Hothouse Orchid

7

Holly slept a lot for the rest of the day, and the following morning she went to her favorite grocery and got the makings for dinner. She went home and prepared osso bucco, which she had first had at Elaine’s with Stone Barrington. She left it to cook for four hours, then set the table and laid out the pans and ingredients for the rest of dinner. By noon, she was done. Holly liked to be prepared.

She had a sandwich for lunch, and shortly afterward Hurd Wallace called. “Jimmy Weathers took me aside at the station yesterday and told me what happened to you,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“Sure, Hurd. I’m feeling very well. I’ve got a cut on my head that has to heal but nothing else. Thanks for asking.”

“I knew about the two earlier cases, of course, but we’ve been unable to come up with anything, not even a description from the victims. I had to leave that in the hands of Jimmy and Jim Bruno.”

“Has he started work?”

“Yes. I introduced him to the department yesterday, and he gave them the sort of pep talk you said he would.”

“I’ve heard some version of it many times,” she said.

“I briefed him on our open cases, including the two rapes, but he didn’t seem much interested.”

“He’s interested in other people doing his job for him-God knows, I did his work for two years. He likes golf and tennis more than work. The good news is, he won’t get in the way much.”

“I’m going to keep in touch with half a dozen officers and get their readings as time passes.”

“Good. Have you started your new job yet?”

“I’m sitting at my desk now,” Hurd said. “I’ve got some unpacking and settling in to do, and then my people are going to start looking into these rapes. Problem is, we need a request from Bruno to get involved.”

“Call him and ask him; he’d love to have you involved. But if you clear the case, he’ll manage to take the credit.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hurd said. He gave her his new office and cell numbers. “Call me if you remember anything about the other night. Or if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Hurd, I’ll do that.” She said goodbye and hung up.

Shortly after seven, the phone rang, and Holly picked it up. “Hello?”

“It’s Josh Harmon; I’m at your very formidable gate.”

“Hang on,” she said. She tapped the code into the phone and hung up.

Shortly, Josh appeared at the front door, holding two bottles of wine. Daisy took an immediate but polite interest in him.

“You have a formidable dog as well as a gate,” he said, handing her the wines. He turned his attention to Daisy. After a little introductory affection, she brought him a tennis ball.

“That means you’re friends now,” Holly said.

“I can’t believe he’s a watchdog, too.”

“She. And she’s a very well-trained watchdog. But, if you behave yourself, I won’t have to give her the kill command.”

“That’s a relief,” Josh said.

“Drink?”

“Scotch?”

“You ever drink bourbon?”

“Only under duress.”

She poured him a Knob Creek. “You have to drink one of these; after that, you can have anything you like.”

“Oh, all right,” he said, taking a sip. “Not bad.”

“Faint praise,” she said.

“Give me time. What smells good?”

“Osso buco; it’s been in the oven all afternoon. I’ll make risotto before dinner.” She poured herself a drink. “Let’s sit outside for a while.”

Josh walked to the sliding door to the beach and opened it with difficulty. “Wow,” he said, “that’s one heavy door.” He looked closely at the glass. “Now, that is what I’d call major hurricane protection. It must be an inch thick.”

“An inch and a half,” Holly said.

“May I ask why?”

“Courtesy of my employer. They like for their people to be well protected.”

They sat down in deck chairs. “And who might your employer be? I’ve no idea what you do.”

“Hardly anybody does,” Holly said.

“Does that mean I’m not supposed to ask?”

“Probably.”

“All right. I’ll respect your privacy and keep my nose out of your employment.”

They sat and watched the evening light on the sea for about a minute.

“All right,” he said. “What do you do, and who do you do it for?”

Holly had to make a decision; usually she told people she was an official at the Department of Agriculture, which pretty much prevented any further conversation, but she liked him, and it wasn’t strictly against the rules to tell someone where she worked. “I work at the CIA,” she said. “I’m an assistant deputy director of Operations.”

He looked at her sideways. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“I kid you not.”

“What does an assistant… whatever that title is… do?”

“At the top is the director of Central Intelligence,” she said. “Under her are the two principal deputy directors: one for Intelligence, one for Operations. The Directorate of Intelligence deals with analysis-many, many analysts working on information from all over the world. The Directorate of Operations runs spies all over the world.”

“Are you supposed to be telling me this stuff? Because, if you’re not… Oh the hell with it, keep talking.”

“I haven’t told you anything that the brochure for the Agency won’t tell you.”

“So, you’re a spy?”

“I’m trained to be, but essentially I’m an administrator.”

“That’s not what your title says. It says you’re the assistant head spy.”

“One of a few assistant deputy directors. I’m not sure I’m supposed to tell you how many.”

“I’m not sure I want to know. You did say you were trained to be a spy?”

“There’s a place, Fort Peary, in Virginia, commonly called the Farm, where prospective officers are sent for a considerable period of time and punished in all sorts of ways, not to mention trained in all sorts of ways.”

“May one ask about the punishment and the training?”

“One is punished with long runs over difficult terrain and physical training of all kinds, especially self-defense.”

“Killing with a single blow? Like that?”

“Like that.”

“And the other training?”

“One may not know about that.” She took his empty glass. “Can I get you a Scotch?”

“I think I’ll have another bourbon.”

“It’s the patriotic thing to do,” she said.