with Harry Levine. But she was afraid. The look in his eyes said it all. It turned her stomach. She was ashamed, but strangely not regretful. She could never let them hurt Otto.
“They killed him,” Walter said, without her asking.
“I’m s-s-sorry.”
“I didn’t come here for an apology.”
“Why did you come here?”
His resolve was jolted, on its way to shaken. Could she do this to him with a simple question like that? Damn! He wanted to say- For you. I came for you! Asshole! he berated himself. “I need to know about the guy who threatened you and your husband. I have to put him somewhere, with someone. He leads me to them and right now I don’t know who they are.”
“Walter, what is this all about?”
“You mean, who is Harry Levine? Who was Harry Levine?”
“That would be a good place to start.”
He told Isobel about Harry, his position in London in the Foreign Service and the quirky circumstances that brought him to Sir Anthony Wells’ office. He told her about Lacey’s confession. He told her the mystery surrounding the assassination of President Kennedy was solved. He knew she would believe him, and he was right. He said it made sense that some people might kill to get it or to keep it from public view. He said he found Harry in Europe and told Isobel how he took him to New Mexico to keep him safe. That’s all. He never mentioned Conchita Crystal. After all, she hired him and thus deserved the anonymity he so scrupulously protected for all his clients. It made no difference that he sent the money back, even less that she never cashed his check. He related the story of Frederick Lacey and Joseph P. Kennedy. He repeated what Harry told him about the summer of 1940, about the suicide of Audrey Lacey. He left out nothing about Lacey’s wife and the continuing interest from her family. He told her about Devereaux, calling him by name. He said he was the one who took him to Il Localino. Isobel winced when Walter reminded her of that clumsy moment. Walter gave her the full story. Finally, he said, “So, we have the guy who showed up saying he was Christopher Hopman.”
Isobel’s steak sandwich came during Walter’s talk. So did his seafood salad. She picked at her plate. He didn’t touch his. He recalled how she practically attacked her burger that day in Billy’s when she got in from St. Thomas after her long flight from New York. He saw her again, in his mind’s eye, in that white top with the spaghetti straps. Back then she ate and talked with equal fervor. Not now.
“Walter, do you remember when we were in New York, at my apartment, going over everything we had, trying to figure out who killed Hopman and the others, trying to identify Leonard Martin?” It was a foolish question, one that came perilously close to offending him. All the more because she was not looking for an answer.
“There was a point, then,” she continued, “a point where you refused to tell me something-a feeling you had about Leonard’s son-in-law, Carter Lawrence-we called him Kermit -and I was hurt. My feelings were hurt because I trusted you and you held back. I know you remember.”
“Yes,” he said.
“You said to me, you said you told me everything you knew, just not everything you thought. I remember it clearly. That was the way you worked, you said. I think you were sorry-sorry that you hurt my feelings-but you couldn’t help yourself. Right?”
“Yes,” he said.
“After that, you changed. You did tell me everything. I know you did. It was thrilling to work together like that. But now, you’re not telling me half of what you know. Forget what you think. You’re telling me maybe a tenth of what you know. Basically, you’re telling me squat.”
“You didn’t tell me…” He could feel those iron doors struggling to break free, to swing wide. He’d have no part of that now. “Tell me about your visitor,” he said, fighting his stronger instincts. “You said he had a trace of an accent.”
“He did,” Isobel replied. “I’ve thought about him-I’ve thought about little else since… since.”
“His accent?”
“Eastern European maybe. Actually, I was thinking even farther, into Asia. There’s a section of Russia-or what used to be Russia-stretching from Central Asia to Europe. The republics at the western edge are very Western. The people are more European than Asian, genetically that is. They’re white people. In fact, they’re Caucasian, which is the name of a mountainous area…”
“Azerbaijan? Dagestan or Georgia? Which one do you think? The Transcaucasian Federation? Was he from there?”
“What?”
“I’ve heard of them. I can even point them out on a map. I’m not as dumb as you think I am, Isobel.”
“I never th-th-thought…”
“Yes you did!” Oh shit, it was all coming apart for him. He’d loved her. Christ, he really had. He would have changed so much for her. And worse, he planned to, never thinking she would turn him away. But turn him away she did. She had a life to lead and he was nothing more than an old man, a dumb shit, a way to pass the time. “You want to know more?” he challenged her. “Here’s more. You killed him. That’s right. No fucking around, you gave him up. You traded Harry Levine’s life for Otto’s precious fingers.”
“No, no,” Isobel sobbed. “I didn’t understand…”
“Bullshit, Isobel! You knew damn well. The sonofabitch who threatened you wanted Harry and you gave him up.”
“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Fuck you!” Walter reached in his pocket, took out some bills, threw them on the table, and walked out on her. Oh, Christ! he was thinking. Am I only getting even?
Tucker Poesy’s life was an open book, to Walter anyway. He knew where she lived. Harry told him. He had her cell phone number he’d taken from her purse. She might ditch the phone, but she wasn’t going to move just because Harry Levine had seen her apartment. She had the nerve to pull a gun on him in his own home, but Walter saw himself as a forgiving man, especially now in the bloom of his reinvigorated good health. If he could get over her transgression, she ought to be able to deal with being stripped naked, tied to a chair, and held as a hostage for almost a week. He smiled thinking about it. He had no regret. She must have gotten over it by now. Had she sought revenge, he would have seen her already. Patience was not one of her strong points. Walter was certain Tucker Poesy had gone home to lick her wounds. He called her in London. Fortunately, she had not changed the phone.
“Hello Tucker, it’s Walter Sherman,” he said.
“You cocksucking sonofabitch! Who the fuck do you think you are? You prick! Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on, mutherfucker!”
“Got that out of your system?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“We need to talk. You need this every bit as much as I do. You just don’t know it yet.”
“Fuck off!”
“Fine, but if you really meant that you would have hung up by now.” Then the phone went dead. Oh, shit, Walter laughed. Better be careful not to push her too far. He called the number again.
“Is that you again?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay, what the fuck do you want?”
He told her enough to pique her interest-not all of it, but enough. Then he said they had to get together, meet face to face, talk it out, decide what they should do and how to do it.
“You want me to meet you?” she said with a purposeful note of incredulity.
“What am I going to do? Bust your jaw? Tie you up?”
“Don’t fuck with me, you fucking… old man.”
“Ouch!”
“I said, don’t…”
“Meet me somewhere safe,” he said, “somewhere you feel comfortable. I’ll go anywhere. My intentions are pure, honestly.” Tucker Poesy agreed to meet Walter in two days. She was quite specific in her instructions. When she was done, she said, “No exceptions, no deviations. Do not fuck with me.”
