Phipps bit down hard on the pipe stem. “Remind me—how long have they been married?”
“Right at eight or nine years, maybe ten.”
“Mercy, mercy,” said Phipps. “You might think about getting a puppy. That’s what I did when I had the feeling I was falling for Louise and needed some time to come to terms with it. Same emotions. I was crazy for that dog. I cried for a week when he died.”
They were both silent for a moment. Phipps’ looks were unfortunate. His ears stuck out, his face was lopsided, his Adam’s apple was big enough to make two pies and a batch of applesauce on the side, and he was thin to emaciation—yet he owned some kind of pervading karma that drew women to him like a magnet. Caburn had noticed this the very few times somebody upstairs remembered they existed and they had been invited to a Christmas party or a black tie reception for an incoming or outgoing Secretary of State. Phipps’ wife, Louise, had also noticed, and once home, in a fit of domestic jealousy, shot him in the leg.
Phipps had made two acidic comments about the incident: “Who’d a thought it,” he’d said with a sense of wonder the day Caburn had picked him up from the hospital; and later, when he’d set his crutches aside and lowered himself into the chair behind his desk, he’d spoken with an inverted sense of pride. “You’ll notice that Louise took great care where she aimed.”
Now Phipps was studying Caburn with a critical eye. “Listen Frank, this ain’t an Ann Landers situation.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Just stay with it. I’ve got to look at another goofball—an embassy staffer unlocked this guy’s security bracelet and noticed he was wearing a Rolex.”
Caburn put his right hand over his left wrist.
“Oh, it isn’t like the dinky Rolex you wear, Frank. His is a Submariner; costs a bit over 230,000.”
“Dollars?” Caburn asked, awed.
“Yep. And he hasn’t won the lottery, been in line for an inheritance, or won big at a casino, plus his wife doesn’t work. And here’s the Big Stupid. During his initial interview he admitted he smoked marijuana and dabbled in cocaine in college. He told the interviewer he was a big boy now and didn’t do those sorts of childish things anymore—so the powers that be counted him honest.” Phipps snorted. “He carries to Mexico City, Panama, and Bogotá. On the way home he flashes his State Department ID and passes through customs like a will-o-wisp. Who eats stupid for breakfast? Them or me?”
Caburn decided to try one more time. “Let’s trade, Albert. You take Nesmith; I’ll take the goofball.”
“No way. I’ll have my guy’s arse in a crack by tomorrow afternoon. I’m taking Friday off to do my Christmas shopping so I can relax with a good book this weekend. I’ve got the new Clive Cussler/Dirk Pitt adventure. Let me tell you—that man knows his cars. Now, go make yourself useful. And, close the door on your way out—I can’t stand the sound of Helen filing her nails.”
But Helen wasn’t filing her nails. She had her nose in a steamy romance novel. Caburn cleared his throat to get her attention. She didn’t look up.
“I know you’re there, Frank. I can hear you breathing.”
“Helen, could we be friends, for say—twenty minutes?”
“No.”
“Could I bribe you with lunch—anywhere on this side of the Potomac you want to go.”
“That little French restaurant that’s gotten all the rave reviews?”
Caburn never read restaurant reviews. He read the front page, sports page and comics. “Sure. But, you’ll have to drive. I forgot my wallet this morning.”
“Ha, ha. Frank—how’re you gonna pay for lunch if you forgot your wallet?” She glanced at the computer screen—it was still booting—and went back to her book.
Caburn spun around and re-entered Phipps’ office without knocking. “I need a favor, Albert. Can you loan me a hundred bucks? I’m treating Helen to lunch.”
“It doesn’t cost a hundred to eat in the cafeteria.”
“I’m taking her out.”
“You mean in public—where other people can see you?” He mouthed: “With her?”
Caburn nodded. “I left my wallet at home.”
Phipps had the urge to say: They only let Dobermans in restaurants if they’re seeing eye dogs, but his door was open and Helen had ears that could hear a sneeze around a corner and a mile away. That Helen was good friends with his wife didn’t mean a thing. It meant everything. He took out his wallet and dug some folded twenties from behind a cracked plastic insert. The money smelled of old dust and green mold. It looked older even than Helen.
Caburn unfolded the bills. “Good God, Albert—these are Silver Certificates. They haven’t been issued since...since...”
“…1923,” called Helen.
Caburn rolled his eyes heavenward.
Confused, Albert said: “They spend like real money, don’t they?”
“They are real money. The money we use today isn’t real money. I can’t take these. Just write me a check. On our way we’ll stop at the bank and cash it.”
Phipps managed an embarrassed smile. “I don’t have the check book. Louise keeps it.”
“Oh. Uh, well, thanks, Albert. I’ll make up to you.”
“Sure, sure. Just remember; constant surveillance on this Nesmith thing. And use your best judgment.”
~~~~
“This is more than delightful,” said Helen once the maître’d had helped her off with her coat and seated them.
Caburn glanced at the menu and began to have palpitations. “Uh, Helen...”
“I know—the prices are steep. I’ll cover what you don’t have. You can pay me tomorrow. I’m just so happy to have this experience. It’s hard to remember there’s life outside our basement.”
Helen had chosen the iCi Urban Bistro on 15th Street. It was well lit with a trendy, energetic atmosphere. Caburn found he liked it. Even sitting across from Helen did not distract from the ambiance. In the far regions of his mind he was thinking: This would be a great place to bring Anna Nesmith.
When the waiter returned they both ordered the jumbo lump crab and avocado salad appetizer. Caburn had never eaten crab in his life. He was thinking of the stove in Anna’s kitchen, certain it was not used to can tomatoes. This was a good time to broaden his palate. Helen added escargots in garlic sauce. Snails sounded so much like kuru, Caburn couldn’t look at them.
“Do you think we could share a bottle of wine, Frank?”
He glared at her. “For god’s sake, Helen, we are not on a date.”
Helen glared back.
“Okay, maybe a half-bottle. You’re driving, remember.”
There were no half bottles on offer. Helen chose a full bottle of Argentinean Tempranillo, which to Caburn’s amazement actually went wonderfully well with the Angus Beef Burger and hand cut fries he ordered as an entree. Helen kept with the snails—ordering them with basil in pasta. Caburn had a buzz on by the time Helen finished dessert and he ordered coffee.
“Okay, Frank.” Helen issued a sigh that was almost sensual. “What do you need?”
“I need to know how to bank online.”
“You are kidding me.”
“I’m not.”
“And how to pay my bills online and how to transfer funds. And, ummm—I sort of need you to go with me to choose a laptop with all the bells and whistles. And I need a Wi-Fi service.”
“Frank, I know for a fact that you graduated at the top of your class in political science at Kansas State—”
“Uh, uh. Don’t go there. That was an accident. I took all those government courses so I wouldn’t have to take biology, calculus, physics and all those earth sciences—which had nothing at all to do with earth, but plotting the speed of light and all those parallel universes and trying to figure out the Theory of Everything. I’m from a farming family, Helen. The only earth science we care about is the weather and crop rotation. We can get that from the Farmer’s Almanac—God Bless Benjamin Franklin. I mean—stars are stars
. You look up at night and there they are. Who cares if they get sucked into a black hole?”
“You are being disingenuous, Frank. You must know how to use a computer.”
“I do—I used them in college. We had them in the library and the tech room.” He’d written all of his term papers on an old Royal that he’d gotten in the ninth grade. He loved that machine. There was something wonderful about having to use pressure and power to make the keys clickity-clack. He hadn’t had to worry about learning word processing, saving to floppiess, or memory sticks, formatting disks, or a screen going blank when he hit the wrong key. “Here’s something else—on the Nesmith thing. Could Nesmith transfer funds out of his personal account while he’s on a drop?”
“Sure—but with restrictions. What I mean is—he’d probably have to use an internet café. The particular computer he used would have to download the bank’s security program. It wouldn’t matter if the bank was on the Isle of Wight or in the US, the security program would have to be installed in the computer he used. Don’t be fooled by all those tales of some guy walking into an internet café in Amsterdam and transferring a million dollars out of an account in the Bahamas to a numbered Swiss account. It doesn’t happen that way.”
“How long would it take to download the security program?”
“Two minutes, perhaps five probably, but he still couldn’t—”
“Would his wife be able to tell?”
“If she knows his password. Bank sites, e-mails, instant messaging—all are password protected. In addition, you have to be careful of phishing.”
“Fishing? What in hell does fishing have to do with computers?”
“Let’s pay the bill, Frank. I’m getting a headache.”
“Well, that’s good news. I don’t have to worry about being dragged back to your brownstone, and ravaged.”
“You are so not funny, Frank. And you do, too, have a bald spot.”
“It was really nice being friends with you, Helen. We’ll have to do it again.”
Caburn was smiling. Wonder of wonders, so was Helen. Except on Helen a smile looked like she had gas.
CHAPTER THREE
A fog was rolling in as Anna drove home from work on salted streets—but it wasn’t so dense it hid areoles of Christmas lights and the decorations on the street lamps. Seen from a distance the towering tree on the White House lawn sparkled; there was bouncy Christmas music on the radio and she discovered she was beginning to get into the Christmas spirit. Usually she and Kevin went together to get their tree. Well, she didn’t have to wait on him. She’d shop for it, decorate it, and present it as fait accompli.
When she pulled up in front of her house, Frank Caburn was leaning against his car, his hands gloved, his arms folded into each other, trying to keep warm perhaps. She could see traces of his breath in the frosty air. Now, what? Her good mood plunged.
“Hey, there,” he said, smiling. “I thought I’d drop by to see how you were doing.”
“You said you would call first.” Anna clicked the remote to lock her car, walked around it, and headed toward her front door. Oh, no, there was Clara-Alice peeking between the blinds, back to her usual paranoid self.
“Phone’s dead. I forgot to charge it.”
“There are landlines,” she threw over her shoulder.
“Uh, Anna, I have some news.”
She stopped and turned to face him, and stood very still, bracing herself. He took a few steps in her direction. He was tall, above six feet. She had been so self-absorbed and distracted last night she had only peripherally noticed his height. Of course, she had noticed his exceptionally fine looks. But he had brought some serious worry into her life and her focus had been on that.
Last night she had known instinctively that Frank Caburn was a threat to Kevin. With a sense of self-revelation, she realized the man was an ancient, more common risk to herself. She appreciated a sexy looking man in a magazine or on the street—but Caburn was too-close sexy—in her space sexy. Yes, she had considered having an affair, especially when arguments with Kevin ran into days; more so when he gave her the silent treatment and turned his back to her in bed. Consideration had been as far as it went.
The problem was there were no suitable men at work. Her male colleagues were much older, married, obese, or gay. Her female colleagues were the same, well maybe not gay. They did not go out for drinks after such brain-draining work. Even if there had been a colleague to flirt with, she would not have jeopardized her job. She had the urge, but not the man. Now here was a man—and she discovered herself backpedaling.
His vicuna overcoat was unbuttoned to reveal a dark suit, a blue shirt, and a striped tie loosened at his collar. Unlike last night, today he was clean-shaven and the woodsy scent of his aftershave bespoke of cozy evenings spent on soft rugs before a roaring fire. Her mind took it to another level and added a very good burgundy wine.
Erase the thought, she told herself and took a deep breath. “What news?”
He glanced briefly at the break in her window blinds. “Here’s what I was thinking: Maybe we could go somewhere...uh, somewhere neutral.” He caught her look of skepticism. “No, no—nothing like that.”
“I have things to do. I’m going shopping for my tree.”
“Well, listen. Let’s catch a bite to eat and I’ll help you pick one up. I haven’t done a fun thing like Christmas tree shopping since I’ve been in D.C.”
“Did I mention that I’m thirty-four years-old?”
“I think so.”
“Then why do you think I can’t see how transparent you are?”
What was she talking about? “Yeah—I know.” He looked genuinely dejected. “It’s a flaw in my character. I was born with it. I’ve never been able to put one over on my sisters. They see right through me.”
He brushed his hand over his head and Anna remembered his hat. She considered his invitation. She considered Clara-Alice. She considered her marriage. All of her life she’d given a wide berth to trouble. But trouble had landed on her doorstep and there wasn’t anyone she could ask for advice. She sometimes talked to her mother, but her mother was dead and did not talk back. It was up to her. Something was missing in her life. She wanted what she was missing, even if she could only look at it.
“All right,” she relented, while her head and her hormones sent different messages. “But everything has to be open and above board.” That way maybe I won’t do something stupid.
“Way open,” he replied. “None other. This is government business—like I told you last night night.”
“I’ll have to check on my mother-in-law,” and freshen up. She pointed to Lila Hammond’s house. “I think my neighbor may have found your hat. Her name is Hammond.”
Clara-Alice opened the door before Anna could turn the knob. “Is he coming in?”
“No. I don’t think that’s a good idea. He has something to talk to me about Kevin’s situation. I’m going to have a cup of coffee with him.”
“Anna! Is that wise?”
“Probably not. But I’m so anxious about Kevin. He said he’s got some news. I’m loath to leave you alone, though. Why don’t you call Lila to come over?”
“Well, actually, I’m going over to Lila’s. We didn’t make the movies today, so we’re playing Scrabble tonight.”
“Do you want me to walk you over?”
“No. I—I’m... I’ve been thinking all day. I’m tired of being scared and confused all of the time. I used to be so independent. I find I’m missing that.”
“Well, it wasn’t an easy thing you went through. I’ll help any way I can.”
“Lila is twenty years older than I am and she’s still driving. I’d like to get my driver’s license back.”
“We can do that. But...we ought to wait for good weather, good road conditions.”
“Oh. You’re right. If I skidded into a car or light post, that would put paid to it, wouldn’t it? Well, I’ll just get my coat and key. Don’t forget to lock
up. Oh. Forget I said that.”
Less than fifteen minutes later, Anna stepped through her door and faltered. Her face flushed hot and thick. Caburn was wearing his hat. It sat on his head at a rakish angle, the brim dipped just so. Sex personified. Her hormones began to bounce around like jellybeans in a microwave. She didn’t have a sprig of hope she could resist the man if he didn’t keep his word—open and above board.
“I almost had to dance a jig to get my hat back from Mrs Hammond,” he told her. “I had to promise I’d come back and eat her meatloaf one night.”
“She’s a pistol—and you can’t go wrong eating her meatloaf. It’s terrific.” He ushered her into his car, and headed toward downtown, taking almost the same route Anna did every day to work. After he passed a couple of restaurants and a Starbucks, she felt a spike of alarm. “Where are we going?”
“There’s this French restaurant that’s really gotten raves, iCi Urban Bistro, I thought—”
“What! I’m not dressed for a place like that.” She still wore her fitted slacks suit, the low-heeled boots, her only bling a pair of small gold earrings. She wore her wedding band, and on her right hand a pearl ring. She‘d redone her makeup and added a splash of Chanel—but that was ordinary—not glamour.
“Sure you are.” You look delicious. “It’s just going to be an after work crowd. The food’s great, and I’m starving. Please say you don’t mind. If you do, I’ll turn around and hit the nearest fast food joint.”
Anna thought about it. “All right—but if I see one woman in there dressed to the nines, we’re leaving.”
Good lord. Didn’t this woman have clue? She could wear a potato sack, and be the envy of every woman this side of the Mississippi river. Caburn had left work early, driven home before the rush hour, showered, shaved, grabbed his wallet and his checkbook, and made it to the bank to cash a check before they closed. He was searching his brain for small talk when Anna pre-empted him.
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