Murder in the CIA (20 page)

“Yes.”

“It was pleasant enough. He and Barrie were close. I wanted to find out what I could from him.”

“Did you? Find out anything?”

“A little.”

Breslin said from the back seat, “Save it for tomorrow night on the terrace, Collette.” He slapped Fox on the shoulder and said, “Let’s go.”

They got into Fox’s car and drove off, neither man looking back. When they were gone, Cahill felt alone and vulnerable. She gripped the bottom of the steering wheel and saw her eyes in the rearview mirror. Somehow, they didn’t belong to her. She tapped the mirror so that it no longer reflected her face, started the engine, and drove as quickly as she could to the apartment, remembering to check her mirror a few times. No green sedan.

“Eric Edwards?”

“Yes.”

“This is Collette Cahill, Barrie Mayer’s friend.”

“Hi, how are you? My secretary told me you’d called. I assume you got my message in Budapest?”

“Yes, I did. I’m sorry I didn’t contact you sooner but I’ve been busy.”

“I understand.”

“I still can’t believe she’s dead.”

“Hard for any of us to believe it. Barrie talked a lot about you. I suppose you were her best friend?”

“We were close. I was wondering if we could get together for a drink, or lunch, or whatever works for you. Will you be in Washington long?”

“Leaving tomorrow. You on vacation?”

“Yes.”

“How’s things in Budapest?”

“Fine, except for when I heard about Barrie. Are you free for lunch?”

“No, unfortunately I’m not. I’m on a tight schedule.”

“Time for a fast drink this afternoon? I’m free all day.”

“Well, I suppose … how about six? I have a dinner date at seven.”

“That’d be fine.” She realized she was not about to generate enough interest from him in an hour to result in an invitation to the BVI. “Actually,” she said, “I’m not being completely honest. I do want to talk to you about Barrie, but I also would love some good advice on the BVI. I’m spending part of my vacation there and thought you could recommend a good hotel, restaurants, that sort of thing.”

“Happy to. When are you leaving?”

Some quick thinking. “In a few days.”

“I’ll give it my best shot when we meet tonight. On a budget?”

“Sort of, but not too tight.”

“Fine. Like sailing?”

Collette had never been out in a sailboat. “Yes,” she said, “I love it.” She knew she should qualify her answer. “I really don’t know much about it, though. I’ve only been a few times.”

“Let’s see if we can’t arrange a day trip for you. I’m in the yacht-chartering business.”

“I know. It sounds …” She laughed. “It sounds wonderful and romantic.”

“Mostly hard work, although it does beat a suit and tie and nine to five, at least for me. Any suggestion where to meet tonight?”

“Your choice. I’ve been away from Washington too long.”

“Might as well come over here to the Watergate. Would make my life a little easier. Come to my room. I’ll have something sent up. What do you drink?”

“Scotch and soda?”

“You got it. See you at six, Room 814.”

She drove to Barrie Mayer’s literary agency where Marcia St. John and Carol Geffin were behind their desks. Tony Tedeschi, one of the associate agents, was burrowing through a file cabinet in the corner.

St. John, a lanky, attractive mulatto, who’d been there the longest, greeted Cahill soberly.

“I heard,” Cahill said.

St. John shook her head. “First Barrie, now David. It’s incredible.”

Tedeschi said, “How are you, Collette?”

“Okay, Tony. The question is how are
you
?”

“We’re holding up. Have you heard anything new about David?”

“No, just the TV and newspapers. What are the funeral plans?”

“Not set yet,” St. John said. “How’s Budapest?”

“Fine, last I saw it.” Collette looked at the door leading to Barrie’s private office. It was open a crack and she saw a figure cross the room, then disappear. “Who’s in there?” she asked.

“Our new leader,” St. John said, raising her eyebrows.

“New leader?”

“Mark Hotchkiss.”

“Really?” Cahill went to the door and pushed it open. Hotchkiss, in shirtsleeves, bow tie, and yellow suspenders, was seated behind what had been Barrie Mayer’s desk. A pile of file folders were on his lap. He looked up over half-glasses, said, “Be with you in a minute, Miss Cahill,” and went back to leafing through the files.

Cahill closed the door and stood at the edge of the desk. She waited a few moments before saying, “I find this arrogant, at best.”

He looked up again and smiled. “Arrogant? I’d hardly call it that. Due to unforeseen circumstances, there’s been a dreadful gap created at this agency. I’m being decisive. If that represents arrogance, so be it.”

“Mr. Hotchkiss, I’d like to see the partnership agreement you and Barrie signed.”

He smiled, exposing his yellow teeth, pushed the glasses up to the top of his head and leaned back in Mayer’s chair, arms behind his head. “Miss Cahill, I have no reason whatsoever to show you anything. The partnership arrangement Barrie and I constructed is quite sound, quite legal. I suggest that if your curiosity is that strong, you contact Barrie’s solicitor … attorney, Richard Weiner. Would you like his address and phone number?”

“No, I … yes, I would.”

Hotchkiss found a slip of paper on the desk and copied it onto another slip. “Here you are,” he said, a smug smile on his face. “Call him. You’ll find that everything is quite in order.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Now,” he said, standing and coming to her, “I believe we had tentative plans for dinner here in Washington. What night is good for you?”

“I’m afraid I’m all booked up.”

“Pity. I’m sure we have a great deal to talk about. Well, if you change your mind, give me a call. I suspect I’ll be here day and night trying to sort things out.” His face suddenly sagged into a sympathetic expression. “I am so sorry about that poor chap, Hubler. We had our differences, but to see such a personable young man snuffed out at such an early age is bloody awful. Please give my deepest sympathies to his family.”

Cahill’s frustration level made further talk impossible. She spun around and left the office. Tedeschi was the first to see her. “You, too, huh?”

“This is absurd,” Cahill said. “He just walks in and takes over?”

“Afraid so,” Tedeschi said. “He’s got the piece of paper. He ran it through Dick Weiner. Weiner doesn’t believe it, either, but it looks legit. Why Barrie would have hooked up with this bozo is beyond me, but it looks like the lady made a mistake.”

“She made it, we live with it,” said Marcia St. John, who’d overheard the conversation.

“Barrie had a will,” Cahill said. “She turned things over to David in the event of her death.”

Tedeschi shook his head. “The will’s invalid, according to Weiner. The partnership agreement takes precedence for some legal reason, the way it was worded, who knows? It’s all foreign language to me.”

“I’m going to see Weiner.”

“You know him?” Tedeschi asked.

“No, but I will.”

“He’s a nice guy and a good lawyer, but you’re wasting
your time. Hotchkiss has the agency as the surviving partner. Excuse me, Collette, I gotta work on my résumé.”

“I just don’t believe this,” Collette said, shaking her head and knowing it was a pathetically ineffective statement.

“Life in the fast lane,” Carol Geffin said.

“How’s David’s family holding up?” Collette asked.

“The way they’re supposed to, I guess. God, he was young.” St. John started to cry and went to the ladies’ room.

Collette asked again about funeral arrangements, and was told a decision was to be made later that afternoon. She left the office and went to a phone booth from which she called the attorney, Richard Weiner. She explained her relationship; he was on the line in seconds.

“This can’t be right,” she said. “Barrie would never have signed an agreement with Hotchkiss making him a full partner so that he’d inherit the agency if she died.”

“I feel the same way, Miss Cahill, but the papers do seem in order. Frankly, I can’t take any further steps without the prompting of her family. They’d have to challenge it, go after expert handwriting analysis, probe the background of the deal.”

“Her only family is her mother.”

“I know that. I spoke with her earlier this morning after hearing about David Hubler.”

“And?”

“She said she was too old to become involved in something like this.”

“What about Dave’s family? Her will took care of him. Wouldn’t it be in their interest to challenge Hotchkiss?”

“Probably not. Barrie didn’t leave the agency to him. She simply stipulated that he be retained on a specified compensation package for five years. She left him key-man insurance, too, fifty thousand dollars.”

“Who gets that now that
he’s
dead?”

“The agency.”

“Hotchkiss.”

“Ultimately, not directly. It goes in the corporate coffers. He’s the corporation.”

She banged her fist against the booth and said, “First her, now David. Do you think …?”

“Think what, that Hotchkiss might have killed David? How can I think that, Miss Cahill?”

“I can. I have.”

“Well, I suppose you’re … but what about Barrie? She died of natural causes.”

Cahill had to fight with herself to keep from telling him that Barrie hadn’t died of natural causes, that she’d been murdered. Instead, she said, “I’m glad I had a chance to talk with you, Mr. Weiner.”

“Let’s talk more. If you come up with any information that bears on this, call me day or night.” He gave her his home phone number. She pretended to write it down but didn’t bother. She knew she wouldn’t be calling him at home, or at his office again either. Barrie Mayer’s business affairs really didn’t interest her, unless Mark Hotchkiss were involved in both deaths. She doubted it. Weiner was right; Hotchkiss wasn’t the type.

Still, there was the question of how he’d enticed Mayer into signing such a binding partnership agreement. Had he held something over her head? What could it be? Wrong road, Cahill decided. She’d pursue it later, after taking care of primary business, her initial meeting with Eric Edwards.

That brought up another whole series of thoughts as she returned to the apartment, stopping first at a bookstore to buy a travel guide to the British Virgin Islands.

Did Edwards know for whom she was working? That was one of the biggest problems in tracking Mayer’s life prior to her death. Who knew what? Tolker knew. She had to assume that Edwards knew, too. He hadn’t indicated it on the message he left on her answering machine in Budapest, or during their brief telephone conversation that morning. But
he knew
; she had to operate under that assumption.

It also began to lean heavily on her that she’d been hopelessly naive in this matter. She’d never once questioned the motives or activities of people like Joe Breslin, Hank Fox, Stan Podgorsky, or any of the others with whom she’d developed a “father-daughter” relationship. The fact was that they responded to a higher calling than Collette Cahill’s personal needs and future. They were Company men, fully capable of selling anyone down the river to further the cause
for which they’d been hired, or to perpetuate their own careers and lifestyles. “Damn it,” she mumbled as she parked the car and headed for Vern Wheatley’s brother’s apartment, “I hate this.”

Those feelings were forgotten as she spent an hour reading the travel guide and formulating questions for Eric Edwards about her “vacation.” It took her into the early afternoon. She called Mayer’s office and asked whether there’d been any word on funeral plans for David.

“Private,” St. John told her. “Just family.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s the way they want it.”

“Who’s in the family?”

“His mother and father, a sister who’s flying in from Portland, cousins, others, I guess.”

“You were his family, too, at least part of it.”

“Collette, I only work here. There’s a man in Barrie’s office with a funny way of talking and yellow fangs. One of the nicest guys I ever knew is being buried. Tony’s grinding out résumés like they were the State of the Union address, and Carol is dwelling on which disco will have the best collection of hunks tonight. I miss David. I’d be there if they let me. Understand, Collette?”

“Sure. Sorry. I can keep in touch?”

It was a hollow laugh. “P-l-e-a-s-e,” St. John said. “Make sure
I’m
alive on a day-to-day basis.”

Collette hung up and wrapped her arms about herself as the meaning of St. John’s final remark sent a chill through her body. Two dead out of the same office. That realization caused her to begin rethinking everything that had happened. Maybe Barrie Mayer’s death had absolutely, positively nothing to do with spies and governments. Maybe it had to do with commerce, pure and simple. Maybe … maybe …

There were so many of those.

Edwards answered his door wearing a white hotel-provided terrycloth robe with a “W” on the breast pocket. “Miss Cahill, come in. I’ll only be a minute. I managed to get in a little workout at the end of the day.” He disappeared into the bedroom, leaving her alone in the suite’s living room.

A small set of barbells rested on towels on the floor. Written on them in black was
PROPERTY OF WATERGATE HOTEL
. A rock station blared the day’s latest hits. Clothing was strewn on every piece of furniture.

She answered a knock on the door. A young Hispanic bellhop rolled a cart into the room, opened its leaves, fussed with napkins and silverware, and handed Collette the check. “I’m not … Sure.” She signed Edwards’s name and included a dollar tip.

Edwards came from the bedroom wearing slacks. Cahill couldn’t help but take immediate note of his bare upper body—heavily muscled arms and chest, trim waist, and all of it the color of copper. “It arrived,” he said. “I owe you anything?”

“No. I signed.”

“Good. Well, let me finish dressing. Help yourself.”

“Can I pour you something?”

“Yes, please. Just gin on the rocks. The bottle’s over there.” He pointed to a cabinet on which a half-empty bottle of gin sat. He returned to the bedroom and Cahill fixed the drinks. When he again joined her he’d put on a monogrammed white silk shirt and yellow loafers. She handed him his glass. He held it up and said, “To the memory of Barrie Mayer, one hell of a fine lady.” He drank. She did, too, the Scotch causing her mouth to pucker.