Choppy Water

39

Tom sat at his desk, still a little weak in the knees, and tried to think how he might contact Elizabeth. He decided to continue to be Dad, e-mailing: Hi, there, baby. It’s been too long since I’ve seen my girl. Let’s get together soonest. When are you free? Love, Dad.

He pressed the send button. There was no way of telling when she’d see the e-mail; he’d just have to be patient. At five, he left the office and drove home. Amanda’s car was in the garage, so he took a few deep breaths and put on his innocent face.

“Evening, sweetheart,” he said, as he walked in.

Amanda looked up, surprised. “You’re home early,” she said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” She kissed him and pressed herself against him.

“A long and very boring report,” he said. “In fact, I think I need an hour’s nap.” He loosened his tie.

“Want some company?” she asked.

“Give me an hour, then I’m yours.”

She checked her watch. “All right, you’re on the clock. Shoo.”

He went upstairs and got undressed. As he hung his suit on a hanger he saw something he hadn’t seen before, and it scared him. The suit was a light tan, and there was lipstick on his fly.

He looked around for something that would dissolve lipstick. He went into the bathroom and found a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some tissues. He poured some on the Kleenex, replaced the bottle in the cabinet, then went back and applied it to his fly. To his vast relief it seemed to come off, but when he blew on it to dry it, it still left a visible stain, just not a red one. He hung the suit on the second rack, behind the first row, then flushed the tissues down the toilet.

Finally, he turned down the duvet, got into bed, and stretched out. In a couple of minutes he was snoring lightly.

He felt a draft and reached for the covers, but he encountered a head of hair instead. He hadn’t inspected himself for lipstick stains, so he pulled her away and up to his lips.

“I smell alcohol,” she said, sniffing.

“I spilt something on my suit at lunch, and I was trying to get out the stain.”

She rolled on top of him and made to insert him. “You’re not very responsive today,” she said.

“I was sound asleep,” he replied.

“Well, your hour is up.” She fondled him until she got a response, then mounted him. Ten minutes later they were both spent. She went into the bathroom for a minute, then returned and opened his closet door. “Which suit? I’ll see what I can do.”

“The tan gabardine, second row.”

She pulled it from the closet and hung it on a hook. “Where?”

“On the trousers,” he said.

“What was the stain?”

“Russian dressing from a sandwich. That pink stuff.” He held his breath.

“Yes, I can still smell the alcohol. And it seems to have worked.” She put the suit back into the closet. “Dinner’s in fifteen minutes,” she said, pulling her jeans back on and slipping into a sweater and flip-flops. “See you downstairs.”

Halfway through dinner his phone vibrated. “Excuse me,” he said, and went to his messages.

“Anything important?” Amanda asked.

“Yes, a message from a CI. He’s not allowed to contact me by phone. I’ll have to go out for an hour or so after dinner.”

“Oh, well. At least I’ve already exhausted you. Don’t fall asleep at the wheel.”

Tom drove to Elizabeth’s apartment house, near DuPont Circle, pulled into the garage, and parked. He took the elevator up to the floor above hers, then walked a flight down the fire stairs and peeked into the hallway. The coast was clear. He walked quickly down the hall, found the door off the latch, and let himself in. “Elizabeth?” he called.

“Have a seat. I’ll be there in a minute.”

He sat down on the sofa and looked around. He’d been there only once before, and it seemed much the same: comfortable.

Elizabeth appeared, buttoning her blouse.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said.

“Fat chance. Drink?”

“I’ve already had some wine with dinner. I’d better not.”

She poured herself one and sat down. “What’s up?”

“First, a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Have you recently had any contact with a female journalist?”

“You mean like Peg Parsons?”

“She’ll do. Have you seen or communicated with her?”

“No, I haven’t. Do you have some reason to believe that I might have?”

“I saw her today, and she told me that she has a source in Sykes’s group.”

“Holy shit.”

“My feelings exactly. Do you have any idea who that might be?”

“Did she say it was a female?”

“No, she used the editorial male gender when speaking of him, but said it might be a woman.”

“I’m the only woman I’ve seen there, so it’s got to be a man. What sort of information did she get?”

“Nothing earthshaking. She said Sykes had seen Holly Barker in New York on television, so he knows she’s not dead.”

“I was with him at dinner when he saw that on TV.”

“How did he react?”

“He seemed annoyed, but he didn’t say anything more about her.”

“I guess he wouldn’t. I got your message about the trackers.”

“Good.”

“I checked them out, and they’re working just fine. I watched his Explorer go into the village for groceries and gas, then return.”

“That’s odd,” she said. “Elroy would ordinarily go in for groceries. Could it have been the liquor store? He might have bought some wine.”

“Could be.”

“Holy shit again!”

“What is it this time?”

“It’s Elroy, the black cook.”

“What about him?”

“He’s got to be Peg Parsons’s source!”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he hates Sykes.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s obvious, trust me.”

“What’s Elroy’s last name?”

“Hubbard.”

“Do you know anything about his background?”

“He’s retired Navy, where he was a cook — supposedly his last posting was as the chef at the officers club at Naval Air Station Pensacola.”

“I’ll check him out,” Tom said, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got to get home.”

“Is Amanda keeping you on a short leash?”

“You could put it that way,” he said.

She walked him to the door.

“Anything else to report?”

“Nope. Drive carefully.” She let him out and locked the door behind him. She walked slowly back to the sofa. “Elroy,” she said. “Now, whose team is he playing on?”