Valley of Spies

by Keith Yocum

  Daria had been crying; the mascara was smudged below each eye. She had a noticeable bruise and swelling on her left cheek. The two women stared at each other. Judy waited for the taser. Nothing happened. They stared at each other. Daria turned her head toward the kitchen as Simpson yelled, “Where the fuck is she?”

  Daria slowly closed the door. Judy heard her feline feet walk out of the family room. She turned off the lights.

  Judy didn’t know if Daria intended to return with Simpson, or whether she was going to do absolutely nothing. It was clear, at least to Judy, that Daria had been beaten and perhaps sustained worse in that house over the years.

  Finally, after several more minutes in the dark, Judy heard sirens and she tapped the phone twice.

  “Judy, can you talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “You hear sirens?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you in the house?”

  “In the family room. First floor. In a closet.”

  “We’ll make sure they check the closet there. Just stay quiet and we’ll get to you, OK?”

  “Yes.”

  Judy could see flashing blue lights through the louvers.

  “They’re here,” Judy said.

  “Stay where you are.”

  “OK.”

  She heard the doorbell ring, followed by voices at the front door. Judy inched the door open and waited. After a minute, she opened it all the way and crawled out on all fours to the windows. There were two police vehicles. She saw several neighbors on their front steps looking at Simpson’s house.

  “I’m going to the front door,” Judy whispered.

  “I’ll tell them you’re coming,” the dispatcher said.

  “Too late. I’ll be there in five seconds. Thanks for your help.” Judy hung up, put the phone in her back pocket and bolted into the kitchen. She saw Daria’s back as she stood facing the front door. She heard, but could not see, Simpson talking loudly.

  Judy ran up behind Daria and shoved her aside, pushing herself past Simpson. He grabbed her arm.

  “Judy, did you call 911 again? Oh heavens. I wish you wouldn’t do that. I bet you stopped taking your medications, didn’t you?”

  There were two uniformed Fairfax County policemen standing side by side on the front step; one was older, tall and black, the other was white and short. The flashing blue lights created a strobe effect on everyone’s faces.

  “Sir,” the black officer said to Simpson, “please don’t touch that woman. Hands off please.”

  “She’s capable of hurting someone,” Simpson said. “You really don’t know the whole story here. She came home after being released from the psychiatric hospital. She had a break. I know you’re just trying to help, but we need to take her back to the hospital. I had no idea she was off her meds, did you, Daria?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Sir, I’m going to ask you again to release her arm. We can talk all we want, but you cannot touch her or anyone else. Do you understand?”

  Simpson refused to release her.

  Judy turned to see that Karl had nonchalantly moved from the doorway to the street, where he chatted with another uniformed policeman.

  “Officer, that man has a gun,” Judy yelled.

  The mention of a gun, as Judy predicted, changed the tenor of the meeting dramatically.

  The two officers at the door turned quickly to look back at Karl, and the policeman next to Karl reached for his own handgun.

  “I have a license to carry!” Karl said raising his hands.

  The officer at the street spoke to Karl, turned him around, removed a pistol from Karl’s pocket, and took several steps away from him.

  “Put your hands on the hood of the car, please,” the policeman told Karl.

  “Sure,” Karl said, smiling. “No problem.”

  The two policemen turned again to face Simpson, who still had a firm grip on Judy’s forearm.

  “Sir,” the black policeman said to Simpson, “I’m going to ask you one more time to release that woman. We had a call that a woman was being held against her will. Until we clear up what’s happening here, we need everyone to keep calm and refrain from any physical confrontation. Do you understand?”

  Judy was frightened that Simpson was going to talk himself out of the situation, and she felt a rush of anger.

  “He tried to suffocate me,” Judy said as Simpson finally released her arm.

  “Oh, Judy,” he said with unctuous familiarity. “Each time you do this, you have to stay longer in the hospital. You must take your medication. Daria, dear, could you get Judy’s meds please?”

  “No ma’am,” the black officer said. “You don’t need to do that. Everyone should stay right here. Sir,” he said looking at Simpson, “is there anyone else in the house?”

  “No.”

  Turning to Judy, he said, “Are you the person that called 911 saying you were being held against your will?”

  “Yes, I am. This man”—Judy decided to keep Daria out of it for the moment—“tried to kill me, and I hid and called 911. He’s very dangerous. I’m an Australian police officer. I’ll show you.” Judy dug her right hand into her front pocket.

  “Hey,” the white police officer said. “Slow, please.”

  Judy pulled out the two items wrapped in the rubber band.

  “Those are fake,” Simpson said. “Judy, you need help. Please stop concocting these wild stories. Daria and I are exhausted. And you fellows. I want to save you a lot of embarrassment and trouble back at the station. I hate to pull rank here, but I’m the deputy director of operations for the Central Intelligence Agency. This neighborhood, as you know, has many important people residing here. Senator Johnson from Kansas lives across the street. Yes, that’s him at the front door watching us. Congressman Salucci from Delaware lives behind us, and the list goes on. We have a sad family situation here. Mental illness is hard to comprehend at times, and I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of it. But you’d better check with the station before you do something that will get you and your chief in serious trouble. The Washington Post loves stories like this—police mistakes leading to lawsuits and ruined careers. Think of it, men. Just call the station. Talk with Colonel Francis. He’s a friend of mine.”

  Judy was stunned at how manipulative and commanding Simpson was; did he really know the Fairfax County chief of police?!

  “Please, Judy,” Simpson said, again taking Judy’s forearm. “Come inside and take your meds. Thank you, officers.”

  There was a surreal moment of silence as Simpson’s bluff appeared to freeze everyone in their tracks.

  “Why don’t you take me to the station?” Judy asked the black officer. “It would be safer for everyone.”

  Simpson tugged Judy and she resisted.

  “Sir, I’ve asked you repeatedly to stop grabbing this woman,” the black officer said. “We can talk here without resorting to touching people. I will call back to the station, but this woman will sit in our squad car until I can get some guidance. Please wait here. Jim, stay here,” he said to his partner.

  Judy turned to follow the officer to the car, but Simpson said, “I can’t let her do that. She’s escaped from the hospital three times, and if you take her down to the station I guarantee she’ll figure out how to get away.”

  With her free hand, Judy ripped Simpson’s hand off her.

  “Oh,” Judy said digging her hand into the left front pocket, “I have Louise’s earring right here. You should have paid more attention.” She pulled the delicate piece of jewelry out and held it between her thumb and forefinger.

  The two officers looked confused and leaned in to look at what she held. They were unprepared for Simpson, who grabbed Judy’s closed hand with his two hands and started to pry it open.

  “That’s private property! You
little goddamned thief!”

  “Hey,” the black officer said grabbing Simpson around the shoulders. “Hold on there.”

  Simpson shoved the officer away and again tried to pry her fingers apart.

  Judy furiously held on, as Simpson pried a finger free.

  “You filthy, sick bastard,” she yelled. “Sicko!”

  “I’m not sick,” he yelled, as the scrum of four grappled on the front steps. Simpson kept trying to pry Judy’s hand open, while both police officers tried to restrain Simpson. Daria watched dispassionately from inside the hallway.

  “Sicko!” Judy kept yelling. “Sick, pathetic bastard.”

  Suddenly, Simpson slammed an elbow into the black officer’s chin, stunning him. The white officer tried to shove Simpson back into his hallway.

  “Weak, pathetic sicko!” Judy yelled into Simpson’s face.

  He reared back with his right arm, and even though the black officer had recovered enough to grab Simpson’s chest, the deputy director of operations threw a devastating right cross and hit Judy square on the chin.

  And just like in a cartoon, she saw a rainbow of yellow stars silhouetted against a jet-black galaxy.

  She woke in the back of an ambulance, its red lights reflecting through the front windshield.

  “Where am I?” she said to the EMT on her left.

  “Ma’am, you’re in an ambulance being taken to a hospital. This is just a precaution. You were knocked unconscious. Everything is going to be fine.”

  “My head hurts.”

  “I bet it does,” he said. “Just relax. You probably have a concussion.”

  “Hey!” she yelled, looking at her empty left hand, “the earring! What happened to the earring? I had it in my hand.”

  “We found it,” came a voice from the other side. “Judy turned to see the face of the white police officer who was at the front door. “Took us a while, but we found it. We have it. Take it easy. You’ve been through a lot.”

  “What about the man? Simpson?”

  “At this particular moment he’s being booked on an assault charge,” the officer said.

  “Are they going to release him on bond?”

  “Well, given his government position, and no apparent prior record, I’m sure they will.”

  “No! Don’t release him. He’ll hide the evidence! Take me back there now. It’s important!”

  She saw the men look at each other from their opposite benches.

  “Ma’am,” the EMT said, “Please try to calm down.”

  “We need the box! Please, let’s go back for the box.”

  “What’s the big deal about that box?” the policeman said. “Strange, but that guy’s wife came out when her husband was being taken away, and she gave Sgt. Thompson a wood box.”

  “She did?” Judy said, turning her head.

  “Yeah. The sergeant didn’t know what to do with it, but the woman said we will need it. So, he asked her again whether she was giving it to him of her free will. She said yes.”

  “Oh, my god,” Judy said, leaning back onto the stretcher. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Ma’am,” the policeman said, “did you happen to see how that woman got the bruise on her face? Sergeant asked whether she had been beaten, but she denied it.”

  “He hit her.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah, I’ll testify, if it gets that far.”

  “Oh, it’ll get far, believe me. That guy is easily up on assault and resisting arrest.”

  “Don’t count on it, officer. It’s a different world over there.”

  “Where’s ‘there’?” he said.

  “Langley. The land of make believe.”

  Seven weeks later

  Dennis stared down at the little dimpled ball as it sat nestled on a thin wood tee. After a second’s delay, he swung viciously, smacking the ball high into the air and down the fairway.

  “Hell of a drive there, Dennis,” Joe Parsons said leaning on his golf club.

  “How can you just disappear for a couple of months, come back slimmer and a much better golfer?” said Fergus McMaster, climbing into his golf cart.

  “I was able to clear my head,” Dennis said walking around the back of the cart and pushing his golf club into his bag. “Like, completely clear my head.”

  “Was it a yoga retreat? Something like that? Here in Australia?” Norman Cower said.

  “No. Las Vegas.”

  The three men laughed.

  “You didn’t say that!” Parson’s said. “Was Judy there too?”

  “Oh yeah. Wouldn’t dare go to sin city without her along for the ride.”

  “Well, congrats again on the engagement,” Cower said. “You and Judy make a bonza couple.”

  “Thanks,” Dennis said. “I couldn’t imagine being without that woman. She is one tough, extraordinary cookie.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying, mate, she’s one very attractive cookie,” Cower said.

  “That too,” Dennis said. “Every man needs a Judy.”

  She sat at the bar with both hands curled around the wine-glass stem and stared at Dennis.

  “How was golf today?”

  “Better than golf the day before,” he laughed.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind a small ceremony?” she said.

  “I could care less if was in St. Peter’s Basilica. I just want whatever you want.”

  “You’re so compliant.”

  “Well, when you get to spend some time with Chili in the Clark County House of Detention, your world view changes.”

  “If it means anything, you seem like a different person.”

  “I am a different person. I’ve come to the realization that my world was upside down. The people I believed in—like Peter Harbaugh—were bums. And people I distrusted—like Louise—were on the up and up.”

  “I feel bad for what happened to her,” Judy said, taking a sip of wine. “What an awful way to go.”

  “She was something else,” he said. “The agency is much worse off not having her around.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you have a thing for Louise? She was quite pretty.”

  “Did I have a thing for Louise?” he repeated. “Mmm. Well, I admit that I decided late in the game that I liked her if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, did you have a thing for Louise?”

  “By ‘thing,’ do you mean was I attracted to her?”

  “Yes. That kind of ‘thing.’”

  “I’ll admit to being a little attracted to her, but she was not my type. You’re my type. Why do you ask about Louise? What’s she got to do with us?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I got the feeling that you had a thing for her.”

  “You’re not allowed to drink any more wine until you stop with this nonsense,” he laughed, pushing her glass away.

  “Do you think you’ll be bored with me?” she said.

  “Yipes! What happened to you? What did I say to bring this on?”

  “I just wonder sometimes whether you’ll be satisfied in Perth. And with me.”

  He swiveled to look at her.

  “Judy, please stop this.” He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips.

  “I suppose I’m just insecure,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, but a woman who walked alone into Simpson’s house and came out in one piece is not insecure. I feel sick when I think of him and that woman trying to suffocate you. And to think that I wasn’t able to warn you about Harbaugh. God. As soon as Chili said the words ‘hard-ass’ in that damn jail cell, I remembered that’s how Harbaugh described his good friend Simpson.”

  “But in the end, it worked out, didn’t it?” Judy said. “If I
had suspected Harbaugh tipped Simpson off, I wouldn’t have gone through with it. And if I hadn’t gone through with it, we wouldn’t have the garbled confession recorded on my phone. And we wouldn’t have the box of ghastly souvenirs he kept, thanks to a tormented Broom-Hilda. And you might still be in jail with your friend Chili.”

  “Ah yes, Chili. I kinda miss the old guy.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. He had only two things on his mind: cigarettes and Big Macs. Can you imagine that? Just two things. What a perfectly simple and unified theory to life, cigarettes and Big Macs.”

  “You’ll never be a simple man,” she said, taking a sip of wine. “But I like that about you. Simple is boring. You’ll never be boring. Ever.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “A bloody good thing.”

  Acknowledgments

  While writing is a solitary task, publishing requires cooperation. This novel would not have been completed without the aid of several individuals, foremost my wife Denise. Her reading of earlier drafts was instrumental in identifying inconsistencies and plotting issues. As a licensed psychologist, Denise and my sister Kolleen Martin—also a licensed psychologist—provided background on HIPPA rules regarding patient notes, as well as other aspects of clinical outpatient and inpatient treatment. Lynne Gaines continues to be a strong proofreader and did an excellent job whipping the manuscript into Chicago Manual of Style shape. She pointed out, rightly so, that I have a “semi-colon problem,” and I have started treatment for this malady. Lastly, I’d like to thank retired Detective Phil Ramos of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. Ramos, a 33-year veteran of the LVMPD, was extremely helpful in detailing homicide investigatory procedures and other law enforcement practices in that unusual city in the desert.

  More from Keith Yocum

  Color of Blood

  (book 1 of the dennis cunningham series)

  Dennis is glad to be back at work. His wife’s death left him devastated but he’ll do anything to lose himself into work at the Inspector General’s office of the CIA. A brilliant, if prickly investigator, he’s spent his career chasing down the Agency’s thieves and liars. When his boss forces him to take a low-level assignment to investigate a missing employee in Australia, he soon finds that even in the red dust of the Outback, there is romance – and death – just a sweltering heartbeat away.