Murder in the CIA Page 14

  “Fair enough. What’s on the menu?”

  “Steaks and a salad. Skip the dressing and you’ll lose a pound or two.”

  His champagne-colored Jaguar was parked outside. Cahill had never been in one; she enjoyed the smell and feel of the leather seats. He drove swiftly through Foggy Bottom, turned up Wisconsin Avenue and passed the Washington Cathedral, then took smaller streets until reaching a stretch of expensive houses set back from the road. He turned into a driveway lined with poplar trees and came to a stop on a gravel circle in front of a large stone house. A semicircular portico decorated with egg-and-dart detail protected the entrance. There were lights on in the front rooms that shed soft, yellow illumination through drapes drawn over the windows.

  Tolker came around and opened Collette’s door. She followed him to the front door. He pushed a buzzer. Who else was there? she wondered. The door opened and a young Chinese man wearing jeans, a dark blue short-sleeved sweatshirt, and white sneakers greeted them.

  “Collette, this is Joel. He works for me.”

  “Hello, Joel,” she said as she entered the large foyer. To the left was what looked like a study. To the right was a dining room lighted by electrified candelabra.

  “Come on,” Tolker said, leading her down a hall and to the living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows afforded a view of a formal Japanese garden lighted by floodlights. A high brick wall surrounded it.

  “It’s lovely,” Cahill said.

  “Thanks. I like it. Drink?”

  “Just club soda, thank you.”

  Tolker told Joel to make him a kir. The young man left the room and Tolker said to Cahill, “Joel’s a student at American University. I give him room and board in exchange for functioning as a houseboy. He’s a good cook. He’s been marinating the steaks all day.”

  Cahill went to a wall of books and read the titles. They all seemed to be on the field of human behavior. “Impressive collection,” she said.

  “Most of them pop garbage, but I wanted them all. I’m a collector by nature.” He came up beside her and said, “Publishers have been after me to write a book for years. Frankly, I can’t imagine spending that much time on anything.”

  “A book. I imagine that would be an ego-booster, not that …”

  He laughed and finished her sentence. “Not that I need it.”

  She laughed, too, said, “I sense you’re not lacking in it, Doctor.”

  “Ego is healthy. People without egos don’t function very well in society. Come, sit down. I’d like to learn more about you.”

  She wanted to say that she was the one who wanted to learn something from the evening. She sat on a small, gracefully curved Louis XV sofa upholstered in a heavy bloodred fabric. He took a seat on its mate, across an inlaid leather coffee table. Joel placed their drinks in front of them and Tolker said, “Dinner in an hour, Joel.” He looked to Cahill for approval, and she nodded. Joel left. Tolker lifted his glass and said, “To dinner with a beautiful woman.”

  “I can’t drink a toast to that, but I won’t argue.”

  “See, you have a healthy ego, too.”

  “Different from yours, Doctor. I would never toast myself. You would.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “It wouldn’t have offended me if you had.”

  “All right, to a beautiful woman and to a handsome, successful, bright, and impossibly considerate gentleman.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. He got up and started a tape that sent soft sounds of a modern jazz trio into the room. He sat again. “First of all, how about calling me Jason instead of Doctor?”

  “All right.”

  “Second, tell me about your life and work in Budapest.”

  “I’m on leave,” she said.

  “Spoken like a true Company employee.”

  “I think we ought to drop any conversation along those lines.”

  “Why? Make you nervous?”

  “No, just aware that there are rules.”

  “Rules. I don’t play by them.”

  “That’s your choice.”

  “And your choice is to rigidly adhere to every comma and period. I’m not being impudent, Collette. I just find it amazing and wonderful and damned ironic that you and Barrie and I have this uncommon common bond. Think about it. You and your best friend both end up doing work for our country’s leading spook agency, you because of a sense of patriotism, or the need for a job with a pension and a little excitement, Barrie because she became close to me, and I, as I’ve already acknowledged, have been a consultant to the spooks a time or two. Remarkable when you think of it. Most people go through their lives not knowing the CIA from the Audubon Society and never meeting a soul who works for them.”

  “Small world,” she said.

  “It turned out that way for us, didn’t it?”

  He arranged himself comfortably on his couch, crossed his legs, and asked, “How well did you know Barrie?”

  “We were good friends.”

  “I know, but how well did you know her, really know her?”

  Cahill thought of her luncheon conversation with Mayer’s mother and realized she didn’t know her friend well at all. She mentioned the lunch to Tolker.

  “She was more disturbed than you realize.”

  “In what way?”

  “Oh, what we call a disturbed myth-belief pattern.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that she lived by a set of troublesome beliefs caused by childhood myths that were not tied to normal childhood patterns.”

  “Her father?”

  “Her mother mentioned that to you?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled. “Did she indicate her role in it?”

  “She said she felt guilty for not putting a stop to it. She was very candid. She admitted that she was afraid to lose her husband.”

  Another smile from him. “She’s a liar. Most of Barrie’s adult problems stemmed from her mother, not her father.”

  Cahill frowned.

  “The old lady’s a horror. Take it from me.”

  “You mean from Barrie. You’ve never met the mother.”

  “True, but Barrie was a good enough source. What I’m suggesting to you, Collette, is that you become a little more discriminating about who in Barrie’s life you turn to for information.”

  “I’m not looking for information.”

  “You said you were trying to find out what went on with her just before she died.”

  “That’s right, but I don’t consider that ‘looking for information.’ I’m curious about a friend, that’s all.”

  “As you wish. More club soda?”

  “No, thank you. You obviously aren’t including yourself in that restricted list.”

  “Of course not. I was the best friend she had … excluding you, of course.”

  “You were lovers, too.”

  “If you say so. Barrie didn’t have any trouble attracting men.”

  “She was beautiful.”

  “Yes. Her problem was she couldn’t tell the white hats from the black. Her choice in men was terrible, self-destructive to say the least.”

  “Present company excepted.”

  “Right again.”

  “Eric Edwards?”

  “I wondered whether you knew about Barrie’s macho yacht captain.”

  “I know a lot about him,” Cahill said. “Barrie was very much in love with him. She talked about him a great deal.”

  “Excuse me, I need a drink.” He returned a few minutes later. “Joel’s started the steaks. Let me give you a quick tour before dinner.”

  The house was unusual, an eclectic assortment of rooms, each decorated in a different style. The master bedroom had been created from three rooms. It was huge. While the other rooms in the house smacked of an Early American influence, this room was modern. The thick carpet was white, as was the bedspread on a king-size round bed that stood in the middle of the room like a piece of sculpture, spotlights in the ceiling focu
sing all attention on it. One wall housed a huge projection screen television and racks of state-of-the-art sound equipment. Besides a black lacquered nightstand that held controls for the audio and video equipment, the only other furniture was black leather director’s chairs scattered about the room. There wasn’t a piece of clothing, a shoe, or a magazine.

  “Different, isn’t it?” he said.

  “From the rest of the house, yes.” She pictured Barrie Mayer in the bed with him.

  “My apartment in New York is different, too. I like different things.”

  “I suppose we all do,” she said, walking from the room at a pace just under a run.

  Dinner was relaxed, the food and talk good. The subject of Barrie Mayer was avoided. Tolker talked a great deal about his collections, especially wine. When dinner was finished, he took Cahill to the basement where thousands of bottles were stored in temperature-controlled rooms.

  They came upstairs and went to his study, which had the look of a traditional British library, books on three walls, polished paneling, carpet in warm earth tones, heavy patinated furniture, pools of gentle light from floor lamps next to a long leather couch and leather armchairs. Tolker told Joel to bring them a bottle of cognac, then told him he was finished for the night. Cahill was glad the young Chinese man wouldn’t be around any longer. There was something unsettling about him, and about the relationship with Tolker. Joel hadn’t smiled once the entire evening. When he looked at Tolker, Cahill could see deep anger in his eyes. When he looked at her, it was more resentment she sensed.

  “Brooding young man, isn’t he?” she said, as Tolker poured their drinks.

  Tolker laughed. “Yes. It’s like having a houseboy and guard dog for the price of one.”

  They sat on the couch and sipped from their snifters. “Do you really think you’re overweight?” Tolker asked.

  Cahill, who’d been staring down into the dark, shimmering liquid, looked at him and said, “I know I can be if I’m not careful. I love food and hate diets. Bad combination.”

  “Ever try hypnosis?”

  “No. Oh, that’s not true. I did once, in college. So did Barrie.”

  It had been a fraternity party. A young man claimed to know how to do hypnosis and everyone challenged him to try it on them. Cahill was reluctant. She’d heard stories of how people can be made to act foolish at the hands of a hypnotist. It represented giving up control and she didn’t like the idea.

  Mayer, on the other hand, eagerly volunteered and convinced Cahill to give it a try. She eventually agreed and the two of them sat next to each other on a couch while the young man dangled his fraternity ring from a string in front of their eyes. As he talked about how they would begin to feel sleepy and relaxed, Cahill realized two things: She was feeling anything except sleepy, and was finding the whole situation funny. Mayer, on the other hand, had sagged into the couch and was actually purring. Cahill diverted her eyes from the ring and glanced over at her friend. The hypnotist realized he’d lost Cahill and devoted all his attention to Mayer. After a few more minutes of soothing talk, he suggested to Mayer that her hands were tied to helium balloons and would float up. Cahill watched as Mayer’s arms began to tremble, then slowly drifted toward the ceiling. They remained there for a long time. Others in the room were watching intently. They were quiet; only the hypnotist’s voice invaded the silence.

  “I’m going to count from one to five,” he said. “When I reach five, you’ll be awake, will feel real good, and won’t remember anything from the last few minutes. Later, someone will say to you, ‘The balloons are pretty.’ When you hear that, your arms will feel very light again and they’ll float up into the air. You won’t try to stop it because it will feel good. Ready? One—two—three—four—five.”

  Mayer’s eyes fluttered open. She realized her arms were high in the air, quickly stretched them, and said, “I feel so good and rested.”

  Everyone applauded and the beer keg became the center of attention again.

  Twenty minutes later, a friend of the hynotist who’d been prompted casually said to Mayer, “The balloons are pretty.” Others at the party knew it was coming and were watching. Barrie Mayer yawned. A contented smile crossed her face and her arms floated up toward the ceiling.

  “Why are you doing that?” someone yelled.

  “I don’t know. It just … feels good.”

  The hypnotist told her to lower them. “No,” she said, “I don’t want to.”

  He quickly went through the induction again, then told her that her arms were normal and that there weren’t any balloons filled with helium. He counted to five, she shook her head, and that was the end of it.

  Later, as Collette and Barrie sat in a booth in an all-night diner drinking coffee, Collette said, “You’re such a phony.”

  “Huh?”

  “That business with hypnosis and your arms being light and all. You were going along with it, right?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You were acting. You weren’t asleep or hypnotized.”

  “No, I really was hypnotized. At least I think I was. I don’t remember much about it except feeling so relaxed. It was great.”

  Collette sat back and looked closely at her friend. “The balloons are pretty,” she said softly.

  Barrie looked around the diner. “What balloons?”

  Collette sighed and finished her coffee, still convinced that her friend had been playacting for the sake of the hypnotist.

  When she was finished telling the story to Jason Tolker, he said, “You shouldn’t be so skeptical, Collette. Just because you weren’t receptive doesn’t mean Barrie wasn’t. People differ in their ability to enter an altered state like hypnosis.”

  “Barrie must have been very receptive. It was incredible what that student was able to get her to do unless … unless she was just going along with it for fun.”

  “I don’t doubt you’re not hypnotizable, Collette,” Tolker said, smiling. “You’re much too cynical and concerned about losing control.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Of course not, but …”

  “Did you ever hypnotize Barrie?”

  He paused as though thinking back, then said, “No, I didn’t.”

  “I’m surprised,” Cahill said. “If she was that susceptible and …”

  “Not susceptible, Collette, receptive.”

  “Whatever. If she was that receptive, and you use it in your practice, I would have thought that …”

  “You’re crossing that line of doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You might be more hypnotizable than you think. After all, your only brush with it was with a college amateur. Want me to try?”

  “No.”

  “Could help you resist fattening food.”

  “I’ll stick to willpower, thank you.”

  He shrugged, leaned forward, and said, “Feel like turning on?”

  “With what?”

  “Your choice. Pot. Coke. Everything I have is the best.”

  An invitation to drugs wasn’t new to Cahill, but his suggestion offended her. “You’re a doctor.”

  “I’m a doctor who enjoys life. You look angry. Never turn on?”

  “I prefer a drink.”

  “Fine. What’ll you have?”

  “I don’t mean now. I really should be going.”

  “I really have offended you, haven’t I?”

  “Offended? No, but I am disappointed you choose to end the evening this way. I’ve enjoyed it very much. Would you take me home now?”

  “Sure.” His tone was suddenly surly, his expression one of annoyance.

  They pulled up in front of her hotel and shut off the engine. “You know, Collette, Barrie wasn’t the person you thought she was. She enjoyed drugs, used them with some frequency.”

  Cahill turned and faced him, her eyes narrowed. “One, I don’t believe that. Two, even if it’s true, it doesn’t matter to me. Ba
rrie was tall, slender, and her hair was sandy. I’m short, could be chubby, and have black hair. Thanks for a nice evening.”

  “I kept my promise, didn’t I?”

  “Which one?”

  “Not to put moves on you. Can I see you again?”

  “I don’t think so.” It swiftly crossed her mind that maybe she should keep in touch with him as a potential source of information. She had learned things about Barrie that were previously unknown to her and that, after all, was the purpose for her being in Washington. She softened her rejection with, “Please don’t misunderstand, Jason. I’m a little confused these days, probably a combination of lingering jet lag, still grieving about Barrie’s death, and a lot of other things. Let me see how my schedule goes the next few days. If I’m free, I’ll call you. All right?”

  “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

  She smiled. “Something like that. Good night.”

  “Good night.” His face was hard and angry again, and she could see a cruelty behind his expression that caused her to flinch.

  She stepped from the car—he didn’t bother getting out to open the door for her this time—and started toward the hotel’s entrance where the doorman, taken by surprise by her sudden exit, quickly pushed open the door for her. Across the lobby, she could see Vern Wheatley. He was seated in a wing chair facing the door. When he spotted her, he jumped up and met her just inside.

  “Vern, what are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I have some news, Collette, and I think we’d better discuss it.”

  14

  Cahill sat with Vern Wheatley the next morning in his brother’s apartment. “Good Morning America” was the program on television. The morning paper sat on a coffee table. The lead story on page one seemed to be set in gigantic type; it virtually sprang off the page at Cahill.

  D.C. LITERARY AGENT MURDERED

  David Hubler, 34, a literary agent with the Georgetown firm of Barrie Mayer Associates, was found murdered last night in an alley in Rosslyn. A spokesman for the Rosslyn Police Department, Sergeant Clayton Perry, said that the cause of death appeared to be a sharp object driven into the victim’s heart.

  According to the same police spokesman, robbery was the apparent motive. The victim’s wallet was missing. Identification was made from business cards in his pocket.