Color Of Blood

by Keith Yocum

  “I thought you said something went wrong?”

  “Well, for me it did. I really gave it to the station chief down there. I just went after him, scared the holy crap out of the guy. Accused him of everything I could think of.”

  “So?”

  “So he killed himself.” Dennis took a small sip of his single malt; the condensation on the outside of the glass dripped onto his shirt. “Idiot shot himself after the second long session with me.”

  “He must have been guilty then of something.”

  “No, we don’t think so,” Dennis said. “Hell, I thought he was a tough guy, but apparently he had some other stressful things going on in his life. He wrote a note. He said I told him his career was ruined, so he shot himself. Through his mouth.” Dennis raised his right hand in the shape of a pistol, stuck his rigid forefinger and index finger to the roof of his mouth, and dropped his thumb like it was the hammer.

  “Bang.”

  “But still, Dennis, he must have had a fragile personality. They couldn’t hold you responsible for that.”

  “Well, it was just that. They’d got complaints for years about me, then this thing. And later there was an incident in London.” Dennis shook his head and stared out to sea.

  How sad to see such a strong man struggling, Judy thought. Why couldn’t Phillip have talked in this way to me? Was it her fault or Phillip’s?

  “Dennis, do you have a family? I realized I know nothing about you, not that it’s any of my business.”

  “I have a grown daughter. She’s married and lives in California. I’m a widower. My wife died last year.” Denise spoke quickly, as if reciting a shopping list.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s OK. I’m back at work now. Everything’s fine.”

  Judy reached for her glass and took a long sip.

  “OK, your turn,” Dennis said suddenly, shifting in his seat.

  “Pardon?”

  The waitress stopped and asked if they’d like another round. For just a moment Judy waffled, but feeling the glow from the first glass and the unexpected interest from this intense, gruff, blue-eyed American, she capitulated.

  “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

  “You know, to be honest, you seem to have a lot of things on your mind,” Dennis said. “I mean I thought you were pissed off at me earlier today. And while that wouldn’t be so surprising, I couldn’t help but notice something else was bothering you. Or maybe it was just me you were pissed off about. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “I do have some other things going on in my life, but that’s private.”

  “Hey, I came clean,” Dennis said. “In fact, to be perfectly honest, Judy, I don’t remember the last time I just blurted that kind of stuff about my life to a near stranger. It’s your turn.”

  “Fine,” she said, looking at him and jutting her chin. “I just went through a divorce. It was not pleasant for me or my son.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Dennis shifted again in his seat.

  “No, it’s fine. I’m over it, or I like to think I am. My family is not quite coming to my defense, unfortunately.”

  “What’s wrong with your family?” he pressed.

  “Let’s just say they’re suggesting I told you so.”

  Dennis’s earlier meetings with Judy had been perfunctory and in keeping with his self-absorbed, focused investigative style. He’d barely noticed her. Now he began to examine her closely from behind his sunglasses. She was perhaps five feet six inches, he guessed. Her sandy-blonde hair was long, running down to the top of her shoulders. She wore bangs on her forehead that made her look like a schoolgirl.

  He could see just a few wrinkles around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She was, he decided, quite attractive, but he had not a single clue whether she was thirty-five years old or forty-five.

  “Do you know anything about the Vietnam War?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Did you know Australia fought alongside the United States there?”

  “Yes, I did. I gather they were excellent fighters.”

  “Do you know how many Australian soldiers died there?” she asked.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “There were four hundred fourteen combat deaths of Australian soldiers. My father was in the three hundreds.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “He was a military trainer, and he had married my mum right before he shipped out. I never knew my father, of course, but he managed to get Mum pregnant before he was shot down in a helicopter.”

  Although Dennis had encouraged her to speak about her background, the intimacy of her family tension bothered him. He could feel the waves crashing one hundred yards away, and he could make out two people laughing at a nearby table.

  “My mother remarried almost immediately,” Judy said. “He is my stepfather. My parents later had two girls, my stepsisters. We are a very close family. I attended school and went to university here in WA. That’s where I met Phillip, my former husband. He was very charming.”

  “What did you like about him?” Dennis asked.

  “Oh, the usual stuff. He was quite handsome and charismatic—and very smart.”

  “Your family didn’t like him?”

  “No, not really. My sister Annie, in particular, thought he was a little shady. Of course I was completely smitten. My mother didn’t want me to date Phillip, but I kept seeing him, anyway. I really fell in love with him.”

  She stopped talking and took a sip of wine.

  “I thought things were going well between Phillip and me,” Judy started again. “Our son was doted upon by my mother and sisters, of course. I mean, we had plenty of friends, went on trips together, did all the things a happy couple does. And then Phillip comes home from work one day about a year ago, sits down across from me at the kitchen table, and says he wants a divorce. Just like that—a divorce. My God, I thought I was going to faint. The bastard had fallen in love with one of the young women in his office. Just like that. Seventeen years of marriage gone just like that. And of course my mother and sisters have been insufferable since.”

  Dennis thought she might cry and wondered how he’d handle that, but she abruptly gathered herself.

  He was vaguely aware he should leave the subject alone, but the dominant curiosity gene that was buried deep in his DNA and had caused him so much awkwardness in life exhibited itself yet again.

  “Why did your family disapprove of Phillip?” Dennis persisted.

  “I suppose they saw something in him that I couldn’t,” she said. “I thought my mum was too judgmental and overly protective when she pointed out that Phillip seemed to exaggerate excessively. And she said he was too eager to please. What was the word she used? Unctuous. Yes, that was it, Unctuous.”

  “What did your stepfather say during all this?”

  “Actually, he kept pretty quiet,” Judy said. “I think being a stepparent is really difficult. I mean you’re not really the blood parent, but you are a parent and, well, it’s hard to find your place in the conversation, especially in my family with all the women. But to answer your question, I could tell that my stepfather thought my mum was correct, but he was not going to voice his opinion. I appreciated his tact at the time, but in the end, alas, they were right and I was wrong. He was a cad.”

  He did not know what to say. Should he be consoling or would that be patronizing? On the other hand, he couldn’t stay silent. In the space of fifteen minutes, she had divulged painful secrets and he did not know how to react. A cheating station chief, yes: a wounded and brittle woman, no.

  “Well, Judy, I don’t really know you that well, of course,” Dennis said, “but you don’t want to be part of a relationship with a man who acts like that. You’re an attractive woman with a full life to lead. You’ll get past this and be stronger for it. You’ll see.”

  Even before he finished speaking, Dennis had the sensation that another person was talking,
a body snatcher that had taken over his corporeal existence. Speaking in platitudes and offering inspirational advice to a woman in emotional distress was entirely alien to him. But even more perplexing was the fact that somewhere deep inside his brain, a micro-portion of dopamine had been released. It felt good to say nice things.

  Judy said suddenly, “I really must be going.”

  Dennis enjoyed the ride back to the hotel, sneaking long side glances at Judy.

  ***

  The phone rang, and he secretly hoped she would not answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Beth, this is Dad.”

  “How come you haven’t called me? You said you were going to call.”

  “Beth, why did you call Langley looking for me? You’ve never done that before. You can’t do that.”

  “I guess I was worried about you. You’ve been depressed, and I wanted to check on you.”

  “I’m fine, Beth. Really, I am. Please don’t worry.”

  “But the kind of work you do can be dangerous as well.”

  “Beth, I told you that the work I do is not dangerous. It’s really not. And please don’t call the Langley switchboard looking for me.”

  “OK,” she said.

  “Beth, I’m fine. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I don’t even know why I told you I’d call. I’ve never called you from the field.”

  “You never call me from anywhere.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  “Dad, I have the strangest feeling that you’re in danger.”

  “Oh God, Beth, please stop talking like that. I’m not Jason Bourne or James Bond. I told you I don’t do that kind of work. You’re making me wonder about the wisdom of telling you what I did for a living. You really can’t be calling the Agency looking for me. That’s very bad form. They don’t like stuff like that.”

  “Then call me when you say you’re going to.”

  “Beth, what’s got into you?”

  “Dad, I told you; I’m worried about you. I guess I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “We’re repeating ourselves.”

  “Don’t you dare get angry at me,” she said. “Why do you always have to sound so pissed off?”

  “Jeeze! I’ll call as soon as I get back to the States. I promise.”

  “Good.”

  “Good-bye, Beth.”

  “Good-bye, Dad.”

  Dennis stared at the phone like it was an unfamiliar object and slowly returned it to its cradle. He turned off the light and tried to sleep but found himself focusing again on the tiny blinking red diode on the ceiling smoke detector, a twinkling star full of discord and mystery.

  Chapter 12

  There was nothing suspicious about his behavior. In fact, Judy noted that he smiled willingly and enthusiastically every chance he got. She entered the airport security line directly behind him and tried her best to look nonchalant, even bored. She wore a black, pleated skirt, white silk blouse, and thin, yellow cotton cardigan buttoned together at the bottom to hide the nine-millimeter Glock she had holstered at the small of her back.

  The subject, Chenglei Wu, was a portly male in his fifties who made regular business trips between Perth and Singapore. Wu had been under surveillance for months by investigators from the Australian Crime Commission task force on money laundering. Judy was not convinced they had a strong enough case against Wu yet, but the ACC station chief in Perth was adamant about moving against him.

  As one of the few female agents in the AFP, Judy was often assigned to these cases. Initially she had resented being typecast as the “sheila investigator,” but soon realized that it also carried benefits, namely involvement in more complicated organized crime efforts and an opportunity to influence the investigation.

  Most of her male colleagues were clueless on the nuances of Chinese gangs and triads, and somehow felt that a female agent would create less suspicion. She did not think the triad members were that stupid, but the chance to be seen as useful by her bosses overcame her own concerns.

  Judy inched forward in the security line, toying with her fake boarding pass. Wu turned again and smiled. She flashed a restrained smile and quickly looked away. My God, he’s flirting with me, she thought. Behave yourself, Mr. Wu. You’re in enough trouble as it is.

  Wu placed his briefcase on the conveyor belt, took off his sports coat and folded it gently into a plastic tray, kicked off his loafers and placed them on the belt, and leisurely walked through the metal detector.

  Judy could see the two uniformed officers of the Australian Customs and Border Protection Service on the other side of the barrier standing with Clive Baker of the AFP strike force. Behind Judy were two more uniformed officers moving up quickly.

  Wu had made it through to the other side and was slipping on his shoes and sports coat while Judy quickly flashed her identification badge. The airport security personnel had been told there might be an intervention that morning.

  Judy stepped through the metal detector, and the alarm went off as it picked up the Glock. Wu, who had just finished getting re-dressed, looked up as the alarm went off. He and Judy locked eyes as she walked toward him; she saw his face harden to stone as he noticed the other officers stepping toward him.

  “Mr. Wu,” she said, “we’d like you to come with us, please. This will only take a minute.” Counting Judy, there were now four people surrounding Wu, with two additional uniformed officers on the other side of the metal detector blocking the exit.

  Baker put his hand on Mr. Wu’s wrist and said, “Please come this way.”

  Judy noticed that the only noise in that area of the airport was the mournful clanking of the conveyor belt; everyone—including passengers and airport screeners—was frozen as the scene played out. Perhaps it was a post-9/11 reaction, but Judy noticed that any police action at an airport seemed to work like a comic-book ray gun, freezing people in their tracks.

  The police led Wu down a long hallway into a brightly lit, sterile room where two more men stood waiting. The uniformed officers stayed outside while Judy, Baker, and the two new security personnel surrounded Wu. Judy was not convinced this intervention was going to turn up anything because the evidence of money laundering was not clear cut to her, but she dutifully stood directly behind Wu as one of the new officers said, “Mr. Wu, please take off your jacket.”

  Wu suddenly turned around, looked at Judy, and said in heavily accented English: “Very bad.”

  “Please remember I’m a police officer, Mr. Wu.”

  “You make very big mistake,” he said, and turned away, slowly taking off his jacket and handing it over.

  The currency was not in his jacket, nor his briefcase, but was stuffed in neat, flat plastic packets around Wu’s thighs into a knee-length racing swimsuit. Wu’s portly build and baggy slacks hid the bulge perfectly.

  Throughout the examination Wu said nothing. When they finished photographing everything, they handcuffed him and turned him over to the uniformed officers, who took him away.

  While they watched the two Customs officers count the currency, Baker asked, “What did he say to you, Judy?”

  “Wu?”

  “Yeah, I thought he said something.”

  “He said, ‘you make big mistake.’”

  They laughed.

  ***

  He knocked the phone off the bedside table as its ring roared him awake. He squinted at the strong morning glare.

  “Yes,” he said hoarsely.

  “Is this Mr. Cunningham?” a woman inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “Um, Mr. Cunningham, this is Jillian Carter.”

  “Jillian Carter?” he said. “Do I know a Jillian Carter?”

  “Of course you do. I work at the consulate. You interviewed me.”

  “Oh yes, I remember,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  “When you interviewed me the other day, I forgot to tell you something.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. At the
time I wasn’t sure I should bring it up. But, like, I think I should tell you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what is it?” He looked at the clock radio. It showed 6:42 a.m.

  “It’s kind of delicate, actually,” she said.

  “OK. Go as slow as you want.”

  “Well, it’s about Geoff.”

  “OK.”

  “Um, Geoff was kind of, like, really moral, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t know what you mean, Miss Carter.”

  “He was high-minded, if that makes any sense. He didn’t like people being taken advantage of: stuff like that. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, one of my jobs at the consulate was to cover for the CG’s secretary, Janice, when she was out.”

  “OK.”

  “And I did a lot of that because she went on holiday a while back. Anyway, one afternoon I made a big mistake on a report the CG was completing. I accidentally left out a whole paragraph that the CG had written. It was, like, a terrible mistake. But I wasn’t used to typing up huge reports, and I’m not even a good typist, anyway. They just told me to cover for Janice, and I did it.”

  “OK, Miss Carter. I think I’m with you so far.”

  “Well, the report was completed, and I made ten copies, and we sent it out. Well, it turns out that the paragraph that I messed up on was, like, the central conclusion the CG was making. I mean it was a huge problem when he discovered it. And he was really, really angry. He accused me of being incompetent and yelled at me for like ten minutes in front of two other people. I could have died. And of course I cried.”