by Rose Beecham
“She’s European,” Delia said as if this explained something.
“He’s going to play nine holes with the top five amateurs at the clinic.” Calloway practiced his swing sitting down. He was dressed for the part in a mint green and white striped polo shirt and green Bermuda shorts. These showed off a deep tan and a paunch Jude guessed he kept in check with a daily half hour on the treadmill.
Koertig continued with his serious-faced rapport building. “Think you’ve got the right stuff?”
This foolhardy question was greeted with a detailed account of Calloway’s swing evolution and the angst that afflicted him over his shoulder turn. Griffin Mahanes was smugly silent throughout. Jude thought he was probably fondling the calculator in his pocket.
“Are you aware of anyone who had a quarrel with your brother, Mrs. Calloway?” she asked.
“He was disgusted with the company that did the marble for the guest bath at Maulle Mansion,” Delia replied dutifully. “He had words with the manager.”
“When was that?”
“Three years ago.”
“Does the name Anton mean anything to you?”
Delia glanced toward Mahanes, who benevolently invited, “Go ahead.”
“Fabian once told me that if anything ever happened to him, the party responsible would be Anton,” she said with the same mild distaste that underpinned the bathroom décor revelation. Evidently this disclosure was no more significant in her mind.
“Did he tell you Anton’s full name?” Jude asked.
“Yes, but I’m simply dreadful with names. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”
“You didn’t find it unusual for your brother to speculate on harm being done to him?”
“Fabian was prone to melodrama.”
“He was gay,” Jim Calloway translated. “Good looking, women all over him, and what do you know? There’s your proof.”
“Proof of what?” Koertig asked.
“They’re born that way. You can’t tell me a grown man has beautiful women throwing themselves at him and he chooses a scrawny Jewish geek who plays the goddamn oboe. That’s a lifestyle choice? I don’t think so, my friend. I call that crossed wires. Genetic malfunction.”
“My brother was always artistic,” Delia said. “And obsessed with personal grooming. Even as a child he could not abide a crushed shirt.”
Jude thought, Are these people for real? “He certainly maintained a beautiful home here. Did you ever visit?”
Delia Calloway shook her head, sending a few carefully coiffed strands of ash blond into disarray. She smoothed them immediately. “I didn’t even know he owned a log cabin until last Thanksgiving. He said he couldn’t join us because he was having some work done and wanted to supervise personally.”
“What kind of work?”
“A new concrete floor in his garage.”
He poured concrete in late fall, in the mountains? The winter of 2006 was a tough one in Colorado, with the first huge blizzards dumping snow in the mountains in October. Jude glanced at Koertig and knew he’d picked up on this curious fact also. Perhaps Maulle was just trying to concoct an excuse for skipping a Thanksgiving occasion, but as far as bullshit went, the story was an odd choice. He could simply have said he was snowed in. Her first instinct was to dig up the concrete but they would need good reason before they vandalized someone’s property. Maulle was a victim, not a perpetrator.
“I understand Mr. Maulle had a relationship with an Israeli, Yitzhak Eshkol.”
“That’s the oboe player I was talking about,” said Jim Calloway.
“Do you have an address for him?”
“He lives in Tel Aviv these days,” Delia said.
Her husband looked surprised. “You keep in touch?”
Delia gave him a bad-dog look, like he’d just defecated in the corner. “He knows Ingeborg Rennert.”
“In case you’re wondering who that is,” Pippa said, “she’s a lady with a hairdo straight out of Dangerous Liaisons and a truckload of diamonds. Her husband buys companies that raise untold money from investors and bank loans, he helps himself to as much as he wants, then the companies file chapter eleven because they can’t repay what they borrowed. The investors lose everything but Mr. Rennert lives in the world’s biggest mansion. He’s also the worst toxic polluter in the country, according to the EPA.”
“My daughter is a snob,” Delia informed Jude. “She suspects all arrivistes of criminal conduct.”
“No,” Pippa said sweetly. “Just the ones that belong in prison.”
“If you paid this much attention to your future, perhaps we wouldn’t be sitting here right now,” Delia retorted. “You’d be home where you belong, enjoying a rewarding career.”
Ignoring the family squabbles, Jude set out several photographs they’d found among Maulle’s papers. “Do you recognize any of these men?”
“That’s Yitzhak.” Delia selected one of a very young man. He looked about eighteen. “He’s put on some weight since then.”
“You’ve seen him?” Jim Calloway seemed stunned that his wife led a life he knew little about.
“Yes, in Paris last year. He plays for the Israel Philharmonic.” Delia glanced at Jude. “I’m sure you can find him through the orchestra, although I can’t imagine what you could possibly want to ask him. He hasn’t seen Fabian in years.”
“We have some routine questions,” Jude said. “When was that photograph of Yitzhak taken?”
“Ten or twelve years ago.”
“And he was in a relationship with Fabian at that time?”
Delia sighed. “I told Fabian the age difference was absurd. Yitzhak was eighteen and my brother was forty.”
“How did they meet?”
“I have no idea. Fabian put him through school and introduced him to the right people. Once Yitzhak had struck out on his own, they parted.” Delia paused, and for the first time in the interview Jude glimpsed a flash of genuine emotion. “I didn’t agree with my brother’s lifestyle, Detective, but one thing I can tell you is he loved Yitzhak very deeply. I think that counts for something, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” Jude said.
Pippa stared suspiciously at her mother. “Why did they break up?”
“There was someone else. That’s all I know. Fabian even said he thought it was for the best.”
With an uneasy frown, Pippa picked up one of the other photographs. “I’ve seen him. He was a business associate of Uncle Fabian’s.”
“Recently?” Jude asked. The dark-haired man in question was weasel-faced and freakishly long-legged. He wore an unflattering burgundy velour jogging suit with cream trim.
“Last year.” Pippa twirled a ballpoint pensively between her fingers. “I’d completely forgotten. He came up to us in a restaurant. Uncle Fabian excused himself and they went outside.”
“Do you know what they talked about?” Jude asked.
“Zimbabwe. Uncle Fabian was angry when he came back to the table. He said the Russians could have it.”
Jim Calloway snorted. “Five thousand percent inflation. Trust me, the Russians wouldn’t want it.” Plainly bored with the interview, he asked Koertig, “Do you play golf, Detective?”
“I go out with the old man sometimes. He’s pretty keen.”
“Well, then, you’ll appreciate my dilemma being stuck here dealing with this when I should be preparing for the clinic.”
Delia patted him. “You’ll be fine.”
“You think personal situations like this can’t affect your game, think again,” Calloway said for the benefit of anyone who cared. “First up, you have to keep that tension out of your shoulders or your backswing is screwed. Soon as I get to the resort, I’m signing up for the hot stone massage.”
Koertig asked, “Do you own a gun, sir?”
“My client owns a collection of antique pistols,” Griffin Mahanes replied.
“And a .45 ACP,” Calloway quickly added. “Springfield Armory. Same as
the SWAT teams.”
“When was the last time you fired that weapon?” Koertig asked.
Calloway sustained the tough-guy act with a halfhearted swagger. “It’s not like we have varmints roaming the yard.”
“Varmints…” Delia mouthed the word as if sampling a peculiar food.
“Dad doesn’t know how to shoot,” Pippa said, earning a crestfallen glare from her father.
“You can verify my client’s alibi,” Mahanes intervened slickly. “Mr. Calloway was on the twelfth hole at Brae Burn Country Club when his brother-in-law was slain.”
“Returning to Anton,” Jude said. “What exactly did Mr. Maulle say about this individual?”
“They did business. My brother trusted this man and was let down by him. He made some discoveries that poisoned their relationship and I had the impression Anton was making a nuisance of himself.”
“So there was no personal relationship?’
“Not that I know of. I can’t imagine my brother forming a…liaison with a man from a background like that.”
“Please go on.” From the corner of her eye, Jude saw Pippa staring in astonishment at her mother. It must have come as a shock that Delia knew so much about her brother.
“He was from one of those Eastern bloc countries.” Delia consulted her elegant fingertips. “Russia. Serbia. Liberia.”
“Liberia’s an African nation,” Pippa said.
“They’re all communists, aren’t they?”
“You’re incredible.” Pippa stood abruptly. “I need some air.”
“Do you know what kind of business your brother was involved in?” Jude asked.
“Oh, yes,” Delia said with blithe unconcern. “Military hardware.”
Her husband stopped dead in the middle of a lustrous commentary on his best ever personal performance at Pinehurst no. 2. “What did you say?”
“Uncle Fabian was an arms dealer?” Pippa gasped from the doorway.
“Hardware,” Delia corrected impatiently. “I assume all those soldiers need a great many tents and toilet seats.”
“Excuse me a moment.” Griffin Mahanes whipped a buzzing cell phone from the inside pocket of his costly suit and stepped toward the door. He walked Pippa out.
Jude felt light-headed. “Military hardware?”
“That’s what he said.” Delia sighed. “Of course, he had other business interests in real estate and so forth. But the problem with Anton had something to do with one of the military shipments.”
“Did you ever see a photograph of Anton or meet him personally?” Jude asked. She could see Koertig’s eyes glazing over as Calloway maintained a steady drone of golf-speak between his occasional contributions to the interview.
“No, he wasn’t a friend of the family.”
“Can you tell us anything about him?”
“He was too cheap to get his teeth fixed. Fabian mentioned that.” Delia stroked her hair back. Her look was deceptively casual, the expensive common-sense attire of the genteel matron. “I formed the impression that he wasn’t a people person.”
“What gave you that idea?”
“Fabian said he was a liability dealing with the French.”
“The French are jerks,” Calloway said.
“What was Anton’s role?” Jude checked her wristwatch. It would be four soon. Debbie would be meeting Sandy.
“He was some kind of middle man. He flew planes, too. That’s all I know.”
“Did you ever encounter a security guard of your brother’s called Hugo?”
“No, although I recall the name.”
“Your brother employed him after an incident at his home in New Orleans. Do you know anything about that?”
Again, Delia surprised her husband. “Someone broke in and defaced several of his favorite paintings. Appalling.”
“Looters?” Koertig asked.
“They didn’t steal anything,” Delia replied as Pippa slipped back into the room. “But Fabian was very shaken.”
“Did he say anything else about the break-in?” Jude asked.
“You know about that?” Pippa asked her mother.
“Naturally. Fabian called me in case I thought you should come home. He was worried.” Delia adjusted her pearls again. “I don’t know if this is relevant now, but the intruders made a threat against you.”
“Against me?” Pippa sagged down in a chair.
“What type of threat?’ Jude asked.
“I don’t know, but Fabian assured me he would take care of it.”
“He knew the people who made the threat?”
“It had something to do with Anton.” Abashed, Delia said, “I didn’t take it seriously until…now.”
Jude met Koertig’s eyes and signaled that she wanted to end the interview. There was only so much they could cover in one session. When they knew more, they would talk to the Calloways again, Delia especially.
Working her way toward a conclusion, she said, “I just have one other question. The individual who murdered Mr. Maulle seemed to be looking for something. He stole a computer hard drive and a laptop and we think he may have used violence to try to obtain answers from Mr. Maulle.”
“Are you saying my brother was tortured?” Delia lifted a shaking hand to her mouth.
Pippa burst into tears.
Wishing she’d been more tactful, Jude said, “I’m sorry. Please understand this is all just guesswork for us right now. Can you think of anything your brother might have had in his possession…even information?”
Belatedly, Jim Calloway demanded, “Do we have reason to fear for our safety, Detective?”
“Can you think of a reason?” she asked mildly.
“I have no idea.” Delia placed a hand firmly on Pippa’s arm. “And until we know what this is all about, you’re coming home with us.”
Pippa had the wisdom not to argue. Wiping her eyes, she asked, “Is this something to do with me?”
“Not directly, as far as I can tell.” It was too soon to give firm assurances, but the New Orleans incident had occurred two years ago. If there was a threat to Pippa, surely something would have happened in the meantime.
“Should we consider hiring private security ourselves?” Delia asked.
“Hell, no,” Jim Calloway declared, sparing Jude an answer. “There’s a problem when a man can’t take care of his own family.”
Jude pictured him shooting himself in the foot as he tried to come to grips with his .45 ACP. “If you think of anything, please call us,” she said, getting to her feet. “We really appreciate your time.”
“Are you saying we can go?” Calloway bounded up.
“We have your contact details,” Koertig said.
They walked the Calloways out into the entrance foyer where Griffin Mahanes was still on the phone. He ended the call and said, “I take it my clients are free to return back East.”
Pippa murmured under her breath, “The sooner the better.”
Everyone shook hands and Koertig said, “Good luck with your swing.”
As Calloway herded his wife and daughter out the doors into the late-afternoon sun, he yelled back over his shoulder, “Hey, I’ll send you a postcard of me and Tiger.”
“Wonderful.” Koertig waved.
Jude said, “Nice people skills.”
“Just tell me one thing,” her colleague gloomily responded. “Am I like him?”
Straight-faced, Jude nodded. “Talk about charisma.”
“Yeah, I was hoping you’d say that.”
*
Jude couldn’t sleep. The air-conditioning in her hotel room was noisy and Debbie hadn’t called. Jude reasoned that no news was good news. If she was in any trouble she would have sent a text message even if she couldn’t talk.
At least Sandy would be distracted for the next day or so. If she’d invited Debbie to her lair, she must be serious about keeping their relationship alive. Hopefully she would see the potluck as something simple she could do to make Debby happy, and Jude
would gain access to her cabin in Rico on Thursday morning.
Once she’d ascertained Sandy’s status, she would turn the problem over to Arbiter. Her masters were paid to deal with interagency politics. She didn’t want to find herself tangled up in a turf war, or worse, in the middle of an incident everyone would officially deny. A disturbing thought crossed her mind. When she found out who Sandy was and what she was doing, and fed back the data, Arbiter would go up the chain of command and word would reach Sandy’s brass that she was blown. What then? Would they simply extract her and continue with their plans? Would she become a zombie, an agent who “dies” and is set up with a whole new identity? Or would she be seen as disposable?
Jude considered the ramifications. If Sandy was a deniable person in a covert military unit involved in a black op on U.S. soil, she would be looking at a 9mm pension plan, not a transfer. Did Jude want that on her conscience? Sweating suddenly, she shoved her covers aside and reached for the lamp. She could see why Arbiter hadn’t pushed her for results sooner. He obviously hadn’t wanted her to stumble into a sensitive situation when he was in the dark himself.
No wonder the Bureau couldn’t get a fix on her. The Pentagon would have made most of her records vanish, and Sandy had done the rest herself, making sure she cast no shadow. Her secrecy about Canada suddenly made sense. Maybe she knew exactly how this could play out and had arranged her own disappearance in advance. If Arbiter’s worst suspicions were a reality, the government wouldn’t want anyone left alive to tell the story. Sandy had probably covered every base. New identity and legend. Offshore back account. The works.
Her one weak spot was Debbie. She had not expected to fall in love, Jude concluded, and doing so had driven her out in the open more than she’d intended. Now that her lover was suspicious, what would Sandy do—cash in her chips and disappear before completing her mission?
Jude got out of bed and pulled on a T-shirt. Several options took shape in her mind. She could tip Sandy off. Let her know she was about to be blown. Or she could delay her search, find some reason why she couldn’t gain access to Sandy’s house. Or she could carry out the search and tell Arbiter they were wrong and Sandy was just another veteran with mental health issues. Maybe that’s exactly what she would discover, anyway. It seemed like a leap to assume Sandy was involved in this NORTHCOM scenario, even if they were recruiting commandos for a domestic operation. Jude had already concluded Arbiter had to have a basis for his suspicions. He just wasn’t sharing it with her, especially not over the phone. But still, he could be wrong.