Multiple Exposure A Sophie Medina Mystery (21 page)

“Just because someone wrote a date on the back of a photograph doesn’t mean it’s correct.” Jack picked up Nick’s picture and studied it. “I wonder where Vasiliev got this.”

“Me, too.”

“Do you think Nick has the well logs?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But what matters is that Vasiliev believes he has them and he also believes I know where Nick is.”

“What are you going to do?”

I looked at my watch. “Call Baz when it’s morning in London and ask him about this investigation. He knows people at Scotland Yard.”

“You ought to call Napoleon Duval before you talk to Baz or anyone else,” Jack said. “I know he’s not your favorite person, but he is your contact. The breakin at the Roosevelt today and now this. You need to let him know. I hate to bring this up, but what about Ali? What if what happened to her was a case of mistaken identity and someone thought she was you?”

I shuddered. That thought had crossed my mind, too. “God, I hope not.”

“So do I. But it’s one more reason you need to call Duval.”

“Duval is no fan of Nick’s and, to be honest, I don’t think he told me everything he knew. I’m not sure how much I can trust him.”

“Sophie, do the right thing here, okay? First of all, he’s not going to tell you everything because it’s in his DNA. But you also know Nick didn’t kill Colin. If you don’t share all this stuff with Duval, he’ll think you’ve got something to hide. Because eventually it’s going to come out.”

I stared at the photo of my husband. Jack was right. Better to get out in front of this than have Duval come to me later.

“I’ll call him first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Good.” He finished his brandy and walked me to my door, where he gave me a brotherly good-night kiss. Like Luke had done the night before, he waited until he heard me lock the door to my room. A moment later his quiet footsteps padded across the hall followed by the metallic click of his own door closing.

I lay in bed and wondered if I could fall asleep. The next thing I knew Jack was knocking on my door.

“It’s quarter to eight, sleepyhead. I’m back from Mass. Breakfast in my room when you’re ready.”

I bolted out of bed and showered and changed into the slacks and blouse I’d packed for my photo session at Hillwood. Fifteen minutes later I flew into Jack’s suite. A morning news show was turned low on the television and the door to his balcony stood open, letting in a cool, sweet breeze, golden sunshine, and the sound of traffic zooming around Stanton Park.

“Coffee’s still hot,” he yelled from the bathroom. “And I left you the cinnamon raisin bagel.”

I fixed my coffee and toasted the bagel in his toaster oven. He joined me on the balcony while I was finishing breakfast, dressed in his clerical garb, short-sleeved black shirt minus the Roman collar and perfectly creased black trousers. His coffee mug had
JESUS LOVES YOU BUT I’M HIS FAVORITE
written on it in flowery script.

He saw me staring at it and grinned. “Birthday gift from Gracie. She’s made it her life’s mission to give me tacky religious gifts and cards.”

“She would do something like that.”

“I read the morning papers,” he said. “There are articles about Ali in both of them. And the story made the local news on Channel 7 . . . I’m sorry, Soph.”

We went inside, where he turned up the volume on the television and handed me the papers, each folded to the page with the piece about Ali. Both the
Washington Post
and the
Washington Tribune
used the same photo, a sexy siren picture of her in a hot pink one-shoulder cocktail dress. It looked like a candid snapshot that might have been taken at the Goodnight Club and the caption underneath mentioned that she sang there.

“Here it is on Channel 4,” Jack said.

An attractive fresh-faced young anchorwoman read the introduction and cut away to a reporter standing near the 14th Street Bridge. When a different photo of Ali in a more revealing evening dress flashed on the screen, along with the account of her possibly leaving the National Gallery reception in the company of an unidentified stranger, it started to sound like a she-had-it-coming cautionary tale of a pretty young girl who sang in bars for lonely guys and ended up where she did because of loose morals and poor judgment.

“She wasn’t like that,” I said. “She was cute and fun and flirty, not a Mae West ‘come up and see me sometime, boys’ sexpot.”

The reporter ended the story with a clip of an MPD press spokesman asking for the public’s help and for anyone who had any information concerning Ali to come forward.

“I hope they find the bastard who killed her,” I said, “and he pays for it.”

“Calm down, kiddo. They will.” Jack turned off the television and slipped on his Roman collar. “What about that call to Agent Duval?”

“It’s a little early.”

“Soph. Don’t mess around with this after what happened last night. Do it now.”

I made a face at him as I pulled out my phone. This time Duval answered.

“I had a long talk with someone about you yesterday,” he said by way of a greeting.

“I presume you’re speaking about Detective Bolton and I also presume you know who this is.”

“The very one, and yes, I do, Ms. Medina.”

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

“Where are you now?”

“Stanton Park.”

“Stanton Park?”

“I’m staying at Gloria House with a friend who teaches at Georgetown Law School.”

“Really?” He sounded mildly surprised. “All right, then I would imagine you know St. Al’s?”

“Of course.”

“How about a little prayer session in, say, half an hour?”

“You mean, in the church? It’s closed,” I said.

“It is, but you’ll be able to get in.”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

“So will I,” he said and disconnected.

*

On our way out to the parking lot, Jack said, “Where are you staying tonight? You can always come back here, you know.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but after I meet Duval I’m going to look at a furnished place owned by a friend of Grace’s mother. If it works out, I might be able to move in and stay there.”

“Let me know,” he said. “I don’t think you should be spending any more nights at the Roosevelt.”

He kissed me good-bye and got in his car while I started the Vespa. I followed him down Mass Ave, and at North Capitol Street I turned right and he kept going; the church was a couple of blocks up North Capitol on the left.

Last night while we had been killing time at Bar Humbug, Jack had told me that St. Aloysius Gonzaga Church, which had been around since 1859, had closed its doors just a few months ago when the pastor was transferred and the Jesuits could no longer staff the church full-time. The McKenna Center, which provided food and social services for the poor and homeless, was still open for business, and Gonzaga High School, the elite boys’ school next door, still used the church for Mass. But as a functioning parish, St. Al’s had ceased to exist.

I parked the Vespa in the alley next to the enormous neoclassical redbrick building and wondered how Duval managed to have a key to the place. The Roman numeral clock in the bell tower showed a few minutes before nine. I climbed the two flights of stairs to the main entrance and tried the front doors. The farthest one on the right was unlocked.

Inside, the church—cream-colored walls with accents of blue and gold leaf, bright blue carpet, and dominated by a painting over the altar of a young St. Aloysius making his first communion—seemed eerily silent and the air felt thick and undisturbed. I saw Duval sitting on the far left in the last pew next to the wall. Automatically I blessed myself and genuflected before sliding in next to him.

He didn’t waste any time. “Good morning,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

We spoke in hushed voices even though we were alone; habit on my part, maybe on his as well. I told him about the breakin at the Roosevelt and handed him the envelope with the clippings and the photo. After he finished reading the articles and studying the picture, he said, “May I keep these?”

I would have liked the picture, but I said, “Go ahead.”

“You don’t have any idea who sent you those text messages or left this package on your friend’s windshield?”

“Someone who works for Arkady Vasiliev. That’s my guess.”

Duval leaned back and stretched his legs under the pew in front of us, crossing one foot over the other. Today he wore jeans and a black polo shirt and I wondered if he might be off duty.

“Mr. Vasiliev and his band of merrymakers left town yesterday morning on his private jet. Apparently following the National Gallery reception he threw a hell of an after-party in the presidential suite at a Georgetown hotel that may no longer roll out the welcome mat next time he’s in town. He didn’t leave a forwarding address, but rumor has it he’s in the middle of an ocean somewhere on a boat the size of Bermuda,” he said. “My boss won’t okay the overtime and the Learjet to fly out there, wherever the hell there is, to talk to him in person and ask him a few questions, so I’m at a bit of an impasse right now.”

“Look under a rock. He left at least one merrymaker behind, probably more than one,” I said.

“Oh, we’re looking,” he said. “Don’t you fret.”

“Was Ali Jones at that party?” I asked.

Duval gave me a startled look. “I don’t know. Why would she be there?”

“She dropped hints at the National Gallery reception about trying to meet a rich Russian . . . she could have been joking around, or maybe not. I just wondered if it was possible that she did meet someone who brought her there before they ended up at the river. There’s also a chance she bumped into one or both of the men I heard talking in the conference room . . . we’re not the same age, but even Ali said we could be mistaken for cousins.”

Duval was watching me closely and seemed to be making some rapid mental calculations. “I’ll check into that. Unfortunately, Mr. Vasiliev didn’t have a formal guest list for that little shindig.”

“Since we’re discussing Mr. Vasiliev and his friends,” I said, “you are looking into whether the Russian I overheard planning that assassination works for him, aren’t you?”

Duval gave me a reproachful look. “I can’t possibly comment on that. You know better.”

“But surely you’re at least taking it seriously that there’ll be an attempt on Taras Attar’s life when he’s in Washington next week?”

Duval shifted in the pew, leaning his back against the wall so he faced me. “It is a known fact that there have been threats against Dr. Attar’s life, particularly from factions of the Russian mafia, and that some of that pond scum has floated across the Atlantic to our fair shores. When Taras Attar is in my town, he’ll be extremely well looked after, believe you me. That’s all I’m prepared to say.”

“What about Scott Hathaway?” I said.

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nice try. No comment.”

I stood up. “Don’t let me take up any more of your time, Agent Duval. Thanks for the chat. I’m glad I got to see St. Al’s again one more time.”

“Sit down.”

I glared at him, but I sat.

“Let’s get something straight,” he said. “I run this rodeo, understand?”

He waited until I said, “Yes.”

“Excellent. Now what I’m dealing with at the moment feels a lot like sand. You ever pick up sand when you’re at the beach and try to hold it in your hands? It slides right through your fingers. So here’s what I got so far: I got you, I got Arkady Vasiliev, I got your husband, and I somehow got Taras Attar because of you.” He ticked us all off on his fingers and wiggled them. “And I got more questions than answers trying to figure out the way you all intersect, because I believe you do. Here’s what I am prepared to tell you. If Arkady Vasiliev had someone search your room, the good news for you is he now knows you don’t have the documents he wants. But here’s what he does want, and so do you, and so do I: your husband.”

“I don’t know where Nick is. You know that.”

“Well, here’s the other piece of news I’ll share with you,” he said in a conversational tone. “Apparently Nicholas Canning is no longer in Russia. So if you hear from him—I don’t care if it’s e-mail, airmail, voice mail, or blackmail—I’d better be the next phone call you make. Do I make myself clear?”

I was stunned. “Where is he?”

“No idea,” he said. “Like I said yesterday, he can’t stay on the run forever. Sooner or later, he needs to find a safe harbor. And you, Ms. Medina, are still top of my list for where he’d go. So let me repeat: If you hear from him, I hear from you.”

I’d had enough of him talking to me like a kid who needed to be disciplined.

“And then what?” I said.

“Pardon?”

“What happens next?”

“He’s a CIA operative who faked his own kidnapping and has been missing for nearly four months. We want to ask him about the weather in Abadistan this time of year.” He glared at me. “What do you think happens next?”

“That’s what I’m asking. Nick’s people in London told me I couldn’t even tell his sister or my own family that he had been seen in Moscow. So how did Arkady Vasiliev find out? And who got Scotland Yard to reopen the investigation into Colin’s death? The only people who know Nick is alive work for the CIA and MI6.” Duval was staring at me like he was about to spontaneously combust he was so mad, but I kept going. “I don’t work for you, Agent Duval. Go ahead and run your rodeo. I don’t have to ride in it unless you give me your word that you’re going to help Nick, that you’re on his side.”

Duval shook a warning finger at me. “Ms. Medina, it is not wise to underestimate me. You do not call the shots here. Believe me, if your husband comes within a ten-mile radius of you, I’m going to know because I’m going to have you watched like a hawk.”

I stood up. “Get in line. So is Arkady Vasiliev. You can keep each other company.”

14

It took the entire trip across town to India Ferrer’s house before I calmed down after that spitting match with Napoleon Duval. If anyone was tailing me as I drove down Florida Avenue to the U Street Corridor, I didn’t see him, no car darting in and out of traffic behind me. Even if I was being followed now, so what? I had nothing to hide and everyone knew it. Nor had I been joking about Duval’s people and Vasiliev’s people tripping over each other—I hoped they did.