house, he gestured towards a covered patio which had a large glass-topped table supported by a heavy wrought- iron base in the shape of a quartet of nymphs. On the thick glass sat a chrome-plated coffee pot and three cups and saucers.
As they approached, Drexler could hear music, opera in fact, and narrowed his eyes to try and place it. He knew it, he was sure. His mother had been a major Pavarotti fan before her illness and that was the voice that he recognised. At the table, Sorenson gestured at a pair of wicker chairs towards which the agents moved.
A book lay open on the table and Drexler took the long way round to his chair to get a glance at the title. It was a slim paperback volume of
Sorenson saw him looking but said nothing. Without asking, he poured coffee into the two empty cups and pushed them towards the two agents before freshening up his own cup. ‘Please help yourself to milk or sugar. I’m sorry I don’t have any cream. I know how you Americans jump at any opportunity to increase your weight.’ Sorenson beamed at the two agents to dissipate the insult.
McQuarry emitted a mirthless laugh. ‘Don’t worry, sir. I’m sure we can locate a box of Krispy Kremes when we’re done.’
Sorenson smiled at her response.
The music was clearer now and Drexler saw it was coming from an open pair of French windows behind them. He remembered it now. He’d heard it in a movie,
‘This is nice,’ he said.
‘Yes, it is. How gratifying. A man of culture. So hard to find away from the East Coast.’ Drexler looked over to his partner as she narrowed her eyes at Sorenson. McQuarry was a straightforward person who spoke her mind, yet believed in good manners and only attempted humour with people she knew. Sorenson’s blend of intellectual vanity and restrained taunting would not be familiar to her.
But most of the Brits Drexler knew from college interacted in a very similar way to Sorenson — constantly on the offensive, probing for a weakness to deride. Though it was not the norm for a Californian, Drexler had sought out their company and had learned to appreciate their mocking.
Sorenson turned to fix Drexler with his coal-black eyes. ‘Please sit.’ Drexler obeyed on reflex, suddenly unsure whether he should have mentioned the opera. He’d given Sorenson a free piece of information about himself and received nothing in return. Their usual working method was to let the suspect do the running and underplay their own hand.
‘Were you expecting us, Professor?’ asked McQuarry.
‘Expecting you?’ inquired Sorenson angelically.
‘The coffee cups all laid out, sir,’ explained McQuarry, not taking her gaze from him.
Sorenson beamed mechanically. ‘I’m always prepared for guests, Agent McQuarry. Now what can I do for you? Have you found my car?’
‘Car?’ The agents exchanged a knowing glance.
‘Yes, my beloved Dodge Ram 250. Stolen in South Lake Tahoe. Outside Safeway of all places.’
‘The FBI don’t make house calls over stolen vehicles, sir,’ put in Drexler.
Sorenson chuckled, with a tinge of feigned guilt. ‘Of course not. Stupid of me. Then why are you here?’ he asked, wide-eyed.
‘We were hoping you could provide some information about an employee of yours. George Bailey.’ Drexler dropped in the question effortlessly and waited for the reaction.
For a few seconds, Sorenson said nothing but merely looked from one to the other. The music came to an end but another piece started up immediately. Drexler didn’t know it.
‘Faure’s Requiem,’ said Sorenson, waving a hand at the French window. ‘Imagine listening to this as you die. How would that be?’
‘A good way to enter the next world,’ replied Drexler, before he’d given himself time to think.
Sorenson’s eyebrow raised and his mocking smile intensi-fied. ‘The next world?’ Drexler’s smile turned to stone and he berated himself again — another free piece of information. ‘I wouldn’t have thought someone familiar with the works of Albert Camus would have believed in the next world.’ Sorenson’s smile disappeared. ‘After all, death is not an event in life: we do not live to experience death.’
Drexler nodded, the anticipation rising in him. Sorenson may have seen him looking at his book, but the phrase he’d just quoted was Wittgenstein, not Camus. He racked his brains to finish the passage. ‘Eternal life belongs to those who live in the present.’
‘A good philosophy, Special Agent.’ Sorenson stared into Drexler’s eyes. His dead-eyed grin was unnerving.
Drexler looked over at McQuarry, but she seemed not to have registered her partner’s excitement.
Drexler tried to figure it. The way he’d floundered, everything he’d said to Sorenson since they’d arrived, even the faint glance of recognition at Sorenson’s reading material had been logged, had handed their host an advantage. But despite all that, and under no pressure, Sorenson had made a coded confession to Drexler, had revealed knowledge of Wittgenstein that told Drexler he was the killer they sought. Not a confession for a judge and jury maybe but, sure as eggs is eggs, Sorenson had killed Caleb and Billy Ashwell.
Drexler narrowed his eyes. But why give it up so easily? As an opponent, Sorenson was holding a good hand. Opponent. Is that what he was? Yes, like this was a game. If the notion weren’t so absurd he could have sworn that hidden away behind the mask of civility, Victor Sorenson was like a child with a new toy, unable to hide his glee. Drexler was desperate to glance over at McQuarry to see if she’d read him the same way, but was unable to unlock his gaze from Sorenson’s lifeless, black eyes.
‘Drexler? Drexler?’ said Sorenson, suddenly taut with concentration. ‘Why do I know that name?’ Drexler stiffened and looked over at his partner. Sorenson must have read about the Board of Inquiry’s report in the papers. Drexler sipped at his coffee and tried to regain some equilibrium. It was cold.
‘We’re here to talk about George Bailey, sir,’ insisted McQuarry, tapping a diversionary finger on the glass table.
Their host smiled but this time it was a sad expression, suffused with unexpected tenderness. ‘George. You’ve found him, then?’
McQuarry sat up straight. ‘Found him?’
‘He’s missing, is he not?’
Drexler smiled at the overemphasis of the present tense. Their host was trying a little too hard to avoid a timeless trap, one that they hadn’t even set. It was odd. Whichever way the conversation turned, Sorenson was trying his best to encourage suspicion with his manner. Usually suspects tried to feign sincerity and deflect further inquiry and although they frequently failed, at least they tried.
‘You know he is, sir. You reported it. Would you care to remind us of the circumstances?’
Sorenson nodded. ‘George was on holiday — vacation, sorry — for a month. He’d been out here in California for a couple of years, helping to set up the American end of the business. Sorenson Pharmaceuticals. One of my best people and also a friend. It was a big wrench for them to come out here, what with two young daughters. But they loved it, once they’d settled. He didn’t get much of a break the first two years so he wanted to make up for it. The family had always wanted to see what your astonishing country has to offer, particularly California, so they packed their gear into a Volkswagen camper van and set off … Yosemite, Death Valley, Big Sur, the Mojave. For the final week they were supposed to be coming here to my house as my guests. I was in LA on business and as I say, George was a good friend…’
‘Was?’ said McQuarry.
Sorenson took a sip of his inky black coffee. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Please don’t patronise me. You’re not from the local Tahoe office. You’ve come all the way from Sacramento to pay me a visit and there can only be one reason.’ McQuarry and Drexler stayed silent to confirm Sorenson’s speculation. ‘So it’s true. Tell me.’
‘We’ve found the body of George Bailey, his wife and one of his daughters.’
Sorenson nodded. ‘I see. How were they killed?’
