The Lion's Game (61 page)

I woke up, and within a few seconds I knew where I was, who I was, and who I was sleeping with.

One often regrets the intemperance of an alcoholic evening. One often wishes one had awakened alone, somewhere else. Far away. But I didn’t have that feeling this morning. In fact, I felt pretty good, though I resisted the temptation to run to the window and shout, “Wake up, New York! John Corey got laid!”

Anyway, the clock on the night stand said seven-fourteen.

I got quietly out of bed, went into the bathroom, and used the facilities. I found the Air France kit, shaved and brushed my teeth, then jumped in the shower.

Through the frosted glass shower door, I saw Kate come into the bathroom, then heard the toilet flush, then heard her brushing her teeth and gargling between yawns.

Having sex with a woman you barely know is one thing—spending the night is another. I’m real territorial about the bathroom.

Anyway, the shower door slid open and in walks Ms. Mayfield. Without even a by-your-leave, she nudges me away and stands under the shower. She said, “Wash my back.”

I washed her back with my soapy washcloth.

“Ooooh, that feels good.”

She turned around, and we embraced and kissed, the water cascading over our bodies.

Anyway, after soapy sex in the shower, we got out, dried off, and went into the bedroom, both wrapped in our bath towels. Her bedroom faced east and the sun was coming through the window. It looked like a nice day, but looks are deceptive.

She said, “I really enjoyed last night.”

“Me, too.”

“Will I see you again?”

“We work together.”

“Right. You’re the guy whose desk faces mine.”

You never know what to expect in the morning, or what to say, but it’s best to keep it light, which was what Kate Mayfield was doing. Five points.

Anyway, my clothes were elsewhere—in the living room, if my memory served me correctly, so I said, “I’ll leave you to your painting and find my clothes.”

“Everything is hung and pressed in the hall closet. I washed your underwear and socks.”

“Thank you.” Ten points. I retrieved my gun and holster and went into the living room where my clothes were still strewn around the floor. She must have dreamed about washing and ironing. Minus ten points.

I got dressed, unhappy about the day-old underwear. I’m obsessively clean for an alpha male, though, of course, I can rough it.

I went into the small kitchen and found a clean glass and poured myself an orange juice. The contents of the refrigerator, I noticed, were minimal, but there
was
yogurt. There’s always yogurt. What is it with women and yogurt?

I picked up the kitchen wall phone and dialed my apartment, hearing my recorded voice say, “John Corey residence—the missus has flown the coop, so don’t leave any messages for her.” Maybe, after a year and a half, I should change the message. Anyway, I punched in my code and robo-voice said, “You have eight messages.” The first was recorded last night from my ex, who said, “Change that stupid greeting message. Call me. I’m concerned.”

And she was. And I would call her, when I got around to it.

There was another concerned message from Mom and Pop, who live in Florida, and who were by now resembling sun-dried tomatoes.

There was a message from my brother, who reads only
The Wall Street Journal
, but who must have heard something from Mom and Dad, who instructed him to call Black Sheep. That’s my family nickname, and it has no negative connotations.

Two old buds from the job had also called inquiring about my possible involvement with Flight 175. There was also a message from my ex-partner, Dom Fanelli, who said, “Hey, goombah! Did I steer you straight on that job, or what? Holy shit! And you were worried about the two Pedros gunning for you? This raghead took out a whole plane and a bunch of Feds. Now he’s probably looking for you. Are you having fun yet? You were spotted in Giulio’s the other night, drinking alone. Buy a blond wig. Give me a call. You owe me a drink. Arrivederci.”

I smiled despite myself and said, “Va fungole, Dom.”

The next message was from Mr. Teddy Nash. He said, “Nash here—I think you should be in Frankfurt, Corey. I hope you’re on the way. If not, where are you? You need to be in contact. Call me.”

“Double va fungole, you little turd, you—” I realized this man was getting to me, and as Kate suggested at the airport, I shouldn’t let that happen.

The last message was from Jack Koenig, at midnight, my time. He said, “Nash tried to reach you. You’re not in the office, you’ve left no forwarding number, you don’t answer your pager, and I guess you’re not home. Call me back, ASAP.”

I think Herr Koenig was too long in the Fatherland already.

Robo-voice said, “End of messages.”

“Thank God.”

I was glad not to hear Beth’s voice, which would have increased my guilt quotient.

I went into the living room and sat on the couch, the scene of last night’s crime. Well, one of the scenes.

Anyway, I flipped through the only magazine I could see, a copy of
Entertainment Weekly
. In the book section, I saw that Danielle Steel had her fourth book out this year, and it was only April. Maybe I could get her to write my Incident Report. But she might dwell a bit too long on what the corpses in First Class were wearing.

I flipped to another section and was prepared to read a story about Barbra Streisand doing a charity concert to benefit Marxist Mayans in the Yucatan Peninsula, when, Voil.! Kate Mayfield appeared, powdered, coiffed, and dressed. That didn’t take too long actually. Ten points.

I stood and said, “You look lovely.”

“Thank you. But don’t go sensitive and goo-goo on me. I liked you the way you were.”

“And how was that?”

“Insensitive, loutish, self-centered, egotistical, rude, and sarcastic.”

“I’ll do my best.” Twenty-five points.

She informed me, “Tonight, your place. I’ll bring an overnight bag. Is that all right?”

“Of course.” As long as the overnight bag didn’t resemble three suitcases and four moving boxes. I really had to think this through.

She also informed me, “While you were in the bathroom last night, your pager beeped. I checked it. It was the Incident Command Center.”

“Oh ... you should have told me.”

“I forgot. Don’t worry about it.”

I had a feeling I was handing over some mission control, and perhaps life control to Kate Mayfield. See what I mean? Minus five points.

She moved toward the door, and I followed. She said, “There’s a cute little French café on Second Avenue.”

“Good. Leave it there.”

“Come on. My treat.”

“There’s a greasy coffee shop down the block.”

“I asked first.”

So, we gathered our briefcases and off we went, just like John and Jane Jones, off for a day at the office, except we were both carrying .40 caliber Glocks.

Kate was wearing black slacks, by the way, and a sort of Heinz Ketchup–colored blazer over a white blouse. I was wearing what I wore yesterday.

We took the elevator down to the lobby and exited the building. The doorman was the same guy from last night. Maybe they work an hour on and two hours off until they get in an eight-hour day. Anyway, the guy said, “Taxi, Ms. Mayfield?”

“No, thank you, Herbert, we’re walking.”

Herbert gave me a look that suggested that it should have been him, not me, in Apartment 1415.

It was a nice day, clear skies, a little cool, but no humidity. We walked east on 86th Street to Second Avenue, then turned south in the direction of my place, though we weren’t going there. The motor traffic on the avenue was already heavy, and so was the pedestrian traffic. I said, apropos of nothing but my mood at the moment, “I love New York.”

She replied, “I hate New York.” She realized that this statement was pregnant with future problems, especially if
she
were pregnant, and she added, “But I could get to like it.”

“No, you can’t. No one does. But you can get used to it. Sometimes you’ll love it, sometimes you’ll hate it. You never like it.”

She glanced at me, but did not comment on my profundity.

We came to a place called La-Something-de-Something. We went inside and were greeted warmly by a French lady on Prozac. She and Kate seemed to know each other, and they exchanged words in French. Get me out of here. Minus five points.

We sat at a table the size of my cuff links, on wire chairs made of coat hangers. The place looked like a Laura Ashley remnant sale, and smelled of warm butter, which makes my stomach turn. The clientele were all cross-dressers.

“Isn’t this cute?”

“No.”

The proprietress handed us tiny menus, handwritten in Sanskrit. There were thirty-two kinds of muffins and croissants, all unsuitable food for men. I asked Madame, “Can I get a bagel?”

“Non, monsieur.”

“Eggs? Sausage?”

“Non, monsieur.” She turned on her spiked heel and strode away. The Prozac was wearing off.

Kate said, “Try the strawberry croissant.”

“Why?” Anyway, I ordered coffee, orange juice, and six brioches. I can handle brioche. They taste like my English Grandma’s popovers. Kate ordered tea and a cherry croissant.

As we had our breakfast, she asked me, “Do you have any other information you’d like to share with me?”

“No. Just the murder in Perth Amboy.”

“Any theories?”

“Nope. Come here often?”

“Most mornings. Any plan of action for today?”

“I need to pick up my dry cleaning. How about you?”

“I have to get up and running on all those things on my desk.”

“Think about what’s not on your desk.”

“Such as?”

“Such as detailed information about Khalil’s alleged victims in Europe. Unless I missed it, there’s nothing on our desks. Nothing from Scotland Yard. Nothing from the Air Force CID or FBI.”

“Okay ... what are we looking for?”

“For a connection and a motive.”

“There seems to be no connection, other than that the targets were British and American. That’s also the motive,” she pointed out.

“The one attack that sticks out is the ax murder of that American Air Force colonel in England.”

“Colonel Hambrecht. Near Lakenheath Airbase.”

“Right. This coffee’s not bad.”

“Why does it stand out?”

“It was up close and personal.”

“So was the murder of those schoolchildren.”

“They were shot. I’m talking about the ax. That’s significant.”

She looked at me and said, “Okay, Detective Corey. Tell me about it.”

I played with my remaining brioche. I said, “A murder like that suggests a personal relationship.”

“Okay. But we’re not even sure that Khalil committed that murder.”

“Right. It’s mostly Interpol speculation. They’ve been tracking this guy. I waded through a half ton of paper yesterday while you and Jack were running up taxi bills to JFK. I found very little from Scotland Yard, or Air Force CID, or our CIA friends.” I added, “And nothing from the FBI, who must have sent a team over to investigate the Hambrecht murder as well as the murder of the American kids. So, why is this stuff missing?”

“Maybe because you missed it.”

“I put in requests to the Incident File Room, and I’m still waiting.”

“Don’t get paranoid.”

“Don’t be so trusting.”

She didn’t reply immediately, then said, “I’m not.”

I think we were in silent agreement that something stank here, but Agent Mayfield was not going to verbalize this.

Madame presented me with the bill, which I passed to Mademoiselle, who paid in cash. Five points. Madame made change from a hip purse, just like in Europe. How cool is that?

We left, and I hailed a cab. We got in, and I said, “Twenty-six Federal Plaza.”

The man was clueless, and I gave him directions. “Where you from?”

“Albania.”

When I was a kid, there were still cabbies around who were from old czarist Russia, all former nobility, if you believed their stories. At least they knew how to find an address.

We sat in silence a minute, then Kate said, “Maybe you should have gone home to change.”

“I will, if you’d like. I’m a few blocks from here.” I added, “We’re almost neighbors.”

She smiled, mulled it over, then said, “The hell with it. No one will notice.”

“There are five hundred detectives and FBI people in the building. You don’t think they’ll notice?”

She laughed. “Who cares?”

I said, “We’ll go in separately.”

She took my hand, put her lips to my ear and said, “Fuck ’em.”

I gave her a kiss on the cheek. She smelled good. She looked good. I liked her voice. I asked her, “Where are you from, exactly?”

“All over. I’m an FBI brat. Dad is retired. He was born in Cincinnati, Mom was born in Tennessee. We moved around a lot. One posting was in Venezuela. The FBI has lots of people in South America. J. Edgar tried to keep South America from the CIA. Did you know that?”

“I think so. Good old J. Edgar.”

“He was very misunderstood, according to my father.”

“I can relate to that.”

She laughed.

I asked, “Are your parents proud of you?”

“Of course. Are your parents proud of
you?
Are they both alive?”

“Alive and well in Sarasota.”

She smiled. “And ... ? Do they love you? Are they proud of you?”

“Absolutely. They have a pet name for me—Black Sheep.”

She laughed. Two points.

Kate stayed quiet awhile, then said, “I had a long-term, long-distance relationship with another agent.” She added, “I’m glad you and I are neighbors. It’s easier. It’s better.”