Mayes held up his hands in surrender. “That’s a lot of speculation there, Ms. King. Your readers would probably appreciate facts, not conjecture. Like I said, talk to the police.”
Now she decided to drop the bomb. “Well, I would, but I doubt the Maryland police would have much information about that double homicide in Ward Eight the other night. Are you investigating the possibility of a connection to these crime scenes?”
“Ward Eight? I’m not sure I know what you are referring to.”
Mayes was a good liar, but Catherine knew he would be.
“Washington Highlands. Saturday night. Brandywine Street.” She smiled. “You know the one.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. King, I’ll have to break this off right there. If you want you can call Media Relations and they—”
“The Agency’s media people won’t be able to help me on my story. I am aware that you and Ms. Brewer went to the Brandywine Street crime scene the other evening, so I am speculating you had credible intelligence that event was related to a threat on Agency personnel. Then tonight, Babbitt is killed. He was closely affiliated with CIA. You are Clandestine Service, so I’m not sure what your interest in this is, but—”
Mayes turned and began walking back to the Suburban. His security men, late to recognize their principal’s discomfort, began moving between Mayes and the middle-aged woman following him.
Catherine backed off with a pleasant “Good night, Mr. Mayes.”
She received no reply.
—
Andy and Catherine found each other in the crazed lights of the crime scene a minute later.
Andy wore an expression of frustration. “I didn’t get a thing out of her.”
Catherine smiled, satisfied. “I struck out, too, but I don’t care. Most importantly, we shook the trees a little. I’ll reach out to Mayes in the morning, ask for a meeting on background with him and Carmichael, and helpfully suggest I might just go to the director’s office if I don’t get anything from them.”
“What will that accomplish?”
“Carmichael doesn’t like the director. He doesn’t like any director. He resents any oversight. My guess is the director is unaware Clandestine Service leadership is hanging out with the Maryland State Police.
“I surprised Mayes tonight with what I knew, I could see that. They are going to have to come up with some sort of story for me. It won’t be the truth, but they think it will slow me down.”
“But it won’t?”
“No. Whatever direction they try to send me off in will be a feint, but it will show me to look in another direction. You and I need to keep pounding the pavement on this. It’s just getting good.”
Andy and Catherine began climbing back up the embankment to their car.
Andy said, “I need to file a story, you know. I’m not an investigative reporter. My editor wants the news, and he wants it now.”
Catherine said, “File what you know, but not what you suspect. Don’t mention CIA being here at all, but mention Babbitt’s ties to the IC.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry, Andy. When I file a story, we’ll do it together. Trust me, it will be worth the wait.”
Andy smiled as he climbed.
31
It was just past four a.m. when Gentry pulled his gray Ford Escort into the parking lot of the Easy Market on Rhode Island. He was careful to park in the same spot as he did the last time he visited this store, and just as careful to pull his red ball cap down low and to walk where the cameras could not get a look at his face.
The same heavyset young woman with the lazy eye greeted him as soon as he came in the door. “Hey, baby. How’s your night goin’?”
“It’s goin’,” he said. He held his right arm down tight against his parka, as much to hide the tear and the little stain of blood that he’d been unable to clean off as to put a small amount of direct pressure on his painful wound.
“You must work nights, too,” she said, but she’d already turned her head back to the little TV behind the counter.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
He headed to a back aisle and found a small section with simple first aid items. He picked up an ACE bandage and two rolls of gauze, some tape, and a single off-brand bottle of antiseptic. He then stepped back to the cooler, where he hefted a six-pack of beer off a shelf.
LaShondra called out to him. “Oh, I see. You need you some beer for a big party over at your place. Suppose my invite got lost in the mail, is that it?”
Court smiled, then he scooped up a can of ravioli, a loaf of white bread, and a candy bar, and he brought his food and beer up to the register along with the first aid. He fished some bills out of his jacket with his left hand. “Nah. No party.”
“Mm-hm.” She said it in a playfully suspicious tone.
Court hoped she would be too occupied with her TV show to pay any attention to the other items he’d brought to the counter.
“Oh, baby, you done hurt yourself?”
So much for that.
“No.”
“Then what’s all this for?”
“Just stocking up on my first aid kit. Going camping this weekend.”