30

––––––––

TAGGERT HAD COME over for dinner. Cordelia let him in, responded coolly to his kiss, and returned to the kitchen. He wordlessly followed. She handed him a wine glass, lifted hers, and clinked his glass. They drank to, “New beginnings.”

He had never been to her place before. They had always gone to hotels and motels, most of them squalid and out of the way where no one would recognize them. It felt odd to have him here, and still odder to steal the affections of another woman’s husband in the homey surroundings of her small apartment.

She went back to preparing dinner. He looked around, admiring her digs, but knew something was up. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his fingers gently encircling her neckline. She nodded toward her laptop, sitting on the dinette set and open to a news site, dateline Kansas City.

Elias Kirschner, a certified public accountant with the firm of Rutledge, Sibley & Kirschner, had been the victim of a hit-and-run. The accident occurred when he left his office late on Tuesday night. When the body was found, his car keys were still clutched in his hand. There were no witnesses. He was pronounced dead at the scene. Local police had launched a full investigation.

In the morning, Kirschner was smug and infuriating. By close of day, he was dead.

Taggert sat and read, chin resting on fist, eyes focused. While he read, she returned to reheating the lamb stew she prepared the night before, eyes staring blankly at the Dutch oven.

Irish lamb stew always tasted better after the juices had time to mingle and bring out the flavors. She had browned the lamb over a medium heat. Set the meat aside. Tossed diced onions and carrots into the oven. Allowed them to cook in the meat juices until tender. Added cubed potatoes, beef broth, and salt and pepper to taste. Added back the lamb. Brought everything to a boil before turning down the heat. Covered the oven and baked the stew for an hour until everything was tender. As a final touch, she stirred in parsley, chives, thyme, a pat of butter, and flour for thickening. It was an old family recipe handed down from her grandmother and her grandmother’s grandmother, just the ticket for soothing her jangled nerves.

She was watching the lamb stew reheat when Taggert returned to her and folded his arms about her, rocking her back and forth, the point of his chin resting on the crown of her head. “It’s all right,” he said softly. “You couldn’t have known.”

She was grateful not to have to look into his eyes. God knows what she would have seen there. Blame? Shame? Worry? All of the above? She went on stirring the pot with a slotted spoon. “I should have. I was playing with fire. If I hadn’t interviewed him, if I hadn’t accused him of breaking the law, if I hadn’t pressed him so hard, he’d still be alive today.”

“You don’t know that.”

Having him stand behind her, feeling his muscled chest pressed against her rounded back, and sensing the heat of his body penetrate her flesh seemed more intimate than if they were lying naked in bed. “How could I be so naïve. So fucking arrogant. This is a man’s life we’re talking about. When it happened, I was celebrating with takeout pizza and a bottle of wine. Jesus ....”

“The whole bottle?”

She tried to smile, if only to herself, but his attempt at levity fell woefully flat. “You know me. I’m a two-glass toper.”

He spun her around and collected her properly into his arms, pushing her head against his breast and telling her in soothing words to let go. Damn the man. He had given her permission to slobber all over herself. And she had been doing so well, too, holding in what little was left of her dignity. Everything spilled out. She couldn’t stop herself. Her body began to quiver. Tears flowed, first in dribbles and then in a flood of wailing and sobbing. Taggert remained calm throughout, rubbing her back with the sweeping motions of his broad hands, his closeness comforting, his consideration reassuring, his patience durable, something she could hold onto. Throughout her wailing remorses, she couldn’t quite get the visual pictures out of her head. Of Kirschner peering into the bright lights of an approaching vehicle. Shielding his eyes with an upraised arm. Dropping his jaw in shock. Mumbling words of disbelief. And finally, after reality caught up with him, emitting the preliminary notes of a raw wail before tons of metal struck him head-on, leaving in its wake the remains of a man along with a trail of his blood, guts, and brain.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe not. But, you see, I am the cause.”

“He only had himself to blame. He knew what he’d gotten into. Probably been doing it for years. Didn’t think anyone would ever catch on.”

“Until me.” She gazed up at him through teary eyes.

He swiped the wetness away, first with one thumb and then with the other. “You didn’t force him to break the law. That’s on him.”

“Do you think someone was following me? Do you think that’s what happened?”

He shook his head. “Probably panicked. Made a phone call or two. Brought it down on himself.”

She thought about it. It made sense. But she still couldn’t get the vision out of her head, the exact moment when Kirschner knew he was a dead man for sure. “He left a wife and three kids.”

He wrapped her more tightly in his arms, again rocking her from side to side. He smelled like Taggert, all man and no pretense. “Were you able to track down the woman he mentioned?”

“Katya Shasenka?” Shaking her head, she pulled away from him, wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, and refilled both their glasses to the brim.

“And his partners? What did they have to say?”

“Rutledge blew me off. Sibley hasn’t returned my calls. They’re running scared.”

“Subpoena them. Get a warrant for their records.”

“Already on it.” She set down her wine glass and busied herself with setting out the meal. “Probably shredded everything by now.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe we’ll catch them in the act.” His were hollow words. They both knew it. But there were other ways of trapping them. Electronic records couldn’t be shredded or burned.

She cleared away the laptop. Switched off the lights. Lit the hurricane candles. Turned on soft music. Set out the meal. Taggert gobbled up the stew with appetite while regaling her with quips and stories, anything to distract her from what happened. Dull company tonight, she couldn’t be distracted so easily. “I looked into those suspicious deaths Angie Browne mentioned.”

Taggert gave her a probing look, registered the heightened uneasiness in her face, and kept on eating, but at a slower pace.

“Janice Brodey was a housewife living in rural Virginia with her husband and young daughter. According to authorities, a pair of intruders broke into their house and sexually molested her over several hours before finally ending her misery and slicing her throat. Three weeks earlier, coincidently on the Fourth of July, her husband ... a hacker,” she stressed, “... took a long walk off a short pier. There were witnesses. He conveniently left behind his ID and street clothes. His body was never recovered. Their nine-year-old daughter has also gone missing.”

“Interesting,” was all he said. Taggert never lost his appetite over anything.

Cordelia fetched chilled wine from the fridge. Concentrating on uncorking the bottle instead of looking into his probing eyes, she went on. “Coyote’s DNA was found at the scene. He doesn’t appear to be linked to the woman’s rape, small favors for him I guess. But there’d been a knock-out, drag-out fight, presumably between the two men. Questions remain. Did Coyote watch the rape, making him complicit? Or did he try to save her? Why was he there to begin with? And who was the other man?”

“Could’ve been the husband.”

She acknowledged the possibility, refilled their glasses, and sat. “Then there’s Duncan Spears. He was a hacker. I say was because he hanged himself from the ceiling of his Georgetown apartment. His body was discovered when a friend dropped by. Description of said friend matches Coyote.”

“Ah,” Taggert said. “And the train victim?”

“An aide to Congressman Billings. It looks as if she was targeted at random, some sort of argument between Coyote and another man in the Metro station. She just had the bad luck of getting in the way. I viewed the video. The other man used her as a shield. It looks like Coyote tried to save her. But I may be wrong,” she said, shrugging.

Taggert spooned another helping of Irish stew onto his plate and ate in silence. Something was on his mind, something he was hesitant to bring up.

She angled her head and gazed at him. “What is it? What’s going on? Taggert?”

“I put you up for promotion. Senior Data Research Specialist. You’ve been an invaluable asset to the company.”

“Or maybe ass?”

“A little more enthusiasm would be appreciated.”

“I’m not up to enthusiasm tonight.” She picked at her food, making a show of appreciative smiles and feigned appetite. She had replayed her conversation with Kirschner several times over. He must have thought her a lightweight, thinking he could weasel his way out of anything. He was a bright man, but not bright enough. “Did Hynes ever get in touch with Prendergast,” she asked.

Cleaning his plate with the last bread roll, he inclined his head in a neutral gesture. “She did, but he can’t offer any insight. Or won’t. I can spend the night. Amy’s in Minnesota with the kids, visiting my in-laws.”

“I see.”

He reached over and fingered away a tendril of stray hair. “This isn’t a casual come-on. I’m worried. You, my dear, have become a target. Or hasn’t it occurred to you?”

It had. She was scared but not scared enough to be frightened off. Besides, there was nothing she could do about it short of resigning from MonCom, which was unthinkable and probably wouldn’t protect her anyway.

He read her thoughts. “I’ll take you off the case if you want.”

“Oh, I’ll be all right,” she said casually, even if her voice tripped over the words. The jittery feeling in the pit of her stomach was still there. She had set aside her fork and was fondling the wine glass between her fingers, taking a sip every so often. “I know more in my little pinkie than you’ll ever know, Taggert. I’m in it for the long haul.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” He reached for her free hand. “I know a guy. Ex-Marine. I’ll have him give you a call. He knows weapons. He’s good.” She started to protest, but he cautioned her with a look. “That’s an order. You’ll do it so I can sleep nights. Not that I ever sleep nights.” He withdrew his hand and picked up his glass, sipping like she was sipping, in a measured pace, while considering Cordelia quite a bit more than the vibrant color of his merlot. “This Coyote thing is getting under your skin.”

It was getting rather stuffy in the close confines of her one-bedroom apartment. Day by day the walls had been closing in. The hermetical seal that kept the cool air inside and the hot air outside seemed increasingly like a solitary confinement module. Jack Coyote knew better what that experience was like. He was still a wanted man. Unlike her, he hadn’t been able to escape the nattering voices drifting into his cell. Or unlock the door. Or strike the manacles from his wrists. Had his troubles been his own doing? The work of the gods? Or engineered by the agency he worked for? The Coyote affair was as fragile as a Tiffany vase. A priceless artifact had been stolen from its protective glass case and smashed into smithereens. To glue all the pieces back together again would require patience, resolve, and skill. Her task was clear. She might be the only individual who could reassemble the pieces, not only because she was the best person to bring everything to light but because she had a personal stake in seeing it through to the end. But only if Taggert gave her enough freedom.

After she had identified Coyote as the man behind the fifty million dollars, Cordelia broadened her scope by running a background check on his income, credit history, and tax returns, hoping to find clues of ill-got gains or other instances of money laundering. She analyzed every substantial dollar movement into and out of his checking, bank, and personal brokerage accounts—tracking them back to their original sources and following them out to his creditors—and verified that every transaction was legal and legitimate. She delved into his background, his upbringing, the desertion by his father, the death of his mother, the adoption by his aunt and uncle, the lackluster history of his youth, his career path in government, his voting record (independent), his speeding tickets (two in all), his buddies (not many), his choice of women (quite a few), and his preference for beer and Scotch whiskey, either would do. Jack Coyote was an interesting man. She wanted to know him better.

When the mysterious case of the vanilla name inside the manila envelope was cracked, she was going to light a candle on the altar of St. Cordelia and afterwards, do some serious atoning for all the past sins of her life.

After lovemaking, Taggert held her in his arms, his body steamy and earthy. “We’re thinking about getting you a partner.”

“We?” She propped herself on an elbow and gazed down at him, eyes narrowed with annoyance.

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Frances’s idea, not mine.”

Cordelia let out a swear word and fell onto her back, blinking at the ceiling. Frances Hynes called the shots and Taggert obeyed. There was no getting out of it and no point in arguing.

He rolled her into his arms. “You’re too smart for your own good. And too damned stubborn.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet, mister.”

They made love again. The only thing that would have been an improvement was for the two of them to be lying on a sandy beach under the stars. Cordelia was still, and would forever remain, a romantic fool.