Spilled Blood

by Michael R. Davidson

She was horrified to think Strachey had brought her home and laid her on the sofa, but then hazily recalled Amy with her arm supporting her leading to the elevator and the apartment. Amy. If there was anyone she should have spilled her guts to, it was sweet, gentle Amy and not her husband. Strachey was her boss, and certain rules of conduct applied, even if they were friends.

  A great big bubble of anxiety was filling her chest, and she nearly screamed to release the pressure. With relief she remembered it was Saturday, so she would not have to go into the office. She resolved not to step outside the apartment today or maybe ever.

  The phone rang, and she trudged back to the living room. The caller I.D. told her it was Amy. She almost didn’t answer, but that would be churlish, so she lifted the receiver. “Amy?”

  “Yes. I’m just calling to check on you. Are you OK? Do you need anything?” Amy’s voice was full of concern, and Krystal wondered how much Strachey had told her about their conversation.

  “I’m OK,” she said, “but a little hung over, which should be no surprise to you. Thanks for getting me home. I’m so sorry and ashamed.”

  “We all have those days, Krystal, and I gave Bob a dressing down for opening that bottle at the office. If you need to talk about anything you know I’m here for you.” Of course, Strachey told her everything.

  “Thanks, Amy, but I think I’ve said enough already. I’ll be all right.”

  “Well, you know where I am. You’re important to us, dear, and a friend. It’s what friends are for. It’s a standing offer.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks again, Amy. Er, how’s Bob?” Anything to change the subject.

  Amy laughed. “Oh, he’s still asleep, or unconscious might be a better term. I can’t wait for him to wake up. I’ll make his life miserable.”

  “He’ll be miserable without any help, judging from the way I feel.”

  Amy laughed again. “He’s supposed to drive us all up to Asheville for lunch today. A promise is a promise.”

  “Maybe you should do the driving, especially if he feels the way I do. I don’t plan to leave the apartment for a couple of days. I think I’ll just go to bed and sleep it off.” She wondered if the trip to Asheville might also serve for Strachey to have a look at the home for girls Gavenia had told her about. Strachey liked to mix work with play.

  “We’ll see,” said Amy. “You take good care of yourself, and don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

  Krystal replaced the receiver. Her hair was still damp, so she returned to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror with the blow dryer, staring into her own eyes as she combed out her hair. She never wore much make-up and decided to go without it entirely today, not wanting to take the time to put it on. She picked out jeans and an American University T-shirt, slipped on some flip-flops and returned to the living room.

  It was nearing noon. Maybe it was not such a good idea to sit alone and brood. The break-up with Ray plagued her, filling her with indecision that made it impossible for her to leave it behind. Alcohol had certainly not helped, exposing personal pain she would have preferred to keep hidden. She would get over it eventually, she believed, but last evening had ripped the scab from her wound and set her back.

  Ray had freed her from the creeping loneliness of spinsterhood and checked a box on the normalcy side of the ledger. She was not the unpredictable lone wolf, unapproachable and cold. She was as capable of a romantic relationship as any woman. But in the end had she taken Ray for granted? Was it fair to think he would always be there, waiting for her without complaint? She knew it wasn’t, but what did that say about her? Was she so selfish, so self-absorbed, so needful to be in command that she was incapable of committing to a relationship and everything that entailed? No. That was a comfortable illusion. The world did not revolve around her. Ray had every right to expect more.

  And if this were so, what were her true feelings about him? Was he nothing more than a convenience, an outlet for her sexual needs to be at her beck and call? Ray was a normal human being, and more, a real man with needs and expectations of his own to which he had every right.

  The break-up was entirely her fault, and its inevitability should have been evident from the beginning if she had been honest with herself. She would have to learn how to live with that or change. And if she could not change the implications for her future frightened her.

  CHAPTER 22

  Monday morning, they gathered again in Strachey’s office. Amy noticed that Strachey and Krystal avoided looking at one another. She assumed this initial mutual embarrassment would pass as the day progressed. Her husband had not fulfilled his promise to drive the family to Asheville on Saturday, which had put Thomas Jefferson Dawson in a peculiar mood that vacillated between disappointment and hilarity.

  She had important information to share with the group which should set something in motion - she wasn’t sure what. “If you recall,” she used the phrase with delicious mischievousness, drilling her husband with a look, “I told you on Friday that I broke Pushkin’s encryption system. What I uncovered was a pile of bank documents that will require some analysis if we are to understand them. This might take some time as I’m not an accountant. And there’s another problem. These documents belong to the bank. They’re all marked confidential. Is it legal for us to keep them?”

  The bank doesn’t know we have them,” said Strachey, “and what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

  Amy wasn’t so sure. “It might hurt if it shows something significant about bank operations, or it could come back to bite us you know where.”

  Strachey rubbed his chin. “I dunno,” he said. “It depends.”

  “Depends on what?” asked Amy.

  “Well,” said Strachey, “we didn’t acquire the documents from the bank. We got them from Pushkin’s thumb drive. The way I see it, it’s just like a reporter getting an inside tip, like the Pentagon Papers. The guy who leaked could be prosecuted, but the newspaper gets off Scot free. Pushkin’s dead, so they can’t do anything to him.”

  Amy chewed on this for a few beats. “OK, yeah, but what about Julian Assange?”

  “Assange acted as a spy. He didn’t behave like a journalist.”

  “Well,” replied Amy, “We don’t even know what the documents mean yet. It could be a lot of nothing.”

  “Or,” interjected Krystal, “it could be what got Pushkin killed.”

  “The documents are mostly spreadsheets and financial statements,” said Amy. “We need to find someone who can make sense of them.”

  “Maybe we already have someone,” said Strachey. He punched a button on the intercom and asked Ruth to join them. Turning to Amy and Krystal, he said, “Ruth spent years handling Division finances and more. They even sent her to a course on finance, and she ended up getting her degree. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try. I wouldn’t like to have to look for an accountant outside the office, especially on this case.”

  When she was filled in, Ruth was enthusiastic. “Well, my goodness,” she drawled, “it’s about time I had somethin’ really interestin’ to do around here. I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

  “But a very pretty face you are, Ruth,” said Strachey with a broad smile, the first time he’d looked relaxed since Friday night.

  Krystal still had doubts about Ruth, but she kept them to herself. Who knows? The damned spooks are always full of surprises. It seemed odd to think that this plump, middle-aged lady who favored pastels as a fashion choice and spoke like everyone’s idea of a southern belle, if a somewhat fading one, had spent a lifetime in the murky world of espionage. It was something Krystal could never have endured because she abhorred ambiguity, and obscurantism was the prime rule of the spooks. The world for Krystal was dichotomous, black and white, right or wrong, and she was certain that spies somewhere along the line lost the ability to distinguish between the two.

  “What do you think we should be doing while Ruth goes over the documents,” she asked.

 
; Strachey scratched his chin, then said, “We should check out this Raymond Yang fellow. We know nothing about him except that he works at H.P.H. Bank. Where does he live? Is he living beyond his means? How long has he been with H.P.H. and what are his responsibilities there?” He turned to Amy. “Sweetie, can you run a check on him? We need a picture, from driver’s license records if all else fails, and we need an address. And see if you can get into the bank’s database, see if there’s something there we can use.”

  Amy frowned. “The bank won’t be easy, and it’s not quite kosher, but I think I can do it.”

  He replied, “As long as you don’t get caught.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I won’t get caught. I’ll route the inquiry through all sorts of servers. Even if they detect the hack, which they shouldn’t even discover, they won’t be able to trace it to us.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Krystal remained silent, but she was thinking, What the hell are we doing? It’s as though breaking the law simply doesn’t matter. They were using stolen bank documents, and now they planned to hack into a private server. Everything she had stood for as a police officer screamed at her that this was wrong, but Strachey and Amy didn’t bat an eye at the idea of illegality so long as it got them what they wanted. And what was worse, she was part of it. She was a lawbreaker. In her experience, once someone stepped over that line, there was no going back, and it led to even greater violations and the risks they entailed.

  And this led her back to exactly what she wanted to avoid - thoughts of Ray Velazquez and the life they might have made together in Miami. She could still be a police officer doing what she had trained and worked so hard to be.

  But what could she do? Report what they were doing to Captain Curry? No. It would be unthinkable to betray her friends. There was no choice at this point but to go with the flow and hope for the best.

  Strachey had known her long enough to read the indecision in her face. “Krystal, you seem concerned about something. Remember, what we are doing here is all in-house. Nothing will escape these walls. You’re concerned about the way we’re going about things, but we’re not the police. We’re not lawyers. We’re an investigative agency, and we work with all the tools at our disposal. Yes, occasionally we cut some legal corners, and there is a slight risk, but we’re very good at what we do, and we do nothing without careful consideration.

  Krystal’s lips formed a wry smile. “Nobody ever thinks they’ll be caught,” she said.

  No one said a word until Amy spoke up in a quiet voice. “You know, the guy might have a Facebook or Twitter account. Who doesn’t these days? We may have been getting ahead of ourselves. And don’t you think we should find out what’s in the bank documents we have already before we try breaking into the bank’s records? I’ll try open sources first. Krystal is right to be cautious. We’re not with the Government any longer.”

  Strachey’s brow furrowed in what Krystal suspected was momentary chagrin, but then he nodded and said, “OK. Try it that way. But if it doesn’t work, we’ll have to re-think it.” Turning to Krystal, he asked with a trace of sarcasm, “All better now?”

  She returned his stare coldly. “Maybe ‘we’ll have to re-think it,’” she mimicked Strachey’s voice and immediately regretted it because it sounded petty and rash. She turned abruptly on her heel and strode out of the office leaving three open mouths in her wake.

  CHAPTER 23

  Krystal closed her office door and leaned against the frame with her eyes closed. Strachey’s sarcastic comment echoed in her ears. She sat heavily at her desk and put her face in her hands. What’s the matter with me? It’s the same everywhere. No matter what she did or where she worked, she somehow always managed to question procedural orders and alienate superiors.

  It had to be more than just what her mother called her “Irish.” She was convinced it was some sort of deep-seated character flaw she found impossible to overcome. She had been fortunate in the past to survive her contretemps, even to triumph, but that was of little comfort now. She may have alienated her friend.

  A soft knock at her office door intruded on her self-recriminations. Normally, it was agreed that a closed door meant no interruption, and she was surprised. There was another knock, more insistent this time. She quickly composed her face. “Come in,” she said, holding her voice steady.

  Robert Strachey stood for a moment at the threshold studying her before he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He took a seat in front of her desk before speaking, his voice strained with repressed emotion. “Krystal, I know you’re upset, and I’ve come to apologize to you. You were right to be concerned about where we were heading with the investigation, and I want you to know that I … we all appreciate it. In fact, it’s one of the reasons we feel so good about having you with us. I did tell you to be up front with me, after all. You have experience we do not, and we need you to hold us back when it looks like we might be going over a cliff. Every office needs a conscience, and we’re very fortunate to have you.”

  Her throat constricted, and she was unable to speak for a few beats. “Thanks, Bob,” she began, “I’m sorry. Things have been a little crazy lately.” Her voice faltered.

  “You have no reason to apologize,” he said. “Amy and I understand, and we’re here for you. You know that, I hope.”

  All she could do was nod and choke out, “Thanks.” She couldn’t meet his eyes, embarrassed by her uncharacteristic emotionalism.

  Strachey left, closing the door softly behind him.

  She sat unmoving for a long time letting the silence seep in and fill her until calmness returned. “We’re here for you” Strachey had said and meant it. Her normal practice when feeling stress was to isolate it, drop it into a dark pit until it fell so far that it could be forgotten. This time, she had been unable to do so. Instead, she had sought relief in a bottle.

  Maybe she was not so alone, after all, though the space once occupied by Velazquez remained a painful hollow in her chest. If she continued along this path, she would end up a lonely and bitter person, like Padruig Nessmith, almost entirely unwilling or incapable of relating to other people. She could not allow that to happen. Lord, I’m becoming maudlin. I’m doing this to myself. It’s got to stop.

  The preceding week had taken its toll and led to today’s blow-up in Strachey’s office. She resolved not to let it happen again.

  CHAPTER 24

  By Wednesday Amy had collected enough data on Wang to call a meeting. Ruth had been working on Pushkin’s documents for the past two days. At ten A.M. they gathered around the mahogany table in the conference room. Ruth made coffee for everyone and a cup of tea for herself.

  “There is no lack of information from open sources on Yang,” announced Amy. “There’s a photo and short biography on the bank’s webpage where he’s listed as an Executive Vice President, and his wife is active on Facebook. According to the phone book and a check on Google Earth, he has a nice house out in Elizabeth. He was born in California.” She turned to Krystal who was still not completely familiar with Charlotte geography. “Elizabeth is a suburb a little east of town. His Facebook account shows he’s married with two kids.” She passed around a photo she had downloaded from the Internet. It showed a young-looking man of Chinese descent in a business suit giving a closed mouth smile to the camera.

  Strachey’s interest was piqued. “He’s an Executive Vice President? That must be pretty high up in the bank’s food chain.”

  Amy nodded. “He’s probably making two hundred K a year plus benefits.”

  Strachey gave a low whistle. “So, we have a bank muckety-muck like this phoning a relatively low-level employee who’s been with the bank only a year and making threats. That’s interesting, especially when you put it together with Pushkin transferring data to a thumb drive and taking it home. What was Pushkin up to?”

  “Depending on what’s on the thumb drive, maybe he was thinking of blackmailing Yang,” said Amy with a glance at Rut
h.

  “Could be,” said Strachey, “That would be a strong motive for murder. But DeLorenzo described Pushkin as a very honest guy. His disgust at corruption was the reason he defected. Blackmail would be out of character.”

  “And would someone in his situation take the risk of breaking the law after so short a time in the country?” asked Krystal. “I think it’s more likely he wanted to protect the information.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Strachey. “Whatever is on the thumb drive meant ‘serious trouble’ for Yang, according to Natasha. Maybe trouble so serious it could be a motive for murder.”

  “So,” asked Krystal, “you think the CIA and the feebies are chasing a wild goose?”

  “That’s another question entirely,” said Strachey. “They’re deadly serious about Russian illegals and claim they have some corroborative information. Running a dragnet over the entire Southeast is a big, expensive deal, probably involving hundreds of FBI agents. So, we can’t discount the possibility that they’re onto something real.”

  “I might have something.” They had nearly forgotten that Ruth Scatterfield was sitting at the table with them and were startled when she spoke up. All of them turned curious eyes toward her, while she took a dainty sip of tea.

  “What’s that, Ruth?” asked Strachey.

  “Well,” she pronounced it ‘way-ul’ with a sweet Carolina lilt. “I’ve been going through the documents from the thumb drive. Mr. Yang is the chief trader in the bank’s Investment Office. I looked up what such offices do, and it seems they are responsible for limitin’ the bank’s risk through investments, sort of like a hedge fund. It’s a way to protect the bank from unexpected losses as well as add to the bottom line.”

  “You mean the bank invests in the stock market?” asked Krystal.

  “In a way,” replied Ruth. “Mostly they play it high and wide in the derivatives market. And that can be dangerous, of course.”

  “How so?” asked Krystal. She had no idea how derivatives worked.