Murder on the Potomac (20 page)

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” Cheong said.

As John Simmons met the next morning with the representative from the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, a two-hundred-person division of the United States Treasury Department, and with the banker in charge of the Tankloff account, Sun Ben Cheong went to another low white building in Georgetown’s financial district. By decree, no building in Georgetown was as tall as the trees. Washington’s Georgetown should be so enlightened. Regulations concerning such things were
stringent in the Caymans. Rules governing the islands’ major industry—banking—were less so.

The word “bank” did not appear anywhere on the outside of the building. The blinding white sun that washed everything in exaggerated cleanliness bounced off a small brass plaque next to the door:
A
.
COLLINS
,
ESQ
. It was a “plaque bank,” nothing more than an office with fax machines, computers, and ledger books.

“All transfers have been made as requested, Mr. Cheong.”

A. Collins, Esq., was a corpulent gentleman of Eurasian descent. The desk behind which he sat would have better served a smaller man.

“I don’t question that,” Cheong said. “Have you had any inquiries about this account from American officials?”

“Oh, no. No inquiries.”

“Hong Kong?”

Another negative. “Why do you ask?”

“Some of my associates seem to be the subject of curiosity by government officials back home. You will let me know if any such inquiry is made on this account.”

“Of course, of course. Will you be needing anything during your stay? Is there something I can do for you of a personal nature?”

“I’m leaving this afternoon, but I may return shortly.”

Collins stood and extended his hand. “Please feel free to call upon me the next time you are here, Mr. Cheong. Your business is appreciated. I stand ready to serve you in any way I can.”

Cheong took a cab to a residential area, told the driver to wait, and knocked on the door of a small yellow house. A woman ushered him inside and to a
screened porch at the rear, overlooking a pool. Almost immediately a tall, slender Hispanic man joined him. “Mr. Cheong, good to see you,” he said, his accent verifying his heritage. “A surprise visit. Is something wrong?”

“Things are going smoothly?”

The man’s smile said he was pleased to be able to answer yes. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

Cheong gave the barest of shrugs. “Feelings I get,” he answered. “Some things have a smell about them. No one has questioned the shipments?”

“What is there to question? This is the Caribbean. Scuba diving is popular. Why would they question the importing of dive tanks?”

“I’ll stop shipping them for a while.”

The man’s long, lean face saddened. “That is disappointing.”

“You’ll continue to be paid. Just a short intermission to take inventory. No problems with Mr. Collins?”

“No. No problems. Everything is—what is the word?—copacetic? Yes. Everything is copacetic. It goes smoothly. How long for you to … take inventory?”

“A month, maybe two. If anyone should approach you and ask about me, the tanks or Collins, you will let me know.”

“Sí. Sí.”

Cheong looked at his watch. “I have to go. I’ll be back in a few weeks.” He handed the man an envelope filled with cash and left.

As the taxi took him to the airport, Cheong felt edgy. He didn’t like that feeling. Nerves could be a powerful enemy, he knew, in business, at a baccarat table, in any situation. He focused on steadying himself, reminding
himself that nothing untoward had happened. Everything was in place and in good order. Questions about Sam Tankloff’s Cayman account were as John Simmons had said they were. Routine. Government bureaucrats keeping busy to justify their pay. Tankloff’s account was legal. As for his own account, no one knew about it who shouldn’t, certainly not the Treasury Department or the Internal Revenue Service. That was the point in opening it after all.

He began to relax, comforted by these reminders to himself. He was glad he’d come to the islands. No harm in checking up on things. Accompanying Tankloff was the perfect excuse to look in on Collins. Better to be on your toes than caught flat-footed. Anticipate. Take nothing for granted and keep tabs on everything and everyone. Good business, it was called.

His thoughts drifted to the conversation he’d had with Suzanne and her demand for money. He would have to give it to her, silly, frivolous thing that she was. Theater. A one-woman show. Pie in the sky. Wishful thinking. All the things Cheong prided himself on being above.

He also thought of the production on Saturday. He’d have to attend or face his adoptive father’s anger. He wished he’d thought far enough ahead to have scheduled an extended trip out of town.

By the time he reached the airport, his nerve endings had shut down, and he was again in control. There was nothing to worry about, although it might be time to close shop, all of it, check out of the game when you were ahead. He’d been giving that some serious thought lately.

As he entered the terminal, he thought of Atlantic
City and his favorite baccarat table. It was a compellingly pleasant contemplation. That’s what he needed. He’d make an appointment with his good Philadelphia client for Monday and go to Atlantic City on Sunday. This time, he’d more than make up his losses. He had that winning feeling.

With so much to think about since leaving Washington the previous day for this trip to the Caymans, and despite the constant vigilance of which he was inordinately proud, Cheong had been unaware of his surroundings. One man who might have been a seedy, down-at-the-heels accountant had sat two rows behind Cheong on the flight to the islands. This same nondescript man now occupied the waiting room with Cheong for the return flight.

There had been others—the local in the green-and-black flowered shirt who’d waited outside the resort that morning and who’d followed him to his meeting with A. Collins, Esq., and to the airport; the well-dressed couple across the dining room while Cheong, Tankloff, and Simmons had dinner; the taxi driver that morning who’d offered Cheong the use of the cellular phone in his Toyota minivan.

But Cheong, who was attracted to attractive people, gave little notice to these ordinary people.

That Morning

Mac and Annabel’s Thursday night had an intensity bordering on the desperate. There seemed to be a need to communicate their love as though it might evaporate unless pinned down solidly to the bed.

At 2:00
A.M.
Annabel was blissfully sleepy, but Mac was wide awake.

“Something bothering you?” she murmured.

“How could anything be bothering me after
that
?” he said. “Just not ready for more sleep yet. I think I’ll do some reading.”

“That’s right. I forgot. I interrupted your evening.”

“Interrupt me any time you want.”

“What are you reading?”

“I’m in the middle of a family history Pauline Juris wrote before her death.”

Annabel was less drowsy now. “Where did you get it?”

“Monty Jamison. Wendell gave it to him, thought he might edit it and find a publisher. Monty’s tied up with tomorrow’s production, so I told him I’d take a look at it.”

She sat up next to him against the headboard. “You aren’t reading it for that reason,” she said. “To see if it’s publishable.”

“No. I was curious, plain and simple.”

“Looking for some hint, some clue in it—that might solve her murder?”

“That crossed my mind,” he replied, “although it’s not likely. Annabel, that envelope I got from Tony tonight.”

“Yes?”

“In it are copies of Wendell’s alleged letters to Pauline, the ones the police claim to have found in her apartment.”

He’d decided not to tell Annabel about the letters until he’d had time to grapple with the impropriety of having received them. Smith was seldom ambivalent, especially about decisions already made. This was certainly one of those rare times. There was no doubt in his mind that he would read the letters. That decision had been made the minute he accepted them from Buffolino. But he wasn’t sure how his wife would react. Correction. He knew how she would react and wanted to avoid the complication her response would create until he’d come to his own conclusions.

But that wasn’t how their marriage worked. From the fateful day they’d met there hadn’t been any sneaking around, fudging the truth, or avoiding reality, as difficult
as it might be, of their reactions to each other’s decisions and desires. They often referred to each other as partners—how lawyerly—and were comfortable with their partnership. As a partner, she was as much a part of his involvement with Wendell Tierney and the Juris murder as was he and would want to read the letters, too. She was entitled to that.

But allowing her to read them posed his biggest moral dilemma. Bad enough that he would be intruding into private lives, eavesdropping on intimate communication between a man and a woman. Having Annabel privy to their contents would only compound what was a clear-cut invasion of privacy, even if he decided to do nothing except burn them and forget he’d even laid eyes on them.

But all this soul-searching had proved to be only a philosophical exercise. He’d told her, and she was now wide awake. “I won’t ask a lot of questions,” she said.

They went to the den where he’d laid the envelope on his desk. They sat on a flowered love seat. He opened the envelope and withdrew its contents. Slowly, he read the first letter, then handed it to her and went on to the second. They read in silence. When they were finished, he turned and asked, “Well? What do you think?”

She slowly shook her head and dropped the pages to her lap. “They’re … bizarre. I don’t know what else to call them. There are certainly words of love, even passion. But I can’t see Wendell writing them. Can you?”

“No. What’s really strange about them is that they aren’t signed. His name is typed on the bottom of each. I don’t know about you, but where I come from, you don’t
type
your name on love letters.”

“No, you don’t,” she said. “What do you intend to do with them?”

“It depends upon which of the two horns of dilemma I choose to gore myself. Wendell asked me to see what I could do to obtain these letters, and I’ve done that. Which, I suppose, means I should follow through and give them to him. On the other hand, that could be construed as obstruction of justice, to say nothing of aiding and abetting the illegal act of bribing a cop to get them.”

When he said nothing else, she said, “And?”

“And—I think I’ll postpone that decision until morning.” He touched her cheek with his fingertips. “You look sleepy. Go back to bed.”

“Aren’t you coming?” she asked.

“No. I think I’ll finish reading Pauline’s family history.”

When Annabel awoke in the morning, she looked down at a sight she had seldom seen since they were married, her husband asleep beside her. He was usually out of bed early and anxious to get the day going. A morning person.

She got up, turned on the coffee that he had set up the night before, got the newspaper, filled two cups, placed them on a bed tray, and carried them to the bed-room where he still slept. He felt her join him on the bed and came to. “What time is it?” he asked, his voice thick.

“Seven. What time did you come to bed?”

He stretched and rubbed his eyes. “Five,” he said.

“I made coffee, but if you want to sleep, I can—”

He pushed himself to a sitting position and said, “No,
I want to get up.” He sipped from his cup and returned it to the tray. He looked at her. “Annabel, Wendell did not write those letters.”

“I know.”

“There’s more than that. Not only didn’t he write them, I think I know who did.”

He swung his long legs over the side of the bed. “I finished reading Pauline’s family history. It’s interesting, and well written. What I’d read before looking at the letters didn’t have much meaning for me except for an inherent fascination with the lives some of her family had lived. But once I read the letters, there were phrases from the history that stuck in my mind. I went back and found them, then read the rest of it. Annabel, Pauline wrote those letters herself.”

Her laugh was involuntary, the sort of sound people exhibit when they don’t know what to say. When she did speak, she could only ask, “You think
she
wrote them?”

“That’s exactly what I think.” He held up his hand to ward off her next comment, saying, “Like you, I’m sensitive to word choice and usage. Maybe it goes with the lawyer’s mind. I have another reason for coming to this conclusion. She used different typewriters over the time it took to write various sections of the history. Toward the end, the typewriter she used matches up, at least to this untrained forensic eye, with the typewriter used on the letters.”

Annabel drank from her cup before saying, “Okay, a woman writes love letters to herself and signs them with a man’s name. Why?”

“Types his name,” Smith corrected.

“Yes, types his name. Again, why? Was she trying to
implicate Wendell in some way, to create a bogus blackmail situation with his family?”

“Perhaps. It’s also possible the reason isn’t that logical. It might simply represent the act of a terribly disturbed person, writing to herself and believing they came from a man she loved but who would not return that love.”

She picked her robe up from the floor where she’d unceremoniously dropped it. “I can accept the first, more logical scenario,” she said. “The second is beyond my psychological comprehension.”

“What I’d like to do with these letters, Annabel, is to show them to Wendell, tell him the conclusion I’ve reached, and then go to Darcy Eikenberg and tell her the same thing.”

“Sure you want to do that with Eikenberg?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “You’ll have to explain how you got them.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I mean, I’ll be asked that. Doesn’t mean I have to answer. In a sense, I’m coming forward with new and vital evidence. None of this would have happened if Monty hadn’t given me Pauline’s family history to read. The police haven’t had access to that document. I’ll check with Wendell first, of course, but I think they ought to have the history in order to make their own comparison.”