Multiple Exposure A Sophie Medina Mystery (14 page)

“Nine o’clock.”

“What’s your number?”

I told him, and he nodded, verifying my call. “Why didn’t you leave a message?”

“I didn’t want to, under the circumstances,” I said. “I also assume it’s no accident that you turned up after Luke called.”

“You assume right.” Duval clipped his phone to his belt. “Why don’t we head down to the river? It’s a nice day.”

I’d half expected him to tell me he wanted to take me for a little ride where we’d end up in a nondescript office building downtown or on the other side of the Potomac somewhere in Virginia where I’d sit across from him at a table answering questions he’d fire at me like a baseball pitching machine. I hadn’t figured he’d want to take a walk in the park.

“We can take the canal towpath and cut through Grace Street,” I said. “It’s a lot more pleasant than dealing with the crowded sidewalks on Wisconsin and M.”

“Lead the way,” he said.

We turned right at the bike mural and took the little pedestrian bridge over the C&O Canal. Upstream you can see the Potomac River from the towpath, because the canal—all 184.5 miles of it—roughly follows the contours of the river. But by the time you get to Georgetown, the Potomac is a few blocks away, and instead, newish redbrick office buildings and old stone walls rise like a canyon on either side of it.

Duval and I clattered down the steep metal staircase, the sound of our footsteps reverberating off the buildings. On this bright, sunshiny September morning when the air was soft and warm, the kind of day when you felt good to be alive, I expected to see joggers along the towpath or even the backlit silhouettes of people traversing the other bridges farther downstream. Instead we were completely alone and the place was eerily silent. No one looked out an office window or seemed to notice us, and I briefly regretted suggesting that we not join the jostling throngs on Georgetown’s main streets.

“So, how about if you tell me what happened last night at the National Gallery?” Duval said, as though we were getting back to a conversation that had been temporarily derailed.

I thought he might take notes, but maybe he’d written down what Luke had told him and now he just wanted my firsthand account. By the time I’d finished my story, we’d reached the cut-through to Grace Street.

“You have no idea who these men were?” he asked. “You notice anything, like an accent, maybe? Speech tic?”

“The Russian had a deep voice. The American had a cold and he sounded scared.”

“What else?”

“I think they were talking about a plan to kill Taras Attar when he’s in the U.S.,” I said. “They kept talking about a Russian who would arrive in three days.”

“They never mentioned his name?”

“No.”

At the intersection of Grace Street and Wisconsin Avenue, Duval and I turned right and continued down the steep sidewalk toward the river and the waterfront promenade. The thundering traffic noise and the roar of planes landing and taking off from Reagan Airport were deafening.

Duval raised his voice as we turned downriver toward the Kennedy Center. “Do you have any reason to believe these men knew you were in the next room?”

“No,” I said.

He took off his glasses and stared at me. “Meaning all we have is your word you overheard a conversation that appears to involve the Senate majority leader having prior knowledge of an assassination plot of a Russian you presume is Taras Attar.”

It sounded worse coming from him. “Yes.”

Duval and I kept walking until we reached the elaborate fountains at Washington Harbour.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” I said. “Luke doesn’t know about it.”

Duval put his glasses back on. The lenses had darkened in the sunlight so I could no longer see his eyes. “Speak freely.”

I told him about being summoned to the meeting with Vasiliev and that he’d informed me he wanted the well logs and any information on the test well Crowne Energy had drilled in Abadistan. I said he expected me to be his messenger because he was convinced I had a way to contact Nick.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I asked him how he knew Nick was alive,” I said. “He didn’t feel like sharing that information.”

“You had a busy evening, Ms. Medina,” Duval said.

“Not by choice.” I ignored the little dig. “This time I had a witness. You can verify that conversation with her.”

Duval stopped walking. “What witness?”

“Ali Jones . . . Alicia Jones, the office receptionist. She was in the next room getting an extra set of flash batteries. After Vasiliev left the conference room, she came in and told me she heard the entire conversation.”

“I didn’t see a receptionist when I came into your office.”

“She might have had a late night last night.”

“I see,” Duval said. “You got a home address for her, a phone number?”

I pulled out my phone and looked through my address book. “Just her cell phone. Luke has her address.”

“Never mind. I’ll get everything from him,” he said. “Back to you and this talk. Did Mr. Vasiliev threaten you in any way?”

“He told me his patience lasted only so long,” I said. “And as I was leaving the National Gallery, a black SUV pulled up behind me on Madison Drive. I think the driver was trying to run me off the road, or at least scare me.”

“You think?”

“Before anything happened I got away and lost him. Maybe it was random, but later I wondered if Arkady Vasiliev wanted to make sure I knew he meant business and that was his way of warning me.”

“You want to tell me how you lost an SUV on a Vespa? Driving down a one-way street on the Mall?”

I said, surprised, “How do you know I drive a Vespa?”

He pointed his index fingers at his eyes. “Sometimes we’re very low-tech. The only vehicle outside your building when I arrived was a Jeep. When I left, a Vespa was parked next to it and you had shown up.”

“Oh.”

“So how’d you lose that car?”

“I took a shortcut across the Mall on one of the footpaths. He didn’t follow me.”

Duval’s mouth twitched. “I see.”

We had nearly reached the end of the shops and restaurants and office buildings that made up the Washington Harbour complex. Duval veered over to the river and leaned against the safety rail with his back to the Potomac as though he was just there to people-watch and enjoy a lazy day. I joined him, since it seemed like the logical thing to do.

Duval seemed to be mulling what I’d said, and his silence was making me nervous. “Are you in contact with your husband, Ms. Medina?” he asked finally.

“No.”

“Have you tried to get in touch with him?”

“I’ve sent him e-mails. He doesn’t reply.”

“When was the last time you did that?”

If he didn’t already know the answer, he could find out soon enough. “This morning.”

“Why, particularly, this morning?”

“To tell him about that conversation with Arkady Vasiliev.”

“Either of those stories you just told me—the meeting with Vasiliev and the discussion between the two men—is disturbing on its own,” Duval said in his light drawl. “Taken together, I’m not sure what to make of them—or you—yet.”

I had figured it might go down this way. The man who was supposed to be my lifeline to information about Nick was telling me he didn’t know whether to take me seriously or consider me some kind of kook.

Duval folded his arms and tapped his fingers on his elbows like he was playing an arpeggio on a piano. “Did your husband ever discuss the political situation in Abadistan with you, talk about how he felt about what was going on? For example, do you know if he sympathized with the Abadis or was he pro-Russian?”

He did think I was a kook. Or at least naïve enough to tell him that Nick and I had pillow talk where he spilled secrets about the clandestine need-to-know world he operated in.

“Give both of us a little credit, Agent Duval. Nick never discussed his work with me and I knew enough not to ask.”

“Your husband didn’t confide in someone as intelligent, well traveled, and politically savvy as you, Ms. Medina? I find that hard to believe.”

I shrugged. “Thanks for the flattery. But if I don’t know anything, I don’t have to lie. Keeps life simple. That’s how we operated.”

“Is that so?” Duval said, and I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or sarcastic. “All right, let’s just see where we are here. Right off the bat a couple of things jump out at me and that always gives me heartburn. One, where is Nicholas Canning and why doesn’t he come in? Two is you, Ms. Medina, and your role in all this. It seems like an odd coincidence that you show up as one of two photographers at a gig at the National Gallery where Arkady Vasiliev will be present, practically materializing out of nowhere. Mr. Santangelo told me you just started working with him and, in fact, that was your first assignment. He also happened to mention that you were particularly interested in—and knowledgeable about—Mr. Vasiliev’s exhibition. In fact, he said you discussed it at length during your interview.”

“That’s because—”

Duval kept going. “Don’t you think it’s more than a little convenient that you were right there last night to act as an intermediary between your husband and Arkady Vasiliev?”

“Give me a little credit,” I said, snapping at him. “If I were making this up, don’t you think I’d invent something less outrageous than overhearing an assassination plot that somehow involves the Senate majority leader? I had no idea Vasiliev was going to seek me out and say what he did.”

“Is that so? Well, here’s the thing. As I piece together this story, there are a lot of coincidences,” he said. “Unfortunately I don’t believe in coincidences, especially not that many. They bother me.”

He seemed to believe Nick and I were somehow working together, that we had orchestrated events in order for me to meet Vasiliev at the National Gallery.

“What you’re implying is wrong, Agent Duval. I didn’t set up anything or plan anything.”

“Then you either have impeccable timing or an unfortunate talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said.

“Probably the latter.” I felt like he’d knocked the wind out of me. “Look, Vasiliev found out somehow that Nick’s alive. I’d like to know how or who told him. In London I was told that my husband was spotted getting on the Moscow metro. Once. Has he been seen since then? Do you know where he is now?”

“No, we do not know where he is now.” Duval gave me a severe look. “And we’d sure like to know. So if you hear from him, I want you to call me night or day. Next time leave a message, you got that?”

“Yes.”

“And do not screw around with me.”

I kept my voice level. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“About that other conversation, we’ll be looking into that as well. But when all is said and done, a lot of roads seem to be leading back to you, Ms. Medina. So it goes without saying”—he pointed to his eyes again with his two fingers—“that I’ll have these trained on you. I’ll be watching you.”

9

I passed on Duval’s offer to walk back to Cady’s Alley with him since he had to get back to his car. After telling me I was now under his microscope, it was a safe bet we weren’t going to segue into a chatty conversation about the summery weather or the Nats’ chances of making it to the playoffs. He gave me one last shrewd, assessing look before wheeling around and walking briskly back toward K Street. Ten seconds later, he was on his phone, which remained clamped to his ear until he disappeared from view.

I gave him a ten-minute head start before I walked back to the office. The big black car was gone and Luke was at his desk, working at the computer.

“Hey,” he said. “How’d it go? You were gone awhile. Duval came back and asked for Ali’s contact information. What was that all about?”

I leaned against his doorjamb and wondered if Luke had deliberately sabotaged me when he told Duval that I’d been interested in and knowledgeable about the Vasiliev exhibit during my job interview. How had the conversation started? Who brought it up, Duval or Luke? If it was Luke, then maybe he, like Duval, didn’t buy the story that the only reason I applied for the job at Focus was because Perry pushed me into doing it.

Ever since Nick disappeared, my life had gone like this, my own personal Möbius strip. I’d start out thinking something was two-sided then, wham, it would turn into a smooth-edged single surface and I couldn’t find the beginning or the end.

Last night Luke told me he didn’t trust me. Now I wondered if I trusted him.

“I guess Duval’s just dotting his
i
 ’s and crossing his
t
’s,” I said. “Remember when you were at my place yesterday and you looked at me like I’d just grown another head after I told you what I heard?”

He nodded.

“Duval gave me the exact same look, except he thought I’d morphed into a Hydra.”

Luke let out a long breath. “I’m sorry. I had no idea it was going to blow up into something like this. I still think we did the right thing. And anyway, it’s done now. We can forget about it and move on. We need to get back to editing.”

We
did the right thing. I would have done it differently. He had no idea.

“Right,” I said. “Back to editing.”

I started to walk over to my desk—I had my own workspace now, a windowless alcove at the back of the studio—when he called out, “Have you heard from Ali, by the way?”

“No. You?”

“I just left a voice mail. Didn’t tell her about Duval because I didn’t want her freaking out, but I asked her to call me.”

“It’s just after ten thirty. She could still show up here.”

“I wish she were more reliable,” he said. “She seemed more interested in partying than working last night.”

“Talk to her,” I said. “She’s a good kid. She’s just young.”

An hour later my mobile rang and the display read
Washington Tribune
. I almost let it go to voice mail, but if I did that, I’d get another call and then another, until I finally picked up.

Grace Lowe was the first person to befriend me when my mother married Harrison Wyatt, my stepfather, after we packed up our tiny walk-up apartment in Queens, New York, to move to Harry’s sprawling two-hundred-acre horse farm in Middleburg shortly before my fourteenth birthday. Right now Grace was just about the last person I wanted to see.