Past Perfect (41 page)

“Connie,” he replied, “we have a proposal.” Joanne Sexton nodded with great enthusiasm, as if Tuscaloosa had scored a tiebreaking touchdown in the last three seconds of the big game.

“Please, go on.”

“Everything in Ms. Schottland’s records in regard to any complaints and to the termination will be expunged. Her records would reflect the fine work she did during her tenure at the Agency, and will include a letter of commendation signed by the director of intelligence. We will also strongly recommend that she be awarded a presidential citation for gallantry and meritorious service to the country to reflect the work she did in bringing this matter to our attention.”

“What are the chances of such a recommendation being honored?” Constance inquired politely.

“Very high,” Walter McKey said.

“That means she’ll get it,” added Joanne Sexton. “The presidential citation will be a matter of public record, although naturally the details must remain classified.”

“Katie?” Constance asked. “Would you like to think this over?”

“No. That sounds good. It’s justice being done and I’m fine with that.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Yes. Are there any consequences for me because of breaking into Maria Schneider’s house?” I paused. “Oh, and stealing her car and taking the stuff from her trunk?”

“None,” Walter McKey said. He smoothed his perfect mustache and added, “We’ve already taken care of that.”

“And what about …” I took a deep breath. Every once in a while—well, five or six times a day—I’d be overcome with a flash of fear. Post-traumatic stress: it’s one thing to give it a name, another to feel your guts liquify every few hours. “What about Maria Schneider?”

“She’ll be indicted for murder,” Walter McKey said. “They found material under Lisa Golding’s fingernails. Skin cells that match Maria Schneider’s DNA.”

“So they found Lisa,” I managed to say.

“Yes. Your assumption was correct. She was buried there.”

I shuddered visibly. Joanne Sexton asked, “Do you want any details?”

“Yes.”

“The local medical examiner said there had been a fight. Ms. Golding was choked to death. That’s really all they know at this point. Maria Schneider’s house was in such a chaotic state that the authorities are still trying to piece together where the murder occurred.”

“What about Benton Mattingly?” I asked.

“We have to proceed judiciously,” Walter McKey said.

“What does that mean?” Constance asked.

“The scans of the documents and those photographs you forwarded to us seem authentic, though of course we have to examine the originals. They’re in your possession now?” Constance nodded. “Even if she would cooperate with us, it’s doubtful Maria Schneider has direct knowledge about the agreements and the payoffs. She’s no good to us. Presumably we will have talks with the German government to see if there are any former East German officials who have firsthand knowledge about the arrangements between Benton Mattingly and Gottesman and Pfannenschmidt. That could be of enormous value if it were to come to a trial.”

“For murder?” I asked.

“With Lisa Golding dead, it’s going to be either difficult or impossible to tie Mattingly to anything that happened to Pfannenschmidt.” He glanced down at a yellow legal pad. “Ritter,” he amended. “As to Richard Schroeder’s death, we’ve been told it would be close to impossible to prove it a homicide.”

“I’m no lawyer,” Joanne Sexton said cheerfully, “but the documents and photographs look to be darn good evidence of treason.”

“Treason is a capital offense,” Constance remarked pleasantly.

Walter McKey reached toward the middle of the conference table, pulled a law book toward him, and cleared his throat. “Section 3281 of the U.S. Code states,” he said to me in his glorious voice, ‘“An indictment for any offense punishable by death may be found at any time without limitation.’“

“So there’s no statute of limitations on treason?” I asked.

“None,” he said. “Now, I must be up front with you. I’ve spoken with some colleagues in the Department of Justice, and there are no guarantees. You and Connie will be speaking with some people at the FBI, and your evidence, what you found in Maria Schneider’s car, would be the basis for any case. Preliminary translations of those documents are damning. But this is where Germany comes in: to make a capital case, the Bureau needs to come up with some testimony that what was in the envelope Benton Mattingly pocketed was, in fact, money.”

“That means Mattingly’s lawyers could work out a deal,” Constance said. “The government might not seek the death penalty, though of course they would use that as a bargaining tool.”

“But it’s good-bye secretary of commerce,” I said.

“At the very least,” Joanne Sexton said. “And with luck, hello United States Penitentiary at Lewisberg. I must say, the U.S. Attorney is an eager beaver, and though it’s unseemly for me to say so, I’m just thrilled with his determination.”

Walter McKey cleared his throat. “I detest gossip.” I waited, but when he didn’t say anything more, I nodded. Now that we were in agreement, he went on: “I have heard Mrs. Mattingly is quite unhappy with the entire turn of events vis-à-vis her husband. Excuse me, I am not being precise. She is unhappy with her husband. Murmurings of treason can put a crimp in a couple’s social schedule. She is said to have suggested that he take a hike.”

“You’re not cut out for this,” Jacques observed a few days later.

“Maybe not,” I observed, “but you’ll notice I’m still alive.”

“I noticed. How are you doing?”

“Same as yesterday. Fine.”

“Bullshit,” Jacques said. He and Huff had been calling me every day. The day before, he had stopped asking permission to be crude.

I sat in the glow of my yellow toile office. Downstairs, they were shooting the season’s final episode of Spy Guys and then we’d be on hiatus. “Well, that night in Florida was not a night I’d care to repeat,” I admitted. “Speak to anyone interesting lately?”

“Yes. A few people. Listen, remember right after you got back from Tallahassee, I told you that one of them —Mattingly or Maria— would be dead within two weeks? They’d be trying to kill each other and the worst one would probably be the one to survive?”

“I remember.”

“Well, Maria Schneider was taken to the hospital three days ago.”

“Oh God, I knew it!” But then I thought to ask: “With what?” Along with pens, I always kept a few pencils in a yellow mug on my desk. I didn’t use them except to chew on during tense conversations, usually with QTV executives. I found myself gnawing with frightening enthusiasm.

“A fever of unknown origin. You know how I read it? Somehow, your friend Lisa got to her before she got to Lisa. What did we say when we were kids? ‘There’s a fungus among us.”’

I put down the pencil. “Where is Maria? I mean, do you know the name of the hospital? I guess … I guess there’s a moral obligation to call them and tell them about the blastomycosis that Dick Schroeder died from. If that’s what it is. I actually tried to tell her, because she was coughing and cold-y, but she wasn’t in a listening mood. Maybe it’s something else, something peculiar to her area, but—”

“No, it turned out to be the blastomycosis. Sort of trips off the tongue, doesn’t it?”

“How is she?” I asked.

“Dead,” Jacques replied. I picked up the pencil, but I was way past chewing. “This morning. Huff and I assumed you would bring up the moral obligation business.”

“How could I not? I mean, I can’t tell you how relieved I am that she’s dead, but I couldn’t have not called.”

“That’s why we didn’t tell you until now.”

“You mean, you knew?” I think I sounded amazingly calm as I said this.

“We’d been tracking her after a fashion, just to make sure … We wouldn’t have wanted her to pay you a surprise visit up in New York. But the next night, the night after you were there, she called 911 and asked for an ambulance.”

“She was coughing that night, but to go from that to some fatal infection …”

“Virulent stuff, I guess. But it’s not from the Agency. Huff checked it out. It isn’t on their agenda these days. He thinks Mattingly got whatever he got—the fungus and the means of delivering it—from a private contractor. Like the kind of guy who caused that anthrax scare a few years ago. Or maybe he just had Lisa doing the work of coming up with some bug that would be catastrophic. I guess we’ll never know.”

“What’s so weird is I told Maria about Manfred dying of a rare fungus.”

“Maybe she didn’t put two and two together. You’d be amazed how many smart people can’t add. Or maybe she wanted to die. You never know. The point is, she’s dead and you’re alive and all the moral obligation stuff is on our heads.”

“How can you …” There’s no graceful way of asking somebody, How can you live with yourself?

“How can we live with ourselves? Is that what you’re worrying about? You start losing sleep, you wind up losing your edge. We’re fine.”

“Thank you for everything, Jacques. You saved my life in more ways than you know.”

“All we did was give you a helping hand, Katie. You saved your own life.”

Come to think of it, I guess I did.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Acknowledgments

Copyright