The Trojan Sea

by Richard Herman

  Shaw studied the brooch in question. It was a golden spider with long legs. Two diamonds made up its small hourglass body, and the way it perched on her red jacket made it seem almost real. She’s sending a message, Shaw told himself.

  “She’s upstaging Maddy,” the first woman said.

  “No one can upstage her,” the second replied.

  Wanna bet? Shaw thought. He mentally moved L.J. onto his enemies list.

  Shaw waited patiently while Maddy presented presidential plaques for heroism to L.J. and Roxford. Then he followed them back down the hall to the entrance. The black Cadillac was waiting, and the same aide who had met L.J. held the door for her and Roxford. Shaw ambled back to the Oval Office, looking like a bear wearing a rumpled suit. He went right in, not waiting to be announced.

  “Well, Patrick,” the president asked, “why the sudden interest?”

  “The woman’s dangerous,” he said. “Watch your backside.”

  The president laughed. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “The way she was dressed, Madam President.” He felt the need to repeat the warning. “The way she was dressed.”

  “Don’t be silly, Patrick. You just don’t understand women.”

  “I understand this one.”

  The Pentagon

  The summons came just after 10:00 A.M. on Wednesday, November 13. At first Stuart was puzzled why the OSI, the Air Force’s Office of Special Investigations, would want to talk to him. Later the time and date would be etched in his memory. He told Peggy Redman he had to go to Andrews Air Force Base for the interview and hurried to catch the shuttle bus that ran between the Pentagon and the base.

  At Andrews, Special Agent Antonia “Toni” Moreno-Mather was waiting for him. She was a petite, very pretty Mexican-American in her late twenties. She was also pregnant. “Colonel Stuart? I’m Special Agent Toni Mather. Thank you for coming.” She led him into a small interview room, where two men were waiting. “This is Sergeant Ledbetter and Sergeant Smatter from the Arlington Police. They want to talk to you.” She sat down next to the door and opened her notebook.

  Ledbetter was a big African-American who reminded Stuart of a professional football linesman, and Stuart half expected to see a Super Bowl ring on one of his massive fingers. Instead he wore a wedding ring on one hand and a West Point class ring on the other. “Colonel Stuart,” he began, “we’re investigating the accident involving Jennifer May Wilson Stuart and Grant Woodstock DeLorenzo.” His voice was deep and gentle. “We do hope your wife will fully recover.”

  “Former wife,” Stuart said. “Jenny and I are divorced.” The three investigators scribbled in their notebooks.

  “There is some very bad news,” Ledbetter continued. “Mr. DeLorenzo died early this morning from complications stemming from the accident.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Stuart said, surprised that he was sorry. “He and Jenny seemed very happy together.” A strange look crossed Agent Mather’s face.

  “Well,” Ledbetter said, becoming more businesslike, “I’m sure you understand that our investigation has changed now, and we do have to ask you some questions. All routine. What exactly is your relationship with Mrs. Stuart?”

  Stuart tried to explain in as few words as possible how they had separated and divorced. “Then you were not experiencing any special problems?” Ledbetter asked.

  “None that I would call special,” Stuart answered.

  “Yeah, right,” Smatter said. Stuart focused on the other sergeant. He was an older, very wiry, small man who reminded Stuart of a weasel. “We’ve talked to Mrs. Wilson,” Smatter said with the hint of a snarl. “Your ex-mother-in-law. Remember her?” Stuart gave a very audible sigh and tried to explain. It was a mistake. “Now, let me see if I got this one right,” Smatter replied. “You’ve got a rich mother-in-law who only wants to help you, give your kid the best education possible, and you don’t like it?”

  “The price of her help is too high,” Stuart said.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Colonel Stuart,” Ledbetter said, his voice offering protection from the caustic Smatter, “when we examined the mishap vehicle, we found some unusual damage to the brakes that we can’t explain. We were hoping you could help us.”

  “Sure,” Stuart replied. Anything to get Smatter off his back.

  “Can you provide us with all the maintenance records for the vehicle?”

  “No problem. I had it serviced just before I turned it over to them.”

  “Turned it over?” Smatter muttered. “Let me get this straight. You turned your Explorer over to the guy who was boinking your wife so they could go to Colorado and screw their brains out?”

  “They were going to start a business,” Stuart protested.

  “Yeah, right.” Smatter made a show of opening his notebook and flipping through the pages. The sound rippled like gunshots in the quiet of the room. “I want to be sure I got this one straight. On Friday, twenty September, at Dover Air Force Base, your father, who goes by the alias Shanker, threatened to hit Barbara Raye Wilson. Is that correct?”

  “It didn’t happen that way,” Stuart said.

  “How did it happen?” Ledbetter asked.

  “She had a lawyer and was trying to take my son without my permission. She physically pushed my father out of the way, and he said something like he didn’t approve of hitting women but if she touched my son, he’d make an exception. Then he got into a big argument with the lawyer.”

  Smatter snorted. “And your father threatened him also, right?” There was no answer. “Sounds like you come from a pretty violent family.”

  “That’s not true,” Stuart said.

  “With a name like Shanker? Gimme a break.”

  Stuart wanted to be reasonable and tried to explain. “It’s his nickname from when he was in the Air Force. His buddies, other pilots, gave him the name.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “That’s the way it works,” Toni Mather said. She gave Stuart a look that clearly said he was talking too much.

  Ledbetter also got the message. “Well, just a few more items and we’ll let you get back to work. We need to know where you were, who you saw, talked to, and what you were doing from, say, a week before the accident up through the day after. Why don’t you write it all down and give it to Special Agent Mather here? She can send it to us.”

  “Is that going to be a problem?” Smatter said.

  Stuart’s head was reeling. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, right. Keep Agent Mather informed of your whereabouts at all times, and don’t even think about taking any long trips.”

  “Well,” Ledbetter said, no longer sounding so friendly, “that’s all we have. For now.” He heaved himself to his feet and opened the door. Smatter popped to his feet and followed him out.

  Stuart shook his head. “What was that all about?”

  Toni Mather studied him for a moment before making a decision. Her investigative experience was different from Ledbetter’s and Smatter’s, because the vast majority of personnel in the Air Force were not criminals, only people who did stupid things or got involved with the wrong element. “I think it’s obvious,” she said. “You’re under investigation for the murder of your ex-wife’s boyfriend.”

  12

  Miami

  Sophia watched the jogger as he ran down the beach. His skin was pasty white, but his muscles rippled with the tone of a superb athlete. She raised herself on one elbow and scanned the crowd lounging on the sand. She stood so the jogger could see her and took another look at the palm-tree-lined promenade next to the street. She didn’t see any of the trademark signs of surveillance and decided to chance contact. Still, one could never be sure, not in her business. She pulled on a long T-shirt to cover her thong bikini and walked down to the water in time to meet the jogger. She walked past him and murmured, “In front of the coffeehouse on Collins, tonight at eight thirty-five.” He kept on running.

  At exact
ly 8:35 that evening Sophia slowed as she passed the coffeehouse, ready to drive on by. But the jogger was walking toward the curb, the signal that he was clear. She coasted to a near stop and he slid into the front seat beside her. To be on the safe side she leaned over and kissed him. To the unknowing bystander it was either a girlfriend picking up her boyfriend for a little impromptu boffing or a clandestine rendezvous with adultery the prime objective. Both were considered entirely proper forms of recreation on Collins Avenue.

  She accelerated into the heavy traffic and reached under the dash to activate the noise scrambler. A low hum filled the car. “This had better be good,” he said.

  “We’ve gone critical.”

  “With our friends the Puerto Rican loonies?”

  “They want to believe my cover since I’ve been so ‘helpful.’ But they want to verify. It’s time for the big test.”

  “To make your bones,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “What do they want you to do?” He knew it had to be serious, or she wouldn’t have called for an urgent face-to-face meeting.

  “They want me to sanction an informant.”

  “That’s it,” the jogger said. There was no way he would ask her to cross that line in order to penetrate the terrorist cell. “To hell with the money. We’re outa there.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  The jogger looked at her in shock. “We don’t do that, that’s why.”

  “If the money’s right, we do.” She let it sink in. “Tell Marsten it’s a go for another thirty thousand.”

  “Shit-oh-dear,” the jogger moaned. She slowed to let him out.

  “I need a quick confirm,” she said.

  “Who’s the poor bastard?”

  “A waiter at Café Martí. They think he’s an informant.”

  “Is he?” She gave a shrug of her shoulders and waited for him to get out. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he told her. “No later than noon your time.”

  At precisely 10:20 P.M. on Friday evening, Luis Barrios walked into Café Martí and sat at the bar. He was careful to pick a seat where he could observe the sidewalk patio. Three minutes later, and on cue, Sophia walked into the café and found a seat on the patio. Luis caught his breath at the dress she was wearing. It was perfect: skimpy enough to stop traffic and cause heart attacks without getting her arrested. As expected, the waiter moved directly to her table.

  “Se~norita,” he murmured. “How may I serve you?”

  She answered in Spanish. “I was here in September, and you served me the best coffee.”

  The waiter lit up like a neon sign. “Yes, I remember. The lady who speaks our language like a native.” She’s the one who thought the Puerto Rican scum were Cuban, he recalled.

  She batted her eyelashes at him. “You remember?”

  He was all gallant charm. “How could I forget?” They chatted for a few more moments as she set the hook.

  She was waiting in a car when he got off work three hours later. He opened the door and started to hyperventilate. She was wearing a sleeveless sweatshirt that left no doubt that was all she had on. “Where?” was all she asked.

  He mumbled a few words and directed her to a deserted street behind a warehouse. Within moments his shirt was open and his pants off as he drew her on top of him. She kissed him over and over as he pulled off her sweatshirt and threw it into the backseat. She scooted under him and raised her legs, guiding him into her. He barely felt the pinprick in his left thigh.

  Luis Barrios was waiting when she let herself into his apartment. “Well?” he asked.

  “The coroner will rule it ‘sudden death syndrome probably brought on during lovemaking.’ While it is quite unusual in such a young man, it is not unheard of. Of course, he could have been saved had a set of defibrillator paddles been readily available.”

  Luis was incensed, not that she had killed the waiter but that she had betrayed him and the cause by making love to an enemy. “There must have been a better way to do it.”

  She reached for him. “I wanted to send him out with a bang,” she whispered.

  13

  Newport News

  Shanker was caged rage as he paced the family room. “Damn! I don’t believe this. How could the cops think you had anything to do with jimmying the brakes?” He glared at Stuart as if he were personally responsible for coming under suspicion. “Anything mechanical is totally beyond you.”

  Martha decided it was time to get her husband back in control. “But the police don’t know that, do they?” Shanker turned his scowl on her. “Don’t go giving me your steely-eyed aerial assassin look.” She fixed him with her no-nonsense gaze.

  Jane started to smile but squashed it before Shanker noticed. Seagrave caught it. The Englishman felt uneasy being caught up in a family problem, but as Martha and Shanker’s houseguest, it was unavoidable. It had been the only topic of discussion since Mike had called late Wednesday night and told them about the police interview with the OSI. But Seagrave decided early on that the more heads involved in sorting out the problem the better. And he did trust Jane. She’s the levelheaded one, he thought.

  Shanker wilted under his wife’s look. “How is Jenny?” he muttered, changing the subject.

  “She’ll make it,” Stuart replied. “She’s going to need reconstructive surgery on her face, and Barbara Raye’s already lined up one of the best plastic surgeons in New York. But Jenny’s got to recover from the accident first.”

  “Well, William,” Martha said to Shanker. She couldn’t solve Stuart’s problem, but she expected her husband to get involved and do something.

  “Okay, we know you didn’t do it,” Shanker said, “but the police think you did.”

  “Don’t they always look at the husband or boyfriend first?” Jane asked.

  Seagrave threw in his two cents. “So you need to get them moving on.”

  “How do we do that?” Stuart asked.

  Shanker paced the floor. “Never forget rule number one.”

  “Sorry,” Jane said, “you lost me.” Four words or less again.

  “In the fighter business,” Seagrave explained, “rule number one is always check your six-o’clock position.”

  “The guy who shot you down was the guy you didn’t see,” Shanker added.

  “Another rule?” Stuart said, not seeing the sense in all the talk.

  “Damn right,” Shanker shot back.

  Stuart’s head came up as paranoia shot through him. “What if someone is out to get me?” Silence all around as he played with the idea. “Look what happened to me on the way home from work—twice.”

  “There are better neighborhoods to live in,” his mother allowed.

  “It’s getting better all the time,” Stuart replied. “Then Jenny is in an accident driving my car when the brakes fail, and Grant is killed. Tell me it’s all coincidence.”

  “Why would anyone be out to get you?” Jane asked.

  Shanker snorted. “Barbara Raye. I wouldn’t put anything past that woman.”

  “But she wouldn’t hurt her own daughter,” Martha said.

  “She didn’t intend to,” Shanker said. “The accident was intended for Mike.”

  “It does make sense,” Seagrave said. He looked at Stuart. “So who’s your wingman in all this?”

  “He means who can help you?” Shanker explained.

  Stuart shook his head in misery. He had never felt so alone and vulnerable. An image formed at the back of his mind. At first it was indistinct, hidden in a gossamer haze. Then Toni Moreno-Mather emerged. “The OSI agent I told you about.”

  “You’ll need to give her something to work with,” Seagrave said.

  “Like Barbara Raye’s head,” Shanker growled.

  Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

  Special Agent Toni Mather shifted her weight in the chair, trying to get comfortable. Stuart recognized the symptoms and smiled at her. “Jenny used to say that husbands should have to wear twenty-pound weights around their middle when their
wives are expecting.”

  “What a great idea.” Toni paused and groaned. “Ooh! Four more months and he’s already kicking field goals.”

  “Then you know it’s a boy?”

  “Not really. But only a boy could kick like that.” She scanned her notes. They’d been talking for over an hour, and she needed to go to the restroom. But they were almost finished. She frowned as a loose end caught her attention. Was there a connection between the assault on Stuart and the second victim at the ATM who had screamed and fought back? While Toni believed in coincidence, that would have been one too many. “I need the name of the detective you spoke to about the mugger,” she said. Stuart gave her the name, and she wrote it down. “Okay, that’s it for now. If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

  “Will do,” he said, standing up. “And thanks for listening to me.”

  When he’d left, Toni called the detective, and they spoke briefly. She jotted down the name Jean McCormick. Then she heaved herself to her feet and walked slowly to the restroom, still trying to put it all in perspective. Was he merely having a run of bad luck? It did happen. And why would anyone be out to get him? The exercise felt good, and she took a little walk on the way back, still playing with the angles, trying to see a pattern. She made a decision. She would go to her commander and get his take. But first she’d talk to Stuart’s boss, one Colonel Roger Priestly.

  The Pentagon

  Priestly glanced at the photo on the ID card and then back to Toni. Her hair was much shorter, but it was the same person. He suppressed a mental groan. He was totally against pregnant women serving on active duty, but it was career suicide to suggest that motherhood and the profession of arms were mutually exclusive. “What can I do for you, Agent Mather?” He waved her to a seat. “Would you like some coffee or tea?”

  “No thanks,” she replied, taking out her notebook. “As you probably know, Lieutenant Colonel Michael Stuart has been experiencing problems lately that have come to our attention. I was wondering about his job performance and if there’s a connection.”