“That doesn’t mean she’s missing. Maybe she doesn’t feel like talking to anyone.”
“But she did talk to you.”
“If she comes back, I’ll be sure to tell her to call home,” said Ball. He started to open the door and go back in, but Lia held it closed.
“What exactly was she asking about?”
“Besides looking for the notebook,” said Ball, “she asked me about Forester’s wife, whether I’d seen her in town.
Pretty ridiculous. She showed some picture that probably fits half the people in town.”
“Forester’s wife?”
“You know, I’ve never seen so much damn fuss about a jerk who killed himself before,” said Ball. “Waking people up in the middle of the night — can’t this wait until morning?”
“Can you think of anything else she might have said?” Ball shrugged. “We only talked a few minutes. I got the impression she was on her way somewhere.”
“Where?”
Ball shrugged. “She went down One Ninety-Nine after she left the office. Could be going anywhere.”
95
Chief Ball watched the federal agent back out of the driveway and onto the road.
These people were worse than cockroaches. Blind, but per sis tent.
He was all right for now. This changed his plans for the morning, though. He had to move Rauci’s car tonight — right now, if possible.
Drive it over to Rhinecliff and leave it near the train station. That part was easy. Getting back without a car wouldn’t be.
He could go down to Poughkeepsie, take a train to the city, then another over to Harlem Valley.
Too much. And he had too much to do anyway.
His wife was waiting upstairs, just as he knew she would be.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice halfway between whining and pleading.
“I’m working on something with the
“Is that where you were all night?” Ball sighed. There were times when her voice drove him completely up the wall. Yelling at her would shut her up, but in the long run it was counterproductive. He looked at her and shrugged. “I’m not supposed to say.”
“Not even to your wife?”
“It has to do with a Secret Service agent.”
“Not the suicide.”
“Yes. The suicide. It’s complicated, Elizabeth. Please don’t go blabbing.” He took two pairs of socks from the drawer.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to be doing a little legwork over the next few days. I won’t be around. I’ll check in from time to time.”
“Leg work? With female marshals?”
“I don’t go for those Asian chicks, especially when they’re teenagers,” he said. He turned around and gave his wife a kiss on the cheek. “But thank you for thinking she’d be attracted to me. Now get some rest, all right? And don’t go blabbing, all right? This is an important case we’re dealing with. The wrong word in the wrong place, and some murderer goes free.”
“Forget I said that, and keep your mouth shut. Please.”
96
About halfway back to Saigon, Qui turned to Dean and asked again if he had been in the Marines.
“Yes, I was.”
She asked which unit. He hesitated a moment, wondering if somehow she knew of the ambush against Phuc Dinh. But she had a different motive.
“I met a young man, a Marine, from First Division,” she began. “It must have been 1966. This was before I married, very much before. I was such a younger woman.” Dean glanced at the side of her face. The memory or the telling of it seemed to make her very old, drawing deep lines at the corners of her eyes and furrows above her brow.
“He was a good young man. We met in Saigon while he was on leave or furlough; I forget the word. He spoke French — he’d studied it in school, and was not very good.” Qui smiled at Dean.
“He tried very hard. It was charming. And he was hand-some. Like you were, I’d imagine.” Qui turned back to look at the road. “When he died, they didn’t allow me to go to the funeral. One of his friends came to our house and told me.
He died while on patrol. Three other men were wounded taking back his body.”
Not knowing what to say, Dean said nothing.
“It seems odd that they would bury a Marine here,” said Qui. “Even in haste. If they knew where the body was.”
“I agree.”
“You aren’t with the Monetary Fund,” said Qui.
“No,” said Dean. He imagined Rockman wincing back at the Art Room.
Qui reached over and tapped his hand. “Good luck.” Dean caught her fingers, and held them for a moment.
“Thank you,” he said. “Good luck to you.” They drove the next hour in silence.
Dean noticed the car following them when they stopped for gas about ten miles outside Saigon. A white Toyota pickup pulled past as the attendant filled up the truck and two jerry cans Qui kept in the trunk; Dean noticed the truck again as soon as they were back on the road.
He reached to the back of his belt to make sure his com system was on, then pointed out the truck to Qui.
“Are you sure he’s following us?” she asked.
“Pretty sure,” Dean said. “White Toyota pickup, two middle-aged guys in it,” he added, describing the truck for the Art Room, though of course Qui thought he was talking to her.
“Maybe someone became interested in you in Quang Nam,” said Qui. “Or maybe it’s a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
The Art Room asked Dean if he could get the license plate numbers of the truck, but the sun was starting to fade and the vehicle wasn’t quite close enough for him to do that while they were driving.
“Charlie, Tommy Karr is about ten minutes away,” said Rockman a short while later. “He’ll get a look at who’s following you and we can decide what to do then.”
“Stay on the highway,” Dean told Qui. “I want to figure out what’s going on here.”
“We’re almost in the city. If it’s the security forces, they’ll follow us everywhere.”
“Let’s just keep going for now.”
Dean slid lower in his seat, trying to see the driver and passenger of the other car in the side mirror. The passenger seemed to be frowning. Dean leaned over, trying to get a better view into the cab of the truck.
Qui suddenly veered sharply to the left. Before Dean knew what was happening, she had crossed over the
