied. My voice rose, still shaky. “Why? What are you doing here?”

“We were waiting for a moment to catch you alone. Away from the White House. Away from home.” He glanced around the room approvingly. “You provided a lovely site for our conversation.”

The blonde guy had left his charge to return to the front door. He gave a quick look up and down the street outside and shut the door with a sinking finality. “We’re clear,” he said as he trotted back toward the group. The four men watched our every move, looking ready and eager to slice us down at the slightest provocation.

Linka waited for the room to settle again. He watched me with eyes that fairly glowed with triumph. “Now, my dear,” he said, making my skin crawl. “Tell me exactly what Michael Fitch told you.”

I barely processed the question. Not that I had any intention of answering. My mind was far too busy attempting to make sense of this. I did my best to race through all the possibilities that Linka’s appearance here could signify but nothing fit.

Only one truth became suddenly clear. “It was you who killed my father.” I waited for him to reply. When he didn’t, I asked, “Why?”

“He didn’t know when to give up,” he said. “Like father, like daughter, eh?”

I pointed to the nearest brute wielding a knife. “You’ve changed your M.O. No execution-style murder for me?”

“That’s the secret to my resilience all these years,” he said, clearly amused. “I know how to change with the times. No sense disturbing this quiet residential neighborhood. You understand.”

Roberta sat up, and I could see that her bottom lip was bleeding; she seemed unhurt otherwise. “What’s happening? Who are these people?” she asked between gasps of air.

Linka shushed her with a flick of his hand. “I am in charge here. I ask the questions. You will remain silent.” To me, he said, “Let’s try this again: I warned Michael Fitch not to talk with you. Did he listen? No. And now he’s dead. Before you join him, maybe you’d care to tell me what it was he told you.”

Unsure of where to take this, I deflected. “What do you think he told me?”

“You aren’t making this easy.”

“Why should I?” I looked around the room. “It’s obvious you plan to kill us all.”

I immediately regretted my outburst because Roberta’s cries escalated into shrieking breathless sobs. “My kids,” she cried. “My kids…”

Oblivious to her terror, Linka pointed to me. “Get her purse.”

Immediately, the man behind me stepped forward and yanked the bag from my shoulder. He lumbered over to present it to his boss, then returned to his station behind me and Eugene.

“There’s nothing in there you could possibly want,” I said.

Linka ignored me, pawing through until he came up with my cell phone. He handed it up to the blonde man behind him. “Here, you work this thing. Find a listing for Gavin, or ‘Gav,’ as she calls him.”