“José Trigueros Chacón,” Partain said. “What about him?”
“He and his wife were shot dead in Washington yesterday afternoon. A professional job, I’m told.”
“Who told you?”
“The police.”
“Why would the cops tell you how Trigueros was killed?”
“Because the investigating homicide detective is a member of VOMIT.”
“He tell you why the Captain was killed?”
“The detective’s a she and she didn’t know why,” Winfield said. “But earlier yesterday the Captain offered us — Nick really — the names of some Americans who were connected to the murder of those six Salvadoran priests, their cook and her daughter. The Captain claimed he had proof of the connection and wanted five thousand dollars for it.”
“But got killed before you could raise the money and make the buy.”
“That’s not at all how it happened. We raised the money and then went to see the Captain. Nick and I. But when we offered the money he said it was no longer possible to sell us the proof. I thought he looked, well, terrified. So did Nick. Less than an hour after we left, Trigueros and his wife were murdered.”
They rode in silence for half a mile before Partain said, “I’m sorry they’re dead. He was a nice kid, if not overly bright.”
After another lengthy silence, Winfield asked, “Does it seem either likely or possible that they could all be connected somehow — the murder of Trigueros in Washington, Laney’s murder here and the attempt on Millie Altford’s life?”
“Something that wires them all together?”
“I’d settle for a common thread.”
A mile later Partain said, “Well, there’s me. I’m a common thread. But that’s only if you’re looking for a person. Some inanimate common threads might be money, greed, politics, revenge or treachery.”
“Ah, treachery!” the General murmured, his voice soft yet curiously orotund. “One of history’s favorite shortcuts.”
“Right up there with assassination.”
“You may be right about yourself,” the General said. “By chance or choice you know or have met most of the players — General Hudson, of course; Colonel Millwed; the late Captain Trigueros; the equally late David Laney and his lover, Jessica Carver — and her mother, Millicent Altford. You know Nick Patrokis, of course, and now me. You even know the former resident CIA bagman in El Salvador, Henry Viar.”
“I haven’t thought of Viar in months,” Partain said.
“Why would you? But now I’ve almost convinced myself that you and the aforementioned treachery are the most likely common threads that run through everything.”
“Well, you could yank on the thread and see what unravels,” Partain said. “But there’s a surer way to find out if I’m the guy.”
“What?”
“Wait till somebody tries to kill me.”
“Or succeeds,” the General said.
Chapter 19
Late that same January afternoon, Millicent Altford sat cross-legged on the high hospital bed, wearing her red silk robe with the small golden dragons and watching a C-Span rerun of a call-in show that featured three Washington-based reporters. The reporters were listening with barely concealed dismay to a call from a retired Army master sergeant in Flagstaff, who was pressing them on whether the Trilateral Commission would exert as much evil influence on the incoming administration as it had on the outgoing one.
Altford missed the reporters’ response because Liz Ball, the night nurse, entered the corner room and asked, “You wanta talk to some sixteen-year-old college professor who claims he sits at the right hand of your guy in Little Rock?”
“He offer any proof?”
Ball shrugged. “What he showed me looks okay.”
“Send him in.”
Marvin Gipson was about what Altford expected: Medium height. Thirty or thirty-one. A runner’s lean frame. Tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses over smart blue eyes. Stubborn mouth beneath a know-it-all-nose. Bony chin atop a long, long neck and lots of light brown hair. He came wrapped in a tweed jacket, white button-down shirt, chinos, a tie that looked borrowed and penny loafers with a fresh shine, which, she suspected, he had sat still for when he changed planes at Stapleton International in Denver and found himself with time to kill.
Gipson smiled at her with his generation’s perfect teeth and said, “I’m Marvin Gipson, Ms. Altford, and probably your greatest fan.”
“Thank you kindly, Marvin, and would you please be good enough to hand me that phone over there?”
Gipson handed her the phone and she tapped out eleven numbers from memory. Once her call was answered, she said, “It’s Millie. Have you guys sent me a Marvin Gipson?” She listened to the reply, then asked, “What’s he look like?”
Staring at Gipson, she said “uh-huh” several times as the description came over the phone. Gipson at first stuck his hands in his pants pockets and jingled some keys. But after a frown from Altford, he removed his hands and, following a moment’s indecision, clasped them behind his back. They were still there when Altford said, “Thanks, Phil, just checking,” hung up the phone, examined Gipson thoughtfully, then slipped off the bed and glided toward the mini-refrigerator. Over her shoulder she asked, “Want a beer, Marvin?”
“A Diet Coke, if there is one,” he said.
Altford took a bottle of beer and a can of Diet Coke from the small refrigerator, handed him the soft drink and said, “Let’s sit over here.”
Once they were seated, he in an armchair, she on the dark blue couch, Altford drank beer from the bottle, leaned back and waited for Gipson to say what they had told him to say.
He dutifully swallowed some Coke first, placed the can on the coffee table, cleared his throat, smiled deferentially and said, “You’ve had such a long and varied career, I was wondering whether—”
Altford interrupted. “Phil tells me you teach at Sewanee. What d’you teach?”
“Political science and economics.”
“You on leave?”
“A year’s sabbatical. But the reason I’m here—”
“I know why you’re here, Marvin. You’re here because somebody dumped a dead body on my driveway and that’s got Little Rock worried. Not terrified. Just worried. You’re here to find out how bad it might be. If you decide it stinks out loud, you’ll fly back and recommend that they move my name to the bottom of the true-blue-and-faithful list, or maybe strike it off altogether.”
“They’re primarily concerned about your health, Ms. Altford. All of us are.”
“That’s bullshit. If they were really worried about my health, they’d’ve called Draper Haere here in L.A. and asked him to drop by and see whether I’m dying or playing possum. So it’s not my health they’re worried about. It’s about that dead guy on my driveway who was shacked up down in Mexico for a year with my daughter.”
“A Mr. Laney, I believe,” Gipson said.
“Dave Laney.”
“Yes, well, I suppose if there is anything about Mr. Laney’s past activities that could somehow, you know—”
“Pose a problem?” Altford said.
Gipson gave her a grateful nod. “Exactly.”
“I didn’t shack up with Laney, my daughter did. Or is her mistake reason enough for Little Rock to dispatch a member of its watch-and-ward squad?”
“Mr. Laney’s reputation does trouble us,” Gipson said. “It makes us wonder whether he somehow could’ve been involved in your fund-raising activities last year.”
“He sent me a check once.”
Gipson leaned forward. “For how much?”
“Twenty-five bucks, I think. But that was about four years ago, not last year.”
Gipson leaned back, more disappointed than relieved. “Then he wasn’t involved in your fund-raising in any way?”