A Thin Veil

by Jane Gorman

“Oh?” Sam asked, knowing Marshall wanted him to.

  “Time was, Lisa used to be the wife of a small business owner. Construction.” Marshall ducked his head modestly. “Then she was the wife of a large business owner. And then she ran for Senate.”

  “You built up your own business?”

  Marshall’s face lit up with the memory. “From nothing. I had skills in construction, some experience. I knew people. I knew how to run a business. Only a few years in, I was getting the best business in town, government contracts, that sort of thing.”

  Marshall’s eyes were on Sam, but Sam could tell his mind was far away. Remembering past successes. Past glories. “That’s a competitive field, isn’t it?” Sam asked. “I’m sure you pissed off a lot of people. Can you think of anyone from your background who may have waited until now to get back at you?”

  Marshall laughed, a deep, comfortable sound. “I made millions. I made enough that I could bankroll my wife’s Senate campaign.” He raised his eyebrows as if surprised by his own accomplishments. “From a school nurse to member of city council in a podunk little town to a United States senator.”

  “Senator Marshall’s background in nursing was always part of her campaigns. A trained medical professional with people’s best interest at heart. It’s a long way from nursing to U.S. senator, though.”

  Marshall’s smile thinned. “Yes, I made a lot of people angry.” He responded to Sam’s previous question, ignoring the comments about his wife’s background.

  Sam waited, hoping for more. Waiting for Marshall to consider his past.

  “No one who would do this,” Marshall finally said. “Men who sued me, sure. Most lost. Some won.” he gave Sam a meaningful look. “I wasn’t a monster, Agent Burke. I was raised to respect the system, follow the rules.”

  “Strong family values, that sort of thing?”

  “Why not? Family’s important to me, Agent Burke. I was my parents’ only child. I relied on them, then they relied on me.”

  “I get that, Mr. Marshall. I know the value of family.”

  “Do you?” Marshall raised an eyebrow then looked away, across the coffee shop. “I did the right thing by my parents, despite… well, we all have some negative memories, too, don’t we?” He shook his head as if shaking off the memories and took a sharp breath. “When it came to my business dealings, I followed the same rules. When I screwed up, I admitted to it. I was honest. Always.”

  “It’s not easy being honest once you’re involved in politics though, is it?”

  Marshall shook his head. “No. Politics is not an honest business.” He smiled again, the glint back in his eyes. “I’m still an honest person. We knew how things would look — my connections, my business. My money helped get Lisa her position, sure, but I wasn’t going to be part of the game.” He swallowed the last of his coffee and grimaced. “I sold it.”

  “Your business?” Sam asked, surprised.

  “All of it. I wasn’t so sure when Lisa suggested it, but I’ll tell you, it was a good idea. I made a tidy profit and now we don’t need to worry about how things look.” Marshall dropped his cup on the table. “I don’t want anyone accusing me of bias. Of corruption.”

  Sam ducked as another patron bumped into his chair from behind. He glanced around, but the young man was already moving on to an empty table against the wall. No apologies. He was used to rudeness. It didn’t bug him anymore.

  “Do you miss it?” Sam asked Marshall.

  Marshall shrugged and frowned. “Sure. Of course.” He gestured toward Sam with his chin. “You live in DC, you know how things are here. There’s only one way to get things done in this town. My wife is doing good. Finally. Changing the world for the better. Influencing people, that’s what she’s good at.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t give that up for anything.”

  “Hmm.” Sam considered Marshall’s words, frowning. He was right about the District. Only certain people, in certain positions, were effective. Sam also knew that the most powerful people weren’t necessarily those in public office.

  A light rhythm cut through the air, and Marshall tapped his hand over his jacket pocket.

  “You need to answer that?” Sam asked.

  Marshall smiled and shook his head. “That’s Lisa. Wondering where I am, I’m sure.”

  They both sat silent until the rhythm stopped.

  “You had a different job before you joined the State Department, too, didn’t you, Agent Burke?”

  Marshall’s expression was innocent, but Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Where’d you hear that, Mr. Marshall?”

  “I’m the husband of the Chair of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.” Marshall smiled. “I hear a lot of things.”

  Sam nodded, considering. If Marshall knew that much about him, then he knew that Sam still had connections within the PD. Is that why he wanted to meet?

  “I may have been off the streets for a few years now, Mr. Marshall, but I’m still a cop. I’m good at my job.” He paused, then added, “And I know how to keep information close.”

  “Of course you do. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” Marshall stood. “I think I need to move on. It’s been a pleasure speaking with you, Agent Burke. Thanks for meeting me, I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” Sam shook his hand, still frowning. “Any time you need to talk, you call me.”

  Marshall pulled his phone out of his pocket as he walked away, and Sam saw his smile fade as he looked at it. A much darker expression crossed his features as he stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  Adam shook Hennessy’s hand as they stepped into the residence hallway. “Thanks for talking with me, Agent Hennessy.”

  Hennessy’s grip tightened. “Remember what we talked about, Kaminski. I have my job. You have yours.”

  He was about to answer, but turned his head at the sound of a gentle tread on the stairs. He was surprised to see Ambassador Saint-Amand heading towards them. The sound had led him to expect a woman.

  “Agent Hennessy,” Saint-Amand’s silver voice called to the agent about to head out of the house. “A moment, if you please.”

  “Yes, sir?” Hennessy stopped where he stood, a picture of a man in motion interrupted.

  “You promised me an update. Do you have that for me yet?”

  “Ah… yes, of course. We can go back into the office.”

  “No, no…” The Ambassador frowned into the crowded office. “That won’t be necessary. Please join me in the drawing room.” He gestured vaguely down the long hall. “And perhaps your friend?” Saint-Amand turned an inquisitive eye on Adam, and Adam had the impression his self-worth had just been assessed. Accurately.

  “Right. Det—” Hennessy corrected himself quickly, “I mean, Ambassador Saint-Amand, may I present Detective Adam Kaminski, from Philadelphia. Detective Kaminski, this is Ambassador Saint-Amand, French Ambassador to the United States.”

  “Ambassador,” Adam said as he shook the other man’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “And you, too, Detective, of course.” The Ambassador had a way of speaking that made every word sound sincere. “What brings you to DC?”

  “I’m here on behalf of the Kapoors, Ambassador. The parents of the dead man,” he added to clarify, but the ambassador was nodding even before Adam spoke.

  “Of course, of course. Yes. I am aware of them. I understood they would be in town.” He drew a gray silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it loosely between his fingers, giving it only the slightest of rubs. “How distressing. How terrible for them.”

  Adam thought he saw a glimmer of moisture in the other man’s eyes. “Did you know them, sir?”

  “What?” The Ambassador started as if broken out of his train of thought. “No, no. I have a child. I can imagine what they must be feeling.”

  Adam nodded silently. Hennessy checked his watch.

  “I am very pleased that you are here, Detective,” Saint-Amand continued. “It is good to know that all
available resources are being used on this investigation.” His eyes slid sideways toward Hennessy. “I’m sure the Federal Bureau of Investigation needs all the help it can get.”

  “We are on top of this, Ambassador,” Hennessy responded, his words clipped. “Shall we?” He gestured toward the back of the house.

  Saint-Amand didn’t move. “Detective, a dear friend of mine is hosting a reception tonight. Perhaps you would like to attend?”

  “Ambassador!” Hennessy’s voice carried an edge Adam hadn’t yet heard, but Saint-Amand simply smiled at Adam.

  “I appreciate the invitation, sir, but I don’t think that would be appropriate. I’m only here to help with this investigation.” Adam watched Saint-Amand as he answered. Was he really trying to help, or intentionally riling Hennessy?

  The ambassador’s expression was inscrutable. “I believe you might find this gathering interesting, Detective. Of course I had not planned to attend, since I was to be in Philadelphia. Now I am in town, I am obliged to attend, it would be rude not to. And I have been asked to invite anyone I choose.”

  Saint-Amand couldn’t have missed the red splotches growing on Hennessy’s cheeks, but he kept his smile cool, focused on Adam. It must be unintentional, Adam told himself. Saint-Amand couldn’t know that Hennessy wanted Adam back in Philly. Unless he’d overheard… perhaps there was a reason he’d suggested the FBI use his aide’s office.

  “Detective Kaminski can’t make it tonight, Ambassador, he has other obligations.” Hennessy spoke. “Shall we go, sir?”

  Saint-Amand let his eyes run over Hennessy the same way he might assess a basket of turnips in the market, but he nevertheless turned toward the back of the house and Hennessy followed. Adam had just put a hand out to open the front door when Saint-Amand called to him.

  “Detective.”

  Adam turned, the oak door held open, Ramona still standing outside.

  “I will give your name to the host for this evening, in case you change your mind.”

  Adam tried not to look at Hennessy. He could think of no better way to figure out what Saint-Amand’s game was. He caught Hennessy’s glare and knew he might regret this. “Thank you, Ambassador, I’ll think about it.”

  Saint-Amand’s eyes fell on Ramona, who stood in the shadow of the front porch. “And please, do bring a date.”

  10

  Adam moved his hand up to straighten his tie one more time. Ramona grinned, and he slid his hand back to his pocket.

  She leaned toward him, her words carrying on the soft melody coming from the string quartet in the corner. “If you’re so uncomfortable all dressed up, why did you come tonight? And why did you bring me?”

  Adam glanced over at her, her four-inch heels bringing her eyes level with his. “You’re not complaining, are you? The way you clean up, I’d say you were a regular at posh events like this one.”

  Ramona smiled. “Stop teasing. I had all of thirty minutes to get dressed. A little more advance notice would be nice next time.”

  “You look gorgeous, and you know it.” Adam dragged his eyes away. “This is all about work. I don’t know why Saint-Amand invited us, maybe just to piss off Hennessy. Maybe because he wants to show us something. Or someone.”

  He glanced around the room, groups of two or three people each clustered around the bookshelves to his left stacked with gilt-bound volumes, around the plush armchairs facing the marble mantle, near the mahogany end tables spread with lace and silver candlesticks. Through the French doors he could see more guests gathered on the brick patios and walkways, wandering through the dimly lit garden paths. Adam couldn’t help but wonder what books he might find on the shelves here, but brought his mind back to the investigation.

  “You’re right.” He nodded without looking at Ramona. “I do hate events like this.”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I could get used to this.” She selected a prosciutto-wrapped shrimp from a passing waiter. “Not bad…”

  “It’s not real.” Adam shook his head. “Not the place, not the people… everyone’s putting on a show, trying to cover up who they really are with a false front. An act.”

  Ramona turned slowly to look around the room, then brought her eyes back to Adam. “Then who are you pretending to be?”

  “Tonight, I’m pretending not to be a cop. It’s an act, like everybody else.”

  “I know, you’re here to work.”

  “Places like this, even with everyone playacting — no, especially with everyone playacting — this is the best place to learn the truth about people, better than any interview room. This is where the truth slips out. The truth about their characters, their self-perception. By learning who someone wants you to believe they are, you learn a lot about who they really are.”

  Ramona stared at him for a moment before speaking. “That’s pretty deep, sensei.”

  Adam shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Go. Mingle. Learn something. We’ll compare notes later.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Ramona smiled and winked as she moved away from Adam toward the bookshelves. Adam watched her back for a second, smooth caramel skin exposed beneath black lace, before turning his attention back to the bookshelves on the far side of the room.

  Senator Marshall and her husband stood there, apparently engrossed in conversation with a short balding man in an impeccable gray suit. The senator said something — Adam couldn’t hear what — and the man smiled and nodded eagerly. His eyes focused on her face. The senator seemed about to speak again when her husband put his hand on her back and leaned in to whisper something to her. She stepped back as he leaned in, but inclined her head to hear his words.

  She put out a hand to shake that of the balding man and together the two Marshalls moved on. Adam leaned up against the doorway, drink in one hand, hors d’oeuvres from passing waiters in the other, watching them move.

  They moved as a couple, from one group of people to the next. A few words here, a laugh and a smile there, then on to the next small audience. The conversation must have turned to the morning’s shooting on several occasions. Each time, Adam could see a look of concern, of regret, on the speaker’s face. Followed by a look of acceptance on the part of Senator Marshall. She clearly appreciated the support. He couldn’t have handled such public grieving. If he lost someone he worked with — if Pete were shot, God forbid — Adam would curl up in a dark room and work through it on his own. Not in public. Not like this.

  After each of the couple’s interactions, Mr. Marshall would take the lead, letting his wife know when it was time to move on, occasionally introducing her to the people they approached. Dictating their schedule.

  When they approached Ambassador Saint-Amand, their mood became more serious, no doubt once again discussing the tragic events of the morning. He moved in toward the ambassador as the Marshalls were pulling away.

  “Ah, Detective Kaminski, is it not?” Saint-Amand smiled graciously and shook Adam’s hand. “I am so pleased you were able to make it this evening. May I introduce Mademoiselle Cormier.” The Ambassador indicated the tall woman next to him, elegant in a dark gray evening gown that hugged her gentle curves on its way down to hover above the floor. Her eyes matched her gown and seemed to be laughing as she put her hand in his.

  He inclined his head, pausing for what he knew was a little too long to appreciate her beauty, then turned back to the ambassador. “Thank you for the invitation, sir. It’s a wonderful way to spend my first evening in DC.”

  “Detective, have you met our host yet?” Saint-Amand asked even as he waved over the balding man Adam had noticed earlier. “Mr. Andrew Kendall, may I present Detective Adam Kaminski, from Philadelphia.”

  Adam shook hands with his host. “I hope I’m not intruding on your hospitality, sir. I was with the ambassador earlier today and he suggested I join this gathering.”

  “Of course, of course,” Kendall spluttered. “Any friend of Alain is a friend of mine.” Saint-Amand flinched as Kendall pumped him on
the back.

  “Detective Kaminski is in town to investigate the shooting this morning, I’m sure you heard about it.”

  “Oh, yes, I was chatting with Lisa and John Marshall about it.” Kendall bobbed his head up and down. “What a shock. You must have been terrified.”

  “I’m off the clock tonight.” Adam raised his glass as if in a toast. “For now, I’m here to meet some interesting people and learn a little bit about this town.”

  “Of course you are, Detective.” Saint-Amand smiled and raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, you will excuse us. Madame Cormier and I must talk with Mr. Kendall for a moment.” Saint-Amand’s voice dropped and he leaned his head toward Adam. “For me, tonight is about business. You may have heard of the riots around the suburbs of Paris recently?”

  Adam nodded. He’d seen something in the paper, hadn’t he?

  Saint-Amand continued, “We are struggling, my country, with our past. To have been a colonial power means that many different peoples now consider France their homeland. Many French are not willing to accept this.”

  “That’s not a problem unique to your country, Ambassador.”

  “No, perhaps not. Mr. Kendall is in a unique position to offer his assistance. Please, excuse us.”

  As Saint-Amand led Cormier and Kendall toward the French doors, a third man lurched toward them, almost knocking the drink out of Kendall’s hand.

  “Ah, sorry, sorry,” the man mumbled, pushing his glasses up on his nose. His hair shook as he moved, loose curls and waves cluttering his forehead. “Oh, Mr. Ambassador, sir,” he continued, his voice high and tight, “I was hoping to speak with you. About Senator Marshall.”

  “Mr. Towne.” Saint-Amand’s voice was low. “I am not free at the moment, I am sorry. Have you met Detective Kaminski yet?” Saint-Amand gestured toward Adam.

  Towne turned to wave a hand vaguely in Adam’s direction, but when he turned back to Saint-Amand, he saw only his back retreating through the French doors.

  “Ah, well.” Towne turned back to Adam.

  “Adam Kaminski.” Adam put his hand out and the other man took it in a limp handshake.