A Thin Veil

by Jane Gorman

  “Yes, hello. Greg Towne.”

  “And are you a friend of the ambassador? Or our host, Mr. Kendall?”

  “Kendall?” Towne looked around the room, surprised. “No, no, I haven’t met him yet.”

  “You were invited to his party?”

  “Ah, no, not exactly. I mean, yes, yes, I was invited.” He giggled nervously. “I’m not a gate-crasher or anything.”

  “No.” Adam said nothing more, waiting for Towne to continue.

  “Right. I’m a historian, you see. Art historian. Well, architectural sometimes. I specialize in structural art, you see — the built environment.” Towne pulled down on his jacket with his free hand. The movement shifted the line of the jacket, transforming a well-made, well-fitted suit into something that looked as awkward as Towne did.

  Adam nodded noncommittally. He had no idea what Towne was talking about. “So what brings you here this evening, Mr. Towne?”

  “Ah, I’m on the HPRB, you see. We were all invited. By the senator. Senator Marshall, that is.”

  Adam glanced around the room to see where Ramona had wandered off to. He spotted her perched on a gold-upholstered chaise-lounge, smiling engagingly at the man across from her. A cough from Towne brought him back to his present conversation.

  “Please, go on,” he said, having no idea what Towne had been talking about.

  “The HPRB — the Historic Preservation Review Board, you know?” When Adam didn’t respond, Towne continued, “Very prestigious, very important. Senator Marshall chairs our committee, you see. So we work with her personally on a number of matters.”

  Adam looked at Towne again, this time with a frown. “You told the ambassador you wanted to speak with him about the senator. Why was that?”

  “That?” Towne coughed, putting his glass down on the glowing wooden surface of a nearby table, oblivious to the condensation dripping onto the polished surface. He extracted a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, holding it in front of his face as he collected himself. “That, oh, that was nothing,” he concluded finally. “Nothing, really.” He shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket.

  “I see.” Adam continued to watch Towne closely. The man seemed to wither under Adam’s gaze. Adam felt a twinge of pity for him. He looked like a fish out of water, a man who could have been confident in a different place, at a different time. Perhaps in jeans and an old sweater tucked into a good book. Adam could relate.

  “No, in fact I came here this evening specifically to talk with the senator, you see. She simply hasn’t had a chance yet.” Towne shrugged, trying to look casual. “She has a lot of people here she needs to see, you understand.”

  “Of course,” Adam agreed, noticing that Ramona had now moved over to talk with a tall blond man.

  “It’s about work, though, it wouldn’t interest you.” Towne waved his hands in front of Adam, and Adam couldn’t help but think of a little wizard, trying desperately to make himself disappear. It didn’t work. Towne still stood there.

  “And does the senator want to talk with you?” Adam asked casually.

  “Of course she does.” Towne’s voice rose even higher with anger. “Of course, she invited me tonight, didn’t she?”

  “She invited your board, you said,” Adam reminded him.

  “Yes, yes, whatever. Look, Detective, uh… I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name.”

  “Kaminski.”

  “Yes, Detective Kaminski, I’m not sure why you’re asking me all these questions. Why are you here tonight?” If Towne had meant the question to sound aggressive, he failed.

  “I was invited by the ambassador,” Adam responded. “I believe he thought I could learn a few things at this gathering.”

  Towne caught himself in another fit of coughing, picking up his drink again to calm himself. It left a ring on the wooden surface.

  Towne finally got his breath back. “I’m sure that’s true, Detective. There are many accomplished people here. Is there anything in particular you are interested in?”

  Adam thought about it for a moment, then answered with the truth. “Murder.”

  “I see.” Towne’s frown deepened. “Well, that’s nothing I can help you with, of course.”

  Adam smiled. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

  Towne frowned again, then turned abruptly and moved away, bouncing off the table as he turned. He flinched, but kept moving, heading toward a short, stocky woman standing alone in the corner. A safe target, perhaps.

  Adam turned to scan the rest of the room. There was someone here Saint-Amand thought he should meet. Who was it?

  The man in the silk suit shut his eyes for a minute. Just for a second. The love of his life, standing next to him, nudged him and he opened his eyes. She was smiling, talking to a man who stood in front of them. He’d already forgotten the man’s name. He produced a charming smile anyway.

  The room glittered around him. The sparkle of diamonds around a woman’s neck. The gleam of gold watches, rings, cuff links. Light catching in champagne flutes and crystal chandeliers. Even the air seemed to glisten, the scent tantalizing, perfumed but undefinable.

  God, this was exhausting. Smiling. Shaking hands. Smiling more. Pretending he cared. Thankfully, it was almost over — the party, the day, everything.

  He wanted this day over and behind him. Far behind him. Then he could relax.

  He risked glancing around the room at the other guests. A few caught his eye and smiled at him, raised their glasses in mock toasts. Were they mocking him? Did they know?

  He frowned and turned back to the large woman in front of him. Her massive figure was stuffed into a deep green gown at least two sizes too small for her. She looked liked the slugs he used to fight with his grandfather in their ongoing efforts to protect their small garden of Savoy and romaine.

  He pictured throwing salt on her and grinned. Then caught himself when he realized she was saying something about foreign debt. He wasn’t sure how much he missed. He nodded and tried to look concerned. Aggrieved, maybe. Determined to fix the problem, certainly.

  He felt another nudge as he was nodding, frowning. He didn’t turn around, just reached his arm to the side, placed his hand against his partner’s back.

  His true love smiled up at him, then turned her attention to the large woman in front of them who was still talking about foreign debt. He didn’t care anymore how boring it was. She was up to something. He could see it in her smile. Feel it in the minute vibrations that carried through her thin cocktail dress.

  He felt the familiar thrill. Excitement. Fear. Love. Surely this was love.

  Whenever he was with her, his world turned upside down. He didn’t understand, didn’t trust his own thoughts. He didn’t know what to expect. Trying to control things only made her mad. Made things worse. All he could do was blindly follow.

  Sometimes she hurt him. Once, he had been devastated. Usually she was kind. Tender. Caring. She took care of him. She always would. Wouldn’t she?

  He glanced around again, this time with confidence. The detective from Philadelphia was still here. Talking with the chief of staff for Congressman Waldmann. What a bore. That man could talk the bark off a tree.

  He couldn’t believe the policeman had come tonight. Had had the gall to show up. Maybe he was looking for a way up, like everybody else here. Rubbing shoulders. Sharing compliments and secrets like they were worth something. But they weren’t.

  He knew better. He knew the truth.

  He smiled to himself. The cop wasn’t going to get anywhere. He couldn’t believe he had been nervous about him. He was going to muddle around for a few days, find nothing, then hightail it back to Philadelphia.

  Let’s play another round, he thought. He smiled at the large woman and excused them, then turned in the direction of the detective. His love followed his lead, as she always did.

  The detective saw them coming. Turned towards them. Smiled. He smiled in return. Shook his hand. A strong handshake. They exchange
d pleasantries, words that meant nothing. He kept up his act. Concerned. Determined to fix things. Sometimes aggrieved.

  He was getting good at aggrieved, surprising how easy that one was.

  They shook hands again. Parted ways. He guided her toward another guest. As if they were floating. High above everyone else there.

  As long as he was with her, he could fly.

  Adam felt her presence behind him before he felt her touch on his arm. He turned to face Ramona.

  “Did you get what you came for?” she asked, her eyes following another group of guests heading toward the door.

  Kendall stood near the door, shaking hands, sharing kisses in the air, patting shoulders. Very congenial.

  “I don’t know,” Adam admitted. “I’m not really sure what I was looking for.”

  She moved back toward the French doors, and Adam followed the trail of vanilla scent that hung in the air behind her.

  “Mr. Marshall, he’s a character,” Ramona started.

  Adam nodded. “It’s almost as if he were directing the senator tonight.”

  “Where to stand. Who to talk to. What to say. When to smile.” She pursed her lips. “He’s someone to watch.”

  “And then there’s Ambassador Saint-Amand himself.” Adam frowned as he saw the ambassador making his exit with Madame Cormier, clasping his host’s hand enthusiastically.

  “Why was he so eager to have you here this evening, Kaminski? What did he want you to see?”

  “I still haven’t figured that out,” Adam responded slowly. “The FBI think he was the target, you know. Of the murder.”

  “Attempted murder, as they like to call it.” Ramona shook her head. “Do you think the ambassador was the target?”

  “Could be.” Adam shrugged. “He mentioned to me that he was here to talk to Kendall about some problems in France right now. Problems with immigrants, I take it.”

  Ramona nodded. “Sure, I’ve heard about what they’re going through.”

  Adam nodded too, wondering why he hadn’t seen anything in the papers about it. Maybe he was reading the wrong sections. “What do you know?”

  “Just that there have been some riots. Youth getting angry over what they see as disparate treatment. Even people who become French citizens are treated differently. Unfairly, some would say.”

  “That’s tough,” Adam murmured.

  “And it could be related, you know,” Ramona added. “Part of the problem seems to stem from the narcotics trade.”

  “Drugs.” Adam wasn’t surprised. In his world, the drug culture was always only a step away.

  Ramona nodded. “Cocaine, lots of it. Makes its way through Africa to France, then on to the rest of Europe.”

  “So the racism against the immigrants is presented as a drug war. An attempt to stop the trade, not the people.”

  “You got it,” Ramona said. “All above board. But not doing well so far, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Maybe the French drug war made it to the States,” Adam thought out loud. “FBI’s searching for a lead domestically, when this could be a crime with an international motive.”

  Ramona smiled grimly. “A drug killing, pure and simple. We know about those, don’t we?”

  Adam didn’t respond to her question, instead asking who else she had talked to that night.

  “Jason McFellan was here,” she answered. “He was at the shooting too, remember?”

  “Sure.” Adam nodded. “Not too surprising he’d be here, I guess. It’s his sort of event.”

  She smiled. “He probably bankrolled it. Same as he was going to pay for the senator’s trip to Philly. Always willing to help out — and always willing to remind someone when they owe him something in return.”

  The room was gradually emptying out as the guests headed for their next engagements, dinner parties, business meetings. Only a handful remained. Those who were most comfortable here. Or those with nowhere else to go.

  Towne stood by a bookcase, looking decidedly nervous. He glanced around the room as if still waiting for someone to arrive. His glass was empty, but he held onto it, clutching his hands around it.

  “Do you know him?” Ramona asked, seeing where Adam was looking.

  “We spoke. A couple of times.”

  “And? Anything interesting there?”

  “Definitely interesting.” Adam smiled at her. “Though probably not related to this case. He’s a weird one though.”

  “Who is he?”

  “An art historian. Or architect — I’m not sure which. He’s on some sort of architectural board chaired by Senator Marshall,” Adam explained.

  “The HPRB?” she asked. “That’s pretty prestigious. A highly connected group of people.” She looked back at Towne, a new expression on her face.

  “You don’t say…” Adam considered this information. “Then why does he look so uncomfortable here?”

  She shrugged and frowned. “I don’t know. I’m sure he goes to a lot of these things. Kind of part of his job.”

  She watched as Towne tried to put his glass down. He hit the edge of the table and the glass started to go over. Towne caught it just in time, crying out as he did so. A few other people turned to look at him, then looked away. He stepped even closer in to the bookcase.

  Adam shook his head. “I guess he’s one of that type.”

  “What type is that?”

  “The type that doesn’t fit in anywhere.”

  “Maybe.” Ramona frowned. “To me, he’s acting like a man with a secret. A man with something to hide. Look at him.” She gestured with her hand. “He’s nervous.”

  “Huh.” Adam inclined his head as his eyebrows went up. “You’re absolutely right. I shouldn’t dismiss him so easily. In fact, Ambassador Saint-Amand is the one who introduced me to him.”

  Both cops watched Towne for a minute longer, then Ramona turned to Adam. “So, what’s next this evening? Can I tempt you to join me for a late dinner?”

  11

  Traffic was light, for DC, and Adam enjoyed the short ride through the clear night. Lights from the city dimmed any stars he might have seen, but Georgetown provided its own starlight, gas lamps and street lights beckoning along the brick-lined streets.

  Adam knew better than to accept Ramona’s offer. She looked far too good in that cocktail dress. He had to keep his mind focused on the job at hand.

  As the taxi turned onto the Key Bridge, Adam could see Foggy Bottom to his left along the river. The Kennedy Center glowed along the riverbank, lit up for the evening’s performances. Farther south, beyond the Tidal Basin and the monuments, the river darkened as it ran up against the Anacostia Freeway and bordered the southeastern part of the city.

  He ran through the evening’s conversations again in his head. Ambassador Saint-Amand. The Marshalls. Greg Towne. Jason McFellan. There must be something there, something that tied one of them to Jay Kapoor.

  Or maybe he was looking for a connection, hoping for a connection. Maybe the FBI was right, and this shooting didn’t have anything to do with Jay at all.

  He let his thoughts wander as they headed toward the square dark buildings of Arlington, where his cheap — by DC standards — hotel was located.

  After the glitz and warmth of Georgetown, Arlington seemed bare. Only one street he passed was lined with restaurants and coffee shops, heavy with pedestrians. His hotel room as he entered it stared back at him, equally bare and unappealing. He was here to work, not to enjoy himself.

  He kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie, and picked up his cell phone. He tapped the screen once and the phone dialed the familiar number. It rang. And rang. No answer.

  Adam hit redial.

  After six or seven rings, he heard Sylvia’s voice. Not talking to him, talking to someone else. “Just a sec, sorry. I think I have to take this.”

  “Sylvia?” Adam spoke into the phone, “you there?”

  “I’m here, darling, sorry about that.” Her voice became muffled once again. �
��One sec, I’ll be right back.”

  Adam heard the sound of footsteps. A door closing.

  “I can’t talk long, Adam, I’m working.”

  “A cocktail party with donors?” Adam asked, thinking of Sylvia’s job in development for a local university.

  “That’s right. Some good potential here. It’s important.”

  After coming to the U.S. from Poland, Sylvia had tried to complete the master’s degree she had started in Warsaw. During her first semester, she had befriended a number of people in the Office for International Students and become active in their programs.

  It didn’t take long for her to realize that the diplomatic skills she’d honed while working in Warsaw worked just as well in development situations. After a few cocktail parties with potential donors — where Sylvia and other international students were trotted out to showcase the school’s international appeal — it became clear that this was the field for her. The school hired her the following semester, and she was now working full-time for them.

  Adam recognized the sounds carrying over the phone from Philadelphia to DC. The same voices, the same laughs. It could have been the same party he’d left. Different players, but the game was the same.

  “I wanted to call and say I love you. It looks like I’ll be down here for a few more days.”

  “Oh, dear, is it not going well?” Sylvia asked, and Adam was relieved to hear the concern in her voice.

  “Too soon to tell,” he answered. “Nothing wrong yet, just seems like it might take some time.”

  “Good, good.” Adam heard a door opening, a man’s voice in the background. “Look, Adam.” Sylvia spoke again. “I do need to get back to this. As long as things are going well, the deputy commissioner will be happy.”

  Adam should have known that would be her concern. Not the fact that they would be apart for a few more days. Her field meant she spent a lot of time mingling with folks who made a lot more money than Adam did, from graduates of the university who had succeeded in their chosen field to heads of foundations and research institutes who might be interested in supporting the university’s programs. Introducing her boyfriend, the cop, didn’t help her efforts, and she had long since stopped inviting Adam to join her at the various events she was required to attend. Maybe if he were a captain — or commissioner even — it would be different.