Ah, Treachery!

Chapter 18

General Vernon Winfield was the last to board the German-made shuttle bus that ferried passengers to and from their planes at Dulles International. The shuttle started off smoothly enough but one of the standing passengers wasn’t quite prepared and stumbled against the General, forcing him to step back and onto the toe of a seated passenger.

Winfield turned to apologize and was surprised to find himself staring down at the equally surprised and upturned face of Emory Kite. The General recovered first. “Well, Mr. Kite. I am sorry.”

“S’all right, General. Going to L.A., huh?”

“A brief vacation. And you?”

“Business. You in first class?”

The General shook his head. “Afraid not.”

“Too bad,” Kite said. “I thought if you were, maybe we could switch seats with somebody and sit together.”

“That would’ve been pleasant,” the General lied just as the shuttle veered left, giving him an excuse to turn away, grab a vertical pole and avoid Kite for the rest of the flight.

All the first-class passengers except Emory Kite were gone by the time General Winfield made his way from far back in the 747’s crowded economy section to the LAX arrival-departure area. He noticed Kite still hanging around or perhaps even loitering with intent. Winfield wasn’t sure what the loitering phrase meant precisely, but it sounded as though Kite would be good at it.

The General then saw the white shirtboard sign with the neat black Magic Marker lettering that read: “Winfield.” The sign was displayed with no trace of self-consciousness by a man in his early forties who wore a blue suit, white shirt and tie.

Winfield shifted his carry-on bag to his left hand, walked over and said, “Major Partain?”

“ ‘Partain’ will do, General.”

The General smiled, offering his hand. “Do you mind ‘Twodees’?”

“ ‘Twodees’ is fine,” Partain said and ended the handshake just as Emory Kite, still wearing his Dodgers cap and Raiders sweatshirt, sidled up to Winfield and said, “Need a lift into town?”

“Thank you, Mr. Kite, but I have a ride.”

Kite examined Partain. “You a limo driver?”

Partain shook his head.

“Mr. Partain is a friend of a friend,” the General said.

Kite stuck out his hand. “Emory Kite. I do investigations outta Washington.”

After a brief handshake, Partain said, “Federal?”

“Private,” Kite said. “You live in L.A.?”

“I grew up in California.”

“Yeah? Then maybe you could recommend a nice hotel.”

“They say the Peninsula’s a nice hotel.”

“What’s a room go for?”

“I’d guess two-eighty, three hundred. Around in there.”

Kite nodded neutrally. “Sounds about right. Where’s it at?”

“Beverly Hills.”

Kite seemed to like the location, too, because he smiled up at the General and said, “When you get some free time, gimme a call and we’ll have a drink and some lunch. My treat.”

“Thank you,” Winfield said. “I’ll see how my schedule works out.”

“I’ll be at the Peninsula,” Kite said, smiled his good-bye, turned and walked away.

Before Partain could ask, Winfield said, “He shares office space with us at VOMIT.”

“You and Nick must really need the money.”

“Yes,” the General said. “We really do.”

They were in the Lexus coupe, heading north on the 405, when the General said, “Perhaps you could recommend a hotel more moderately priced than the Peninsula.”

“Mrs. Altford would like you to stay at her place.”

“That’s very kind of her, but—”

Partain didn’t let him finish. “She thinks her daughter and I need a chaperone.”

“I’ve never in my life been a chaperone.”

“And I’ve never needed one. But she said if that argument didn’t work, I should try the second and more compelling one. The room’s free. Or as she put it, free-gratis-for-nothing.”

“There really is a room?”

“You get the master bedroom. It has its own bath. Jessica Carver and I share a bath.”

“How is Jessie?”

“Broke and looking for work. Or thinking about looking for it.”

“How’d she take the death of her — what? Boyfriend?”

“Try lover,” Partain said. “She took it okay. She even may’ve been a little relieved.”

“When you called me late last night or, I suppose, very early this morning, you said you were virtually sure David Laney was a nephew of General Walker Hudson.”

“Now I’m absolutely sure,” Partain said. “The Laneys and Hudsons are two old California families who sometimes intermarried. Dave’s mother was Ruth Ellen Hudson. She married Gerald Laney. General Walker Laney Hudson is Ruth Ellen’s brother. General Hudson got Laney as a middle name because his father and the father of Gerald Laney — Dave’s dad — were best friends.”

“How’d you discover all that?”

“I didn’t. I set Jessie down in front of her mother’s computer and turned her loose. An hour later she had it all wrapped up. Jessie likes stuff like that. Says it reminds her of market research.”

“How was Laney killed?”

“I don’t know,” Partain said. “I saw his body just after they dumped it out on Mrs. Altford’s driveway. The cops say they won’t know what killed him until after the autopsy.”

The General nodded thoughtfully, waited a few moments, then asked, “Ever know a young captain in Salvadoran intelligence called Trigueros?”

“José Trigueros Chacón,” Partain said. “What about him?”

“He and his wife were shot dead in Washington yesterday afternoon. A professional job, I’m told.”

“Who told you?”

“The police.”

“Why would the cops tell you how Trigueros was killed?”

“Because the investigating homicide detective is a member of VOMIT.”

“He tell you why the Captain was killed?”

“The detective’s a she and she didn’t know why,” Winfield said. “But earlier yesterday the Captain offered us — Nick really — the names of some Americans who were connected to the murder of those six Salvadoran priests, their cook and her daughter. The Captain claimed he had proof of the connection and wanted five thousand dollars for it.”

“But got killed before you could raise the money and make the buy.”

“That’s not at all how it happened. We raised the money and then went to see the Captain. Nick and I. But when we offered the money he said it was no longer possible to sell us the proof. I thought he looked, well, terrified. So did Nick. Less than an hour after we left, Trigueros and his wife were murdered.”

They rode in silence for half a mile before Partain said, “I’m sorry they’re dead. He was a nice kid, if not overly bright.”

After another lengthy silence, Winfield asked, “Does it seem either likely or possible that they could all be connected somehow — the murder of Trigueros in Washington, Laney’s murder here and the attempt on Millie Altford’s life?”

“Something that wires them all together?”

“I’d settle for a common thread.”

A mile later Partain said, “Well, there’s me. I’m a common thread. But that’s only if you’re looking for a person. Some inanimate common threads might be money, greed, politics, revenge or treachery.”

“Ah, treachery!” the General murmured, his voice soft yet curiously orotund. “One of history’s favorite shortcuts.”

“Right up there with assassination.”

“You may be right about yourself,” the General said. “By chance or choice you know or have met most of the players — General Hudson, of course; Colonel Millwed; the late Captain Trigueros; the equally late David Laney and his lover, Jessica Carver — and her mother, Millicent Altford. You know Nick Patrokis, of course, and now me. You even know the former resident CIA bagman in El Salvador, Henry Viar.”

“I haven’t thought of Viar in months,” Partain said.

“Why would you? But now I’ve almost convinced myself that you and the aforementioned treachery are the most likely common threads that run through everything.”

“Well, you could yank on the thread and see what unravels,” Partain said. “But there’s a surer way to find out if I’m the guy.”

“What?”

“Wait till somebody tries to kill me.”

“Or succeeds,” the General said.