Ah, Treachery!

Chapter 34

The Memory Room of the funeral home on Wisconsin Avenue seemed to have been designed for those who died without leaving more than a dozen mourners, for that was the number of chairs that had been set out, four wide and three deep.

Seven of the twelve chairs were occupied. Partain and Jessica Carver sat in the second row on the right just behind the kid from the CIA, who had delivered the agency’s condolences the night of Henry Viar’s death. Next to Partain and Carver were General Winfield and Nick Patrokis. In the back row by himself was Colonel Ralph Millwed in dress uniform. In the front row, seated together, were Shawnee Viar and Major General Walker L. Hudson.

A closed wood casket, painted to look like old silver, rested on two trestles draped in dark blue velvet. Four mourners had sent flowers. Partain had sent the roses and suspected that the three other floral tributes were from Vernon Winfield, General Hudson and the CIA.

The muted CD strings ended promptly at 11 A.M. Shawnee Viar, wearing no makeup and a black dress that came to mid-calf, rose,turned and said, “Thank you for coming. General Walker Hudson has offered to say a few words. General Hudson.”

She sat down and General Hudson rose, turning to face his audience of six, including Shawnee Viar. Hudson was also in dress uniform but the only medal he wore was the long blue and silver badge of the combat infantryman. He looked grave, if not particularly sad, as he inspected each member of his audience, then snapped open his purselike mouth and said, “We’re here to mourn the passing of an old friend, Henry Viar, and to offer our sympathy and condolences to his daughter, Shawnee.”

There was a practiced pause before he continued: “I knew and admired Hank Viar for more than twenty-five years as a patriot, a father, a husband and a shrewd judge of men. We served together twice, once in Vietnam and again in Central America. He was a man who deeply loved his country and dedicated his life to it. He was also one of those unsung anonymous heroes who helped win the Cold War and we should all be grateful for his untiring efforts. Henry Viar was one of this nation’s great patriots and I’m proud to have served with him and to have been his friend.”

The General did a smart about-face, threw the casket a snappy salute, held it for a long beat, ended it, backed up exactly two paces and sat down without even looking. Shawnee Viar leaned over to whisper something in his ear before she rose and again turned to the mourners.

“My father may have been all the things the General said, but he was also a cruel, uncaring, spiteful man and I’m not in the least sorry he’s dead.”

She turned and hurried through a side door. Patrokis rose and went after her, leaving behind a silence not of the stunned variety, but rather the kind that didn’t quite know how to end itself because the remaining mourners, except for Partain and Carver, were too far apart to lean over and whisper “May God forgive her” or perhaps “She sure nailed old Hank, didn’t she?”

Partain ended the silence when he rose, walked over to General Hudson, who had also risen, and said, “Great eulogy, General. A lot of truth in it, especially the part about Hank being a father and a husband.”

“What the fuck’re you doing here, Twodees?”

“Paying my respects to a gallant Cold Warrior.”

“The silly shit went and shot himself. Not much gallantry in that.”

“What about your offer?” Partain said. “The one where you get me reinstated as a light-colonel.”

“It stands — providing.”

“Providing what?”

“Providing you say nothing, do nothing.”

“For how long?”

“Not long.”

“Sure you can swing it?”

“They reinstated MacArthur after they fired him for shacking up with that Eurasian mistress of his. So there’s plenty of precedent, although you’re not exactly a MacArthur.”

“Don’t wait too long,” Partain said.

“Don’t get too eager.”

Partain returned to Jessica Carver, who was listening to the young CIA representative. He was telling her that the agency tried to be represented at the funerals or memorial services of most of its senior employees, even those who’d served long ago in the Office of Strategic Services during World War Two.

“Some of those old OSS guys, a few anyway, are way up in their nineties. I had to be at one service last week at this fancy estate out on the Eastern Shore — in Maryland? The deceased was a real old guy of about eighty. He had this funny-strange name, Minor Jackson, and the only mourners were this ancient dwarf and the two pretty young French girls he’d brought. The girls said they’d all flown in from Paris on the Concorde. You should’ve seen the place this guy had. But nobody else came, no neighbors, no household help, no minister. Nobody. Just the two girls and the dwarf and me.”

“What was the dwarf’s name?” Partain asked.

“Nick something.”

“Ploscaru?”

The young CIA man nodded. “Right. Ploscaru. He had to be ninety at least. You knew him?”

“I’d heard he was dead,” Partain said.

In the haphazardly furnished living room of the house on Volta Place in Georgetown, Patrokis had arranged for a caterer, not his uncle, to lay on some finger food and wine. The invitations had been verbal. Colonel Millwed hadn’t been invited but General Hudson had and had declined with regret. Partain had been asked to invite the young CIA man, who begged off because of another funeral he had to attend late that afternoon.

Partain loaded his plate with small crustless sandwiches, deviled eggs and Triscuits covered with melted cheese that he suspected was Velveeta. He then looked around for something to drink and was relieved to find twelve bottles of a sparkling California wine and two dozen glasses on a corner table.

Nick Patrokis sat with Shawnee Viar, who had nothing on her plate other than a half-eaten deviled egg. From the fingers of her right hand an empty wineglass dangled. Patrokis offered to get her more wine but she shook her head and said, “How awful was I?”

“Awful enough.”

“Good.”

“Why’d you invite him to speak?”

“Perversity. Or wishful thinking. I thought that if I asked him to speak and he didn’t show up, it’d prove he killed Hank. But he showed up.”

Patrokis smiled. “So he’s no longer a suspect.”

She shook her head. “Now I suspect he’s just a lot smarter than I thought he was.”

Across the room Jessica Carver had finished a pair of deviled eggs and was biting cautiously into one of the crustless sandwiches when Partain said, “How do you read her — Shawnee?”

She put the sandwich back on her plate, studied Shawnee Viar across the room for a moment or two, then said, “Probably a chronic mood-swinger and I like her.”

“Why?”

“Because she probably feels just the way I do when I wake up each morning. But I’ve learned to shovel out the bullshit and by ten, noon at the latest, I’m more or less functional.”

“Think she could kill her father?”

“Sure,” she said, “if sufficiently provoked. But she’d think about it for a long, long time. The pleasure’d be in the planning.”

“How d’you know?”

“Because that’s how I’d do it.”

Partain removed the Kevlar vest before trying on a topcoat at the men’s store just north of the Mayflower Hotel. He chose an eggshell-white single-breasted coat with a plaid zip-out lining, ignoring the recommendation from Jessica Carver and Vernon Winfield that the belted double-breasted model offered more swagger.

“When I need swagger, I’ll buy a stick,” Partain said.

“A scarf would be nice,” the General suggested. “I strongly recommend a scarf.”

“The only thing easier to lose than a scarf is an umbrella,” Partain said.

At another men’s store on Connecticut, purchases were made just as quickly. Partain chose two suits, one a plain dark blue, the other gray with a faint stripe. Shirts were next. Partain picked out six identical white ones, specifying no button-down collars or French cuffs. While choosing the shirts, he asked Jessica Carver to choose two ties. When she showed him her choices, he said, “They need a box.”

She then insisted he buy a jacket and they agreed on a lightweight brown herringbone. They also agreed on two pairs of slacks, one chocolate gabardine, the other tan whipcord. A dozen pairs of Jockey shorts with 32-inch waistbands completed the shopping and everything was billed to General Winfield’s gold American Express card.

Three minutes later the clerk who had sold Partain the clothing returned, wearing an embarrassed somber face. After reaching General Winfield, he said, “I’m awfully sorry, General, but your Amex card’s been canceled.”

The General was stunned. “That’s impossible,” he said. “I used it no more than thirty minutes ago.”

“It could be an inadvertent cancellation,” the salesman said. “I’m terribly sorry but—”

Jessica Carver didn’t let him finish. She whipped out her VISA card and thrust it at the salesman. “Put it all on this.”

The salesman accepted the VISA card, checked its expiration date, returned the Amex card to the General, made more apologetic sounds and hurried away.

“I don’t understand it,” the General said. “And I’m terribly embarrassed.”

“Maybe you just forgot to pay your bill,” she said.

“I never forget.”

Jessica Carver turned to Partain. “What about shoes? Millie wanted you to buy some new shoes.”

“I’ll buy my own shoes,” Partain said.

After the trio broke up, Partain stopped at the first shoe store he came to and bought a pair of plain cordovan oxfords and a pair of brown Weejuns. For another $10 the clerk promised to drop them off himself at the Mayflower’s front desk.

Partain then asked to use the store’s telephone book. The clerk led him into the rear storeroom and left him alone. Partain looked under “Attorneys” in the Yellow Pages until he came to one whose display advertisement read:

The attorney’s office was in a building on the northwest corner of 14th and K and Partain decided to walk. Twenty minutes later he was seated in front of the gray metal desk of Ransom Leeds, who seemed to be two parts bonhomie and one part bile.

“You want me to run a credit check on this guy, right?”

Partain nodded.

“Why not have your company do it?”

“Because I don’t have a company,” Partain said. “Yet.”

“You say he’s a retired Army brigadier general. How long was he in?”

“Twenty years.”

“What do they retire on — half pay?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“Let’s be cautious and say half.” Leeds reached into a desk drawer, brought out a well-thumbed copy of The World Almanac and turned to page 702. “Okay. It says here a brigadier general with twenty years drags down $6,052.50 a month. Half of that’d be three thousand and change. A little over thirty-six thousand a year and not bad, considering all the perks those guys get.” He studied Partain for a moment before asking, “What is it you don’t like about this deal — whatever the deal is?”

“That he can’t carry his end.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixty-seven, I think.”

“Address?”

Partain recited the address on Kalorama Circle and Leeds whistled. “He may be busted now, but he sure was flush once.”

“A wife left it to him. The house.”

“How much is involved in your deal — roughly?”

“One-point-two million.”

“Half and half?”

Partain nodded.

“It’ll cost you five hundred bucks — cash.”

Partain removed five $100 bills from his wallet, placed them on the desk and covered them with his palm. “First, the report.”

Leeds shrugged, picked up his phone, punched one button and, after it was immediately answered, said, “Betsy. Gimme the once-over-lightly on a retired Army brigadier general, Vernon NMI Winfield who lives on Kalorama Circle with the rest of the unhappy rich.”

While waiting for Betsy’s computer to reveal General Winfield’s financial situation, Leeds whistled “Mi chiamano Mimi” and was a third of the way through it when Betsy came back on the line.

“Shoot,” Leeds said, picked up a ballpoint pen and poised it over a yellow legal pad.

He listened and made notes for several minutes in a kind of private shorthand. Partain tried to read the shorthand upside down but quickly gave up. A few minutes later, Leeds thanked Betsy, hung up and stared at Partain. “You don’t want to do a deal with this guy,” he said.

“Why?”

“His sole income’s his pension, as far as I can tell. His VISA card’s filthy, so’s his MasterCard, and Amex just cut him off completely. His checking account at Riggs is one thousand and change. His BMw’s leased and he’s two months behind on his payments. And two months ago he re-fied that Kalorama Circle house of his to the max.”

“How much?” Partain said.

“Did he borrow? One-point-two million. That means his equity’s now about two or three hundred K.”

“What’d he do with the one-point-two million?” Partain said.

“Better ask him,” Leeds said, “because there’s no record of his depositing the check in Washington, Virginia or Maryland. Maybe he’s using it as a bookmark. Maybe it’s on hold in Vegas or Atlantic City. Maybe he drank it up.”

“Drinking’s not his problem,” Partain said, removed his hand from the five $100 bills, rose, nodded good-bye and left.