Conspiracy

32

Amanda looked at the clock on her stove. She was supposed to meet with a member of the Agency’s human-resources staff to discuss her “official status” in an hour.

Or was it a member of Internal Investigations? Amanda couldn’t remember; she’d been too far gone when she took the phone call, and in fact could barely read her handwritten note showing the person’s office number.

It didn’t matter. Amanda wasn’t going to keep the appointment.

Not because she was drunk. She was sober, as her pounding head and dry mouth reminded her.

Amanda had decided to leave town, though where she was going she wasn’t sure. There was no reason to hang around. The Ser vice would surely fire her. It wasn’t fair, but that was the way it was going to be. She could tell from the way Frey had looked at her the other afternoon; he wanted her gone. And he would get what he wanted.

She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything.

She cared about Jerry Forester, but he was gone. She was mad at him and sad for him, devastated and angry at the same time.

How could he do this to her? And to his boys. To his older son.

She had more questions for Jerry — many — but they would never be answered. The only way to deal with them was to get far away from them. If she didn’t, the questions would consume her.

As would the booze.

The smell of Lysol and vomit stung her nose in the bathroom. She’d spent nearly two hours cleaning the place, and still the scent of half-digested gin clung to the ceramic tile.

She pushed at the window, though it was already open as far as it would go.

The doorbell rang. Her first thought was that it was someone from the Ser vice, coming for her because she’d missed her appointment. But that was impossible — she hadn’t missed it yet. And they wouldn’t bother to fetch her.

Amanda went to the front door and peered through the tiny peephole. A short Asian woman and a much older man stood in the foyer. The woman reached to the bell again.

“What is it?” said Amanda.

“Ms. Rauci?”

Amanda hesitated. If they knew her name they weren’t Mormons or someone else she could easily send away.

“We’re with the federal marshals’ ser vice, Ms. Rauci,” said the woman. She held up a government identification card. “We need to talk to you.”

Marshals?

“Why?”

“It’s about Gerald Forester,” said the woman.

Well, of course it was. Amanda turned the dead bolt but left the chain on the door, opening it a crack.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“This isn’t a good place to talk,” said the woman.

“I’m due at work in an hour.”

“This shouldn’t take long.”

The woman’s face was hard; Amanda realized she wasn’t going to be put off.

“It would be more comfortable for all of us inside,” said the man.

Even if Amanda hadn’t known and practiced most of the games a two-person investigation team would play, she would have pegged the older man as the good guy a mile away. He seemed to have cultivated a grandfatherly look to help him with his interviews.

She slid off the chain and took a step back.

“I’m Lia DeFrancesca. This is Hernes Jackson.”

“Hi.” Amanda remained in the hall.

“Maybe if we sat in the living room or kitchen?” suggested Jackson.

Amanda led them to the kitchen.

“You have a bag packed,” said Lia. “Coming or going?”

“Coming,” lied Amanda. She felt her lip quiver, and longed for a drink. “Thirsty? I’ll make some coffee.”

“No thank you,” said Lia. Jackson shook his head.

The two officers pulled out chairs but didn’t sit down.

Neither did Amanda.

“We were interested in knowing if Agent Forester ever discussed cases with you,” said Lia.

“That would be against the rules.”

“True,” said Jackson. “But sometimes things are said anyway. It’s not going to be held against him, I assure you.”

“He’s dead. How can you hold anything against him?” said Amanda.

“Did he?”

Amanda shook her head. “Jerry wasn’t like that. He…” The tears began flowing. She couldn’t help it. She ran to the bathroom and buried her face in a towel.

Lia glanced at Jackson. She had spent the entire ride to Amanda Rauci’s house exhorting herself to keep an open mind. But seeing Amanda convinced Lia once again that there was no way this was suicide. Amanda wasn’t beautiful; she was a bit on the plump side, and though she was only in her early thirties her face was already showing the signs of age. But still, it was impossible for Lia to believe that someone would walk out on both his kids and a girlfriend, especially one who obviously loved him.

“Maybe you should see if she’s all right,” Jackson suggested.

“Yeah.”

Lia went down the hall. The apartment smelled as if it were a hospital.

“Ms. Rauci? Amanda?”

“What?”

The sharp bite of her voice, stronger than Lia had expected, took her by surprise. “Hey, look, I know this sucks,” she told Amanda.

“Do you? Do you really know how it feels?” The truth was, Lia didn’t, not really, not firsthand. She’d been very lucky — Charlie Dean had come close to being killed on a mission but always survived.

“There were a couple of things about this that don’t make sense,” said Lia. “I don’t think it happened exactly the way everyone says it did. So, maybe, we can figure it out?” The door opened abruptly. Amanda, red faced, stared at her.

“Why are you interested?” said Amanda. “Who are you really with? I know you’re not federal marshals.”

“I told you, we’re working with the marshals’ office, helping out.”

“Who are you really?”

Lia could be harder than anyone, and yet she felt real sympathy for the woman. Rubens hadn’t told her and Jackson to lie, exactly, and Lia decided that Amanda was more likely to cooperate if she told the truth.

Even if it was in a roundabout way.

“We’re with the NSA, on loan to the marshals ser vice, which is helping with the investigation,” she said. “We’re trying to track down an e-mail your husband — your boyfriend — received. It may indicate that an assassination plot had an overseas origin. That’s why we’re here. That’s what we’re interested in.”

Either the explanation or Lia’s unconscious mistake about the nature of the relationship — calling Forester Amanda’s husband — softened her.

“Let’s go back into the kitchen,” she told Lia. “Or the living room. That’s better.”

Lia took Amanda’s elbow, clutching it gently as they walked down the hall. She suddenly felt like the host, rather than the uninvited guest.

“Do you want something?” Lia asked. “Coffee? Or something stronger?”

“Tea,” said Amanda. “There’s a kettle. Just tea.” talking about him was a catharsis. The words rushed from Amanda’s mouth, thoughts and emotions flowing that she had never even known she’d had. The two NSA agents, the hard Asian woman and the kindly grandfather, sat and listened. Amanda still wasn’t entirely sure why they were here, what they were really after — what Lia had told her made some sense but lacked enough real details to convince her. But once she had started to talk about Jerry, it didn’t matter.

Finally, the man, Jackson, interrupted her. “Did he say why he was investigating in Connecticut?”

“It wasn’t Connecticut. That was where we — where he — could get a hotel. The investigation was over in New York, a few miles away. We — I went up there to meet him. We were going to meet. But—”

The tears overwhelmed her for a moment. She thought of the nightgown she’d worn. She’d already thrown it out.

“He decided to stay in another hotel. I don’t know why. I thought he was coming to the hotel I was at. He called me and then, well, he said he would be there and didn’t come. I thought he stood me up. Well, I guess he did.” She bent over, sobbing until there was nothing left.

If they asked now whether she’d seen him dead, if they’d even hinted that they knew there was more to the story, she would tell them. She couldn’t hold back. She felt like a bal-loon that had been popped and left exhausted on the floor.

But they didn’t know to ask.

“The e-mail we were interested in,” said Lia, “came from Vietnam. Does that ring any bells?”

“Vietnam?”

“Did Forester know anyone there?”

“No.”

“Did he ever go there?”

“Not that I know,” Amanda told them. “Did one of his investigations involve a Vietnamese national?”

“Not as far as anyone knows,” said Lia.

“He did ask you if you spoke French,” said Jackson.

Frey had already asked Amanda about the instant messages; now she realized why.

“I speak some. He never told me about a case,” repeated Amanda. “Maybe it did have something to do with one, but he never explained. If he was thinking about it, he changed his mind.”

“Really?” asked Jackson, his tone disbelieving.

Amanda shook her head. “He didn’t discuss his cases.

Not Jerry.”

They were silent for a few moments. Amanda’s breath wheezed against her teeth and lips.

“He didn’t use his work computer to send the e-mails we’ve been looking at,” said Lia. “Would you happen to know — would he have used yours?”

“Mine?”

“A personal one?”

“I don’t have a home computer,” said Amanda. “I haven’t had one for a year.”

“What do you use for browsing the Web?”

“I don’t. I — sometimes I use the computer at work. To shop. But I don’t need one. Just the work one. And the Ser vice has that.”

They were silent again. Amanda felt guilty that she had never gotten the old computer fixed or replaced. Maybe if she had…

Ridiculous. But she couldn’t get rid of the thought. If one thing had been different somewhere, her lover might still be alive.

“You said that he didn’t discuss specific cases with you,” said Jackson. “And not this case.”

Amanda nodded.

“But I would imagine you’d know how he usually went about working on cases?”

“What do you mean?”

“He used stenographic notebooks,” said Lia. “We only found one in this case, and that had been back in his office, not with him when he died. Would that be unusual?” Amanda thought of the notebooks he used, brown steno pads, which he often folded over so he could carry them in his back pocket.

Had she seen one that eve ning in the room?

No. He often kept them in the car — he had a habit of tucking them away as soon as he got in.

Where?

In the back, under the seat.

Maybe they’d already found the notebooks and were trying to trick her somehow. Did they know about Jerry’s other habits, his paranoia about being locked out of anywhere?

Did they know about the extra key he kept under the bumper — a key she still had?

Or the room key?

Was this a trick?

It would be a classic investigative maneuver: curry sympathy, extract as much information “softly” as they could, then begin pressing her.

Did they think she killed him?

God, they must. It was all a setup.

“He did take notes in a steno pad,” Amanda said calmly.

“Do you think — you’re asking me this because he didn’t kill himself?”

“Do you think he killed himself?” asked Jackson.

“No.” Amanda knew she shouldn’t say anything — she should be quiet, silent — but the words blurted from her mouth. “I can’t believe he’d do it. His boys, especially the older one. This will destroy them.”

“He is taking it hard,” said Lia.

So they’d been there. It was a trap.

“Is there anyone you know of who would want to kill him?” asked Jackson.

Amanda turned toward him. Jackson might be old, but he was the vicious one, the classic wolf in lamb’s clothing.

Amanda shook her head. “Have you looked into his cases?”

“The Service hasn’t found any that stood out,” said Lia.

“They’re still reviewing them, but they seem to have no real leads.”

“Maybe you have a different opinion,” said Jackson.

“No.” Amanda rose. “I’m sorry, I’m supposed to be at work. I really have to leave. I have to go.” The two NSA officers exchanged a glance, then rose.

“Here’s a number you can reach us at,” said Jackson, producing a card.

“Do you have a card, too?” Amanda asked Lia.

“I don’t. You could just call that number and ask for me. Lia.”

“Just Lia?”

“They’ll know who you’re looking for.”

“she seemed extremely uneasy,” said Jackson when they reached the car.

“Her boyfriend just died,” said Lia.

“When I was in the State Department,” said Jackson, “some supervisors would put pressure on employees who were having affairs. Does that still go on?” Lia felt her face flush. “No.”

She could never imagine Charlie killing himself — but if he died, and the circumstances were arranged so that it appeared as if it were a suicide, how would she feel? How would she act? Would people think that their affair — not exactly a secret — had somehow caused his death?

Especially if it was a suicide. Everyone would be thinking that Amanda Rauci somehow drove Forester to kill himself.

First the wife, then the girlfriend; it was all too much for him.

“I guess she’s just upset,” said Jackson. “It is painful to lose a lover.”

Amanda left the building a few minutes after the NSA people. She thought that they might be watching her, and so she acted as nonchalant as she could, backing slowly from her space and heading on the highway exactly as if she were going to headquarters.

Were they following her? Amanda took an exit to get some gas, watching carefully. She’d been trained to spot surveillance teams and didn’t see any of the usual giveaways, but the one thing that experience had impressed on her was that you could never be sure enough that you weren’t being followed. She decided against running an aggressive driving pattern to flush out anyone following her; doing that would tip them off to the fact that she knew she was being followed.

Her best course was to act naturally — go into the office, sit through what ever crap she was supposed to sit through, then leave. She’d pretend to do some shopping, slip away then.

But what if she was arrested when she went to the office?

Arrested? For what?

Murder?

No way. No.

What if someone had seen her at the hotel? What if she’d left some print or DNA somewhere? Even a tear might give her away.

The NSA wouldn’t be involved then. It would be FBI agents.

Maybe they’d simply lied. A weird lie to throw her off.

She’d already spoken to the FBI agents, dumb jerks who weren’t anywhere near as thorough as the NSA people. Or maybe that was the game plan — she’d never be on her guard with the NSA people, right? Because they were spies, interested in foreign intrigue, not simple murder.

What the hell had Jerry been working on?

So was there another notebook? If so, maybe something in there would tell her what had happened.

Only if someone else had killed him.

They thought that was possible, though. Otherwise they wouldn’t have come to see her.

Assuming they were telling the truth.

Amanda was so consumed in her thoughts that she missed the exit for her office. As she passed she instinctively slapped on the brake, then pulled onto the shoulder. She slapped the wheel angrily.

She was acting like an inept jerk. Paranoid and distraught.

She should be able to keep her head clear. She was a federal agent, trained to stay calm in an emergency. What if she’d been on an assignment? What if she’d been guarding someone?

But that was exactly the point. In that case, she’d have a script to follow. In that case, she’d be removed from the situation, distant. It would be easy. She wouldn’t know anything, or anyone, but her job.

Amanda took a pair of very long breaths. She got back into traffic, and headed toward the next exit.

I’ll dump the car at a Metro stop, she decided. I’ll find that notebook. Because if they do think it’s murder, then sooner or later they’re going to accuse me.

It’s what I would do if I were following the script.