Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [105]
“If I must,” he said from the living room.
A bottle opener eluded her until she found one that had been put in the wrong drawer after dishwashing. She paused for a moment to choose an appropriate glass. As she started to open the bottle, she remembered that the photos she’d been examining through the magnifying glass were still on the coffee table in front of the couch. She came to the kitchen door. Traxler was holding the glass and peering through it at the picture from the top of the pile. He sensed her presence, looked at her, and asked, “Where did you get this?”
“What, that picture? Cindy Pearl took it.”
“When did she take it?” His voice was suddenly heavier.
“I don’t know, a few months ago.” She came to the table and reached for the picture, but he held it away from her.
“You’ve been looking at this, Jess?”
“I—no, I was going to but—”
He looked up at her with hostile eyes, then took the shot of the men in the valley near Plattsburgh and put it in one of his windbreaker’s pockets. There was no joy in his smile. “I wish you hadn’t seen it, Jess.”
“I’ll get your beer,” she said.
“Don’t bother.” He stood and came around the couch until he was between her and the apartment door.
What had been apprehension hardened into defiance. She locked eyes with him. “I did look at that photo, Skip. I saw you in it.”
“I should be flattered, or concerned, considering what I do for a living, that you still know what I look like.”
“I have things to do, Skip, and parrying with you isn’t on the list.”
“No, Jess, I think talking to me should be at the top of your list.”
“Get out, Skip. Leave me alone. What you do with your life doesn’t interest me, even if—”
“Even if what?”
“Even if you were the agent who infiltrated the Jasper group.”
“Oh, yeah, I sure was that agent. Scope in action— again.”
Her concern reappeared. She considered trying to change the subject, lighten the mood. But the heat his face and body language gave off caused her to realize that words wouldn’t alleviate what was in the air.
“Was it really this Jasper group behind the missile attacks on the planes?” she asked, going to the sliding glass doors to her small balcony, which were partially open. “That reporter who’s been on TV claims you attacked the wrong people.”
“I didn’t attack anybody. You believe this reporter, right?”
She shrugged and wrapped her arms about herself, leaned against the closed portion of the doors. “I don’t know what to believe. The reporter claims it was a hate group up on the Canadian border, near Plattsburgh, where—”
“Where this picture was taken.”
“Yes.”
“And that fertile brain of yours has already written a script in which I’m the heavy, the bad guy, the black hat.”
“No, that’s not true.”
“You’ve been hearing things about me.”
“That isn’t true, either. I just wonder why you would be out in a field with other men in the same area where this other hate group operates. Were you undercover there, too?”
“You might say that.”
“Are the other men in the picture hunters? Guns in those bags?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Jess, always did. Let’s take a ride.”
“I’m expecting someone.”
“Max.”
“Yes, how do you—?”
“You said his name when I arrived.”
“Oh, right. Yes, I’m waiting for someone named Max.”
“A beau?”
“A friend.”
“I see. Does he work with you at State?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Meaning it’s none of my business. Come on, Jess, I didn’t ask you to stick your nose into this.”
“How have I done that?”
“This picture,” he said, patting his jacket pocket.
“You know, Jessica, I came by today to touch base with you. It’s been a long time. We had our problems, that’s no secret, but we were both young—impetuous youth, as they say. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about where I am in life and where I want to go. I’m through with the Bureau, through sticking my neck out for civil servant pay. I thought… I thought it might be time for you and me to get together again, try to make a go of it.”
Jessica listened, wishing the buzzer