“Did he ever go there?”
“Not that I know,” Amanda told them. “Did one of his investigations involve a Vietnamese national?”
“Not as far as anyone knows,” said Lia.
“He did ask you if you spoke French,” said Jackson.
Frey had already asked Amanda about the instant messages; now she realized why.
“I speak some. He never told me about a case,” repeated Amanda. “Maybe it did have something to do with one, but he never explained. If he was thinking about it, he changed his mind.”
“Really?” asked Jackson, his tone disbelieving.
Amanda shook her head. “He didn’t discuss his cases.
Not Jerry.”
They were silent for a few moments. Amanda’s breath wheezed against her teeth and lips.
“He didn’t use his work computer to send the e-mails we’ve been looking at,” said Lia. “Would you happen to know — would he have used yours?”
“Mine?”
“A personal one?”
“I don’t have a home computer,” said Amanda. “I haven’t had one for a year.”
“What do you use for browsing the Web?”
“I don’t. I — sometimes I use the computer at work. To shop. But I don’t need one. Just the work one. And the Ser vice has that.”
They were silent again. Amanda felt guilty that she had never gotten the old computer fixed or replaced. Maybe if she had…
Ridiculous. But she couldn’t get rid of the thought. If one thing had been different somewhere, her lover might still be alive.
“You said that he didn’t discuss specific cases with you,” said Jackson. “And not this case.”
Amanda nodded.
“But I would imagine you’d know how he usually went about working on cases?”
“What do you mean?”
“He used stenographic notebooks,” said Lia. “We only found one in this case, and that had been back in his office, not with him when he died. Would that be unusual?” Amanda thought of the notebooks he used, brown steno pads, which he often folded over so he could carry them in his back pocket.
Had she seen one that eve ning in the room?
No. He often kept them in the car — he had a habit of tucking them away as soon as he got in.
Where?
In the back, under the seat.
Maybe they’d already found the notebooks and were trying to trick her somehow. Did they know about Jerry’s
Did they know about the extra key he kept under the bumper — a key she still had?
Or the room key?
Was this a trick?
It would be a classic investigative maneuver: curry sympathy, extract as much information “softly” as they could, then begin pressing her.
Did they think she killed him?
God, they must. It was all a setup.
“He did take notes in a steno pad,” Amanda said calmly.
“Do you think — you’re asking me this because he didn’t kill himself?”
“Do
“No.” Amanda knew she shouldn’t say anything — she should be quiet, silent — but the words blurted from her mouth. “I can’t believe he’d do it. His boys, especially the older one. This will destroy them.”
“He is taking it hard,” said Lia.
So they’d been there. It was a trap.
“Is there anyone you know of who would want to kill him?” asked Jackson.
Amanda turned toward him. Jackson might be old, but he was the vicious one, the classic wolf in lamb’s clothing.
Amanda shook her head. “Have you looked into his cases?”
“The Service hasn’t found any that stood out,” said Lia.
“They’re still reviewing them, but they seem to have no real leads.”
“Maybe you have a different opinion,” said Jackson.
“No.” Amanda rose. “I’m sorry, I’m supposed to be at work. I really have to leave. I have to go.” The two NSA officers exchanged a glance, then rose.
“Here’s a number you can reach us at,” said Jackson, producing a card.
“Do you have a card, too?” Amanda asked Lia.
“I don’t. You could just call that number and ask for me. Lia.”
“Just Lia?”
“They’ll know who you’re looking for.”
“she seemed extremely uneasy,” said Jackson when they reached the car.
“Her boyfriend just died,” said Lia.
“When I was in the State Department,” said Jackson, “some supervisors would put pressure on employees who were having affairs. Does that still go on?” Lia felt her face flush. “No.”
She could never imagine Charlie killing himself — but if he died, and the circumstances were arranged so that it appeared as if it were a suicide, how would she feel? How would she act? Would people think that their affair — not exactly a secret — had somehow caused his death?
Especially if it was a suicide. Everyone would be thinking that Amanda Rauci somehow drove Forester to kill himself.
First the wife, then the girlfriend; it was all too much for him.
“I guess she’s just upset,” said Jackson. “It is painful to lose a lover.”
Amanda left the building a few minutes after the NSA people. She thought that they might be watching her, and so she acted as nonchalant as she could, backing slowly from her space and heading on the highway exactly as if she were going to headquarters.
Were they following her? Amanda took an exit to get some gas, watching carefully. She’d been trained to spot surveillance teams and didn’t see any of the usual giveaways, but the one thing that experience had impressed on her was that you could never be sure enough that you weren’t being followed. She decided against running an aggressive driving pattern to flush out anyone following her; doing that would tip them off to the fact that she knew she was being followed.
Her best course was to act naturally — go into the office, sit through what ever crap she was supposed to sit through, then leave. She’d pretend to do some shopping, slip away then.
But what if she was arrested when she went to the office?
Arrested? For what?
Murder?
No way. No.
What if someone had seen her at the hotel? What if she’d left some print or DNA somewhere? Even a tear might give her away.
The NSA wouldn’t be involved then. It would be FBI agents.
Maybe they’d simply lied. A weird lie to throw her off.
She’d already spoken to the FBI agents, dumb jerks who weren’t anywhere near as thorough as the NSA people. Or maybe that was the game plan — she’d never be on her guard with the NSA people, right? Because they were spies, interested in foreign intrigue, not simple murder.
What the hell had Jerry been working on?
So was there another notebook? If so, maybe something in there would tell her what had happened.
