Powers had once read an interview with legendary Scottish race car driver Jackie Stewart, in which he'd described the heightening of senses he experienced driving a car at 200 miles an hour. If the grass nearby was freshly cut, its fragrance was perfume to the driver. A single butterfly resting on the smallest flower was seen as if magnified. All the senses were enhanced and it was, Stewart said, this intoxicating experience that race drivers craved even more than sex or their love of life.
Since coming to Washington, Powers had experienced something very like that. He had not been an especially excitable cop but then no one would have called him laid back either. But these past eight months in Shalom had so narrowed the focus of his existence, that his powers of observation were enlarged beyond anything he'd ever experienced. Unlike Stewart's description, it was the world that was racing around Powers, while he participated as if slightly removed from what was taking place. He had never experienced anything like it. It was as if life about him was a movie and he was the spectator.
~
As it often did, the sight of Powers' house burning awakened him. He eased out of the bed so as not to disturb Alta, slipped on the robe, and went to the kitchen where he scrambled eggs, poured juice, and made toast and coffee. His mind had churned during his brief hours of sleep. There were any one of a number of explanations for what he had seen in Marei’s apartment. Both Becky and Alta had implied that no one knew about the blackmail effort except themselves, and of course Marei. But if they were mistaken, and someone at the White House knew of the approach, then it was not out of the question, not after seeing Shanken and Lily, that someone decided to get rid of a presidential embarrassment permanently. Removing the body left a measure of doubt that anyone had been killed as long as the body wasn’t discovered. If that were the case, then someone unknown to Becky associated with the White House already had the tapes.
But why limit his speculation to the White House just because he didn’t like the looks of two men? It was just as likely Marei had told someone what she was up to. Everyone trusts someone, and the someone you trust, trusts someone else. He might not like Karp much, but assuming he’d told the truth about Marei’s background, that someone she trusted was as likely to be Arab as not, it was Arabs who attacked them. In that case, Marei’s attackers would have been looking to question her and taking whatever they could find that was of use. The blood made no sense if they had been after information unless the situation had spun very out of control. Better to apply pressure that would force her to talk, and if you wanted privacy to do it right, then take her somewhere remote, don’t slice her up in her living room. No, it didn’t appear logical that...
Powers sighed. This was pointless. He could speculate like this all day without resolution. The truth was, he simply didn’t have enough information to know who had attacked Marei and what their motives were. He turned the kitchen radio on low as he sat to eat. The announcer pronounced his words in the solemn, distinct and reassuring manner of all National Public Radio broadcasters.
"...wife of downed Air Force pilot, Major Jeffrey Wolf, demanded again last night that President Tufts secure the release of her husband and his three fellow prisoners being held somewhere in Iraq. Speaking before a gathering of the Vietnam Prisoners of War Society in New York City, she condemned the President's inaction and vowed to lead her crusade into the general election."
A woman's voice now spoke. "Why are were afraid of a tin-pot dictator like Saddam Hussein? Since when must Americans die for the price of oil? Haven't we learned anything? When will President Tufts make good on his promise that he would not tolerate the abuse of my husband and his flight crew? Where are you, Mr. President? Why have you fallen silent?"
The announcer returned. "In Baghdad, Saddam Hussein threatened to execute his American prisoners if coalition forces make a hostile move against him or continue violating Iraqi air space. There is no word as to when military action might take place, but a vote by the UN Security Council authorizing aggressive measures is expected sometime next week. Military experts predict nothing will take place prior to November, the earliest time for favorable weather.
“Tonight, the nation's First Lady, Rebecca Gordon Tufts, will address the Democratic National Convention at Madison Square Garden in New York City. Though her remarks have not been provided to the media it is expected that she will continue her attack on the tobacco industry and call for a moral regeneration of the country, themes she has struck in limited appearances over the summer. Recent polls show Mrs. Tufts popularity now exceeding that of her husband.
"Estelle continues its violent trek northward up the Atlantic seaboard but has been downgraded..."
"Would you like breakfast?" Powers asked as Alta entered the kitchen.
"Just coffee please." She was already dressed and nothing in her manner suggested they had spent the night together. "I need to leave before the Monday morning rush hour traffic sets in. Thanks." She regarded his face before continuing. "How's your cheek?"
"I'll live. Unfortunately I look as if I've been in a fight. It's not a face to inspire confidence." She took the coffee mug he offered and sipped gingerly. “I took from your comments and Becky’s that neither of you told anyone about the note and tape. Is that right?” he asked.
“Absolutely. Mrs. Tufts talked to the President about it, of course.”
“Who would he repeat it to? Karp? Anyone else?”
“No one. I don’t think he’d even tell Marty. What are you getting at?”
“Logic that goes round and round and leads nowhere. A fool’s errand. There's something you can do for me," he continued. "I'm going to act on the assumption that Marei was only seriously injured and sought medical help. Could you have all the usual medical facilities checked right away? Can it be done discreetly?"
"Of course. I'll see to it first thing."
"Call and let me know. If she's checked in somewhere, which I doubt, I'll see her."
"And if she's not?"
"I'll be trying to find a personal contact with medical experience who might have treated her."
"What if she didn't receive treatment?"
"In that event, given the amount of blood we saw, and assuming it's hers, she's likely dead. But that's the logical next step."
Alta nodded. "I should go then and get started. Here's a key for the door. We change the lock every month until we move to another place but you're okay." Alta pushed herself away from the table then returned shortly with her coat. "I'm worried I was out of line last night," she said a bit awkwardly.
"If anyone was out of line it was me."
"It takes two. Not that I regret what we did or anything, but I know your wife and son were killed not quite a year ago. I feel like I took advantage. My God, there I was in the oldest routine in the world, a woman awash in booze asking to be held. It’s too corny even for a soap opera."
“I found it convincing.” Powers smiled. “Not to worry."
Alta slipped on her coat and her manner became distant as if she was struggling with a decision. "Do you remember telling me you loved me? I think you were asleep when you said it so I won't hold you to it." Her mouth twisted. "You also called me Gloria."
Georgetown, 8:48 a.m.
It was heavily overcast, the dark clouds hung low and moved swiftly overhead. The wind was aggressive but intermittent. It was the rush hour crunch which slowed Powers, and he was later reaching the Burnside Apartments than he hoped. Three marked police cars were parked along the street and a uniformed Metropolitan Police officer stood at the main entrance stopping anyone other than police from entering the building. Men in wrinkled suits with blurry eyes and carrying notepads passed in and out of the building with the flat look of detectives in the middle of a case. Powers waited with a small gathering of gawkers, primarily suited whites pausing on their way to work.
After several minutes an attractive woman in her forties, dressed for work, left the building and turned his way. Powers intercepted her casuall
y. "What's going on?" he asked.
"It's just terrible," she said, stopping. Her scarf was a bright paisley and she smelled of lavender. She took him in with a single sweep of her eyes. "One of our lessees was murdered last night." People, Powers had observed over the years, always took time to talk about tragedies, especially when they happened to someone else. Her manner suggested that she believed she knew him.
"Who?"
“I knew her slightly. She was French I think. Yvette. I never got her last name. It's just terrible. You never think of these things happening in this part of the city."
"How did she die?"
"I really don't know, just gossip you understand. I heard she was found with her arms and legs tied behind her and a plastic bag pulled over her face. Can you imagine? I've got to go." She lay the fingers of her ringless left hand on his forearm. "Stay in touch."
On 30th Street, not far from the Old Stone House, Powers sat at a table for two at the Green Dolphin restaurant and ordered more coffee. It was pretentiously decorated in wood and antiques, both original and recent.
Powers had said nothing about Dorat to Karp. Maybe the young woman had, despite his instructions, contacted someone. It was illogical to conclude her death had nothing to do with Marei.
He pulled from his pocket the small, loose leaf notebook Shanken gave him in Karp's limousine, wishing that he had Marei's address book instead. The contents were meager and when he leafed through it the previous night he had seen no doctors listed.
At the back of the restaurant was an old fashioned fully enclosed pay telephone, one with an accordion folding door for privacy and overhead light, a rare luxury for any detective. He asked for change then planted himself in it. No response at the first number, and an answering machine at the second. A woman, older from the sound of her voice, answered at the third number listed.
"Hello," he said in his most genial voice, "I'm trying to reach Julie and wondered if you might know where she is right now? She's not at her apartment or at work."
"Who is this?"
“Dan. I'm an old friend and am only in town for today. Would you have any idea where she might be?"
Click.
Powers tried the same approach the next two times someone answered a number. Nothing. These were guarded people.
At the counter he finished the coffee and asked for a refill. Back in the booth he tried a different approach. There were only five names and telephone numbers left.
"Hello," he said on the second one. "My name's Dan and I'm a friend of Julie's. She's out of town and I'm trying to remember the name of her doctor friend. She said I should see him."
"How did you get this number?"
The notebook said he was talking to Elaine Trilling whose husband was an accountant. She sounded about his age. "Well, it was like this, Mrs. Trilling. Julie and I don't know each other all that well, we met just that one time, but we have a common friend. Anyway, she mentioned your husband is an accountant and said I should give him a call about my situation. She even wrote down the number for me. Then a bit later I said I was searching for a good doctor since I'm kind of new here and she wrote down another name and number but I'll be darned if I can find it. So I thought maybe I'd give you a call and see if you knew who she meant."
"We're talking about Julie Marei, aren't we?"
"That's right."
"I'm sure I have no idea who her doctor is. I need..."
Powers cut her off. "I had the impression it was more like a friend, or maybe a family acquaintance rather than her doctor, if you know what I mean."
"Oh. I can't imagine why she'd tell you about Abe. He's not licensed in this country."
“What I was after was really more like medical advice than actual treatment. I don't think whether he's licensed or not matters."
The lady hesitated. "Who did you say you were?"
"Dan. I met..."
The telephone went dead.
Back at the counter Powers worked his way through the notepad. No lights went off. His cellular telephone chirped. "Yes?"
"There was nothing at those places you asked about this morning,” Alta reported. “I’m still waiting on the other information."
"Thanks." He wasn't about to mention Yvette's murder over the open line. He turned back to the notepad. Abe, she had said. Abe. Not a common name. Maybe a nickname.
It was in the middle. Mr. and Mrs. Abdul Kandari. In the booth he called the home number. A woman answered. Young. A servant? A daughter?
"Is Dr. Kandari in, please?"
"No. He's at work."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I call his home? Wait a minute. Listen, I've run off without his office number. Could you give it to me?"
"Sure."
Click. He punched out the new numbers. "George Washington University. Indigenous Studies. How may I direct your call?"
“My mistake. Wrong number." Powers hung up. So he was a doctor of anthropology. This could be a dead end. But he had told Mrs. Trilling a medical doctor and she said Abe. It was worth a trip.
George Washington University, 10:32 a.m.
Powers sensed the tail on his way to the campus, consulted his map and instructed the driver to drop him on I Street, just west of Foggy Bottom. He couldn't make who it was or how many but he knew someone was there. He could assume it was Lily and Shanken or perhaps friends of his Arabs from the night before. It made no difference. He didn't want any of them near him.
Powers entered and exited several buildings, passed down two alleys, then to busy New Hampshire Avenue where he reversed himself twice. He worked at it a long time. Nothing. They were very good, whoever they were – or he had shaken them. At the campus just to be safe he worked the large number of students, entered and exited four buildings, and unless they had an army for surveillance was satisfied he'd dropped the tail, at least for now.
~
Dr. Abdul Kandari was a frail, short man in his late sixties, bald with what was once known as a Socratic fringe. He wore thick glasses with the type of substantial plastic frames favored by Hispanics and Arabs and possessed a pleasant, courtly manner. His hands, Powers observed, were nearly child-like in size.
"Please be seated, Mr.... I'm sorry I've forgotten your name. I seem to be forgetting many things these days. And I've just received the most distressing news."
"Carpenter. Daniel Carpenter."
"Yes. I have a class in a few minutes. What is it you are after? My secretary wasn't very specific."
“I understand you are a medical doctor."
Dr. Kandari froze in place and when he spoke thereafter caution laced his voice. "No longer. Many years ago, yes. In Beirut. Who did you say you were?" he asked genially.
"I'm looking for Julie Marei. She was seriously injured Saturday night and I believe she came to you for help."
The man smiled disarmingly spreading his hands before him. "I mean no disrespect, Mr. Carpenter, but you still haven't told me who you are."
"A friend. Julie's hurt and scared right now."
"I haven't seen Julie in many months, Mr. Carpenter. I'm afraid I can be of no assistance to you."
"Perhaps you met Yvette Dorat? She was also a flight attendant with Air France, a neighbor and friend of Julie's?"
Dr. Kandari pursed his lips. "Yes. I do believe I met her once."
"She's dead. She was murdered last night. And I think you know someone tried to kill Julie the night before that. I must find her before its too late."
The doctor was obviously shocked. "Miss Dorat was such a lovely woman. So young." The telephone rang. "Yes? Thank you. I'll be out shortly." He replaced the receiver. "My class." He hesitated then said, "Perhaps you'd care to walk with me?"
The darkening clouds churned overhead and the wind was now brisk. Powers buttoned his scarred coat.
“I concur," Dr. Kandari said, noticing that Powers had checked the sky. A lifelong habit for anyone raised in Missouri. "Rain I think. A great deal of it." They strolled across the campus slowly. Se
veral students greeted the doctor who nodded politely to each one. His manner now was less circumspect. "Do you know what has been happening in my country, Mr. Carpenter, assuming that really is your name?"
"If we're talking about Lebanon I know there has been a long civil war. Many thousands are dead. Julie and her family fled to France."
"Like many of us. I left much earlier and found my way here. Fortunately I had taken a degree in Arab studies before deciding to become a medical doctor and friends helped me with this position. You are still a young man. Later, you will come to understand that when you reach a certain age, all you really desire is peace and the happiness and security of your family. They may not appear to be lofty goals, but they are difficult to achieve in this world, and in the end more important than those for which we squander much of our lives."
"I understand."
The little man glanced up at Powers and saw something he respected. "Perhaps you do. That's unusual for an American. When you arrived I said I had received distressing news. Do you know what it was?"
"I have no idea."
"My wife had just called. Ismail and Pasha are dead. They too died sometime last night. Their bodies were found only this morning. Do you know who I mean?"
Powers recalled the names from the notebook. "They were Julie's parents."
"'Were. Yes, they were. Pasha was my dear sister. The youngest of our sadly scattered family." The man was close to tears.
"How were they murdered?"
“I said they had died. Not that they were murdered."
"Miss Dorat was suffocated with a plastic bag pulled over her head."
The man answered in a very still voice. "They were suffocated. I didn't ask how." The man glanced at Powers without speaking. A few feet farther he said, "This is where I lecture." Dr. Kandari sat on a green wrought iron bench and Powers joined him. "You seem like a decent man," the doctor said. "I don't know how you've come to be involved in this affair or what your role really is. From the look of your face and torn coat, I would say you have been in danger yourself recently. Candidly, and I intend no disrespect, your presence frightens me. Too many people are dead already." He stared across the manicured campus as if considering whether he would say more. "I knew this was dangerous business," he said finally. The university bell sounded the first of twelve tolls. "I warned Pasha. I warned Julie. But no one listens to an old man, even one who has seen these things before. It was the same in Beirut. You know what I am talking about?"
Shadows and Lies Page 9