We sat at a table the size of my cuff links, on wire chairs made of coat hangers. The place looked like a Laura Ashley remnant sale, and smelled of warm butter, which makes my stomach turn. The clientele were all cross-dressers.
"Isn't this cute?"
"No."
The proprietress handed us tiny menus, handwritten in Sanskrit. There were thirty-two kinds of muffins and croissants, all unsuitable food for men. I asked Madame, "Can I get a bagel?"
"Non, monsieur."
"Eggs? Sausage?"
"Non, monsieur." She turned on her spiked heel and strode away. The Prozac was wearing off.
Kate said, "Try the strawberry croissant."
"Why?" Anyway, I ordered coffee, orange juice, and six brioches. I can handle brioche. They taste like my English Grandma's popovers. Kate ordered tea and a cherry croissant.
As we had our breakfast, she asked me, "Do you have any other information you'd like to share with me?"
"No. Just the murder in Perth Amboy."
"Any theories?"
"Nope. Come here often?"
"Most mornings. Any plan of action for today?"
"I need to pick up my dry cleaning. How about you?"
"I have to get up and running on all those things on my desk."
"Think about what's not on your desk."
"Such as?"
"Such as detailed information about Khalil's alleged victims in Europe. Unless I missed it, there's nothing on our desks. Nothing from Scotland Yard. Nothing from the Air Force CID or FBI."
"Okay… what are we looking for?"
"For a connection and a motive."
"There seems to be no connection, other than that the targets were British and American. That's also the motive," she pointed out.
"The one attack that sticks out is the ax murder of that American Air Force colonel in England."
"Colonel Hambrecht. Near Lakenheath Airbase."
"Right. This coffee's not bad."
"Why does it stand out?"
"It was up close and personal."
"So was the murder of those schoolchildren."
"They were shot. I'm talking about the ax. That's significant."
She looked at me and said, "Okay, Detective Corey. Tell me about it."
I played with my remaining brioche. I said, "A murder like that suggests a personal relationship."
"Okay. But we're not even sure that Khalil committed that murder."
"Right. It's mostly Interpol speculation. They've been tracking this guy. I waded through a half ton of paper yesterday while you and Jack were running up taxi bills to JFK. I found very little from Scotland Yard, or Air Force CID, or our CIA friends." I added, "And nothing from the FBI, who must have sent a team over to investigate the Hambrecht murder as well as the murder of the American kids. So, why is this stuff missing?"
"Maybe because you missed it."
"I put in requests to the Incident File Room, and I'm still waiting."
"Don't get paranoid."
"Don't be so trusting."
She didn't reply immediately, then said, "I'm not.".
I think we were in silent agreement that something stank here, but Agent Mayfleld was not going to verbalize this.
Madame presented me with the bill, which I passed to Mademoiselle, who paid in cash. Five points. Madame made change from a hip purse, just like in Europe. How cool is that?
We left, and I hailed a cab. We got in, and I said, "Twenty-six Federal Plaza."
The man was clueless, and I gave him directions. "Where you from?"
" Albania."
When I was a kid, there were still cabbies around who were from old czarist Russia, all former nobility, if you believed their stories. At least they knew how to find an address.
We sat in silence a minute, then Kate said, "Maybe you should have gone home to change."
"I will, if you'd like. I'm a few blocks from here." I added, "We're almost neighbors."
She smiled, mulled it over, then said, "The hell with it. No one will notice."
"There are five hundred detectives and FBI people in the building. You don't think they'll notice?" She laughed. "Who cares?" I said, "We'll go in separately." She took my hand, put her lips to my ear and said, "Fuck them."
I gave her a kiss on the cheek. She smelled good. She looked good. I liked her voice. I asked her, "Where are you from, exactly?"
"All over. I'm an FBI brat. Dad is retired. He was born in Cincinnati, Mom was born in Tennessee. We moved around a lot. One posting was in Venezuela. The FBI has lots of people in South America. J. Edgar tried to keep South America from the CIA. Did you know that?"
"I think so. Good old J. Edgar."
"He was very misunderstood, according to my father."
"I can relate to that."
She laughed.
I asked, "Are your parents proud of you?"
"Of course. Are your parents proud of you? Are they both alive?"
"Alive and well in Sarasota."
She smiled. "And…? Do they love you? Are they proud of you?"
"Absolutely. They have a pet name for me-Black Sheep."
She laughed. Two points.
Kate stayed quiet awhile, then said, "I had a long-term, long-distance relationship with another agent." She added, "I'm glad you and I are neighbors. It's easier. It's better."
Thinking of my own long-distance relationship with Beth Penrose, and my former marriage, I wasn't sure what was better. But I said, "Of course."
She further revealed, "I like older men."
I guess that meant me. I asked, "Why?"
"I like the pre-sensitive generation. Like my father. When men were men."
"Like Attila the Hun."
"You know what I mean."
"There's nothing wrong with the men of your generation, Kate. It's your job and the people on it. They're probably okay guys, too, but they work for the Federal government, which has become very strange."
"Maybe that's it. Jack is okay, for instance. He's older, and he acts normal half the time."
"Right."
She said, "I don't usually throw myself at men."
"I'm used to it."
She laughed. "Okay, enough morning-after talk."
"Good."
So, we made small talk-the kind of stuff that used to be pre-coital talk thirty years ago. The country has changed, mostly for the better, I think, but the sex thing has become more, rather than less, confusing. Maybe I'm the only one who's confused. I've dated women who are into the new/old concept of chastity and modesty as well as women who've switched mounts faster than a pony express rider. And it was hard to tell who was who by appearances, or even by what they said. The women have it easier-all men are pigs. It's that simple.
Anyway, you're not supposed to talk about classified stuff in the presence of civilians, even Albanian taxi drivers who pretend they don't speak English and don't know where Federal Plaza is-so we made small talk all the way downtown, getting to know each other.
I suggested we get out of the taxi a block before our destination and arrive separately. But Kate said, "No, this is fun. Let's see who notices and who leers." She added, "We haven't done anything wrong."
The FBI, of course, is not like most private employers, or even the NYPD for that matter, and they do keep an eye out for possible sexual conflicts and problems. Notice that Mulder and Scully still haven't gotten it on. I wonder if they get laid at all. Anyway, I was only working for the FBI on contract, so it wasn't my problem.
The taxi arrived at 26 Federal Plaza before 9:00 A.M., and I paid the driver.
We got out and entered the lobby together, but there weren't many of our colleagues around, and the ones we recognized didn't seem to notice that we'd arrived together, late, in the same cab, and that I hadn't changed my clothes. When you're doing it with a workmate, you think everyone knows, but usually people have more important things on their minds. If Koenig was around, however, he'd be on to us, and he'd be pissed. I know the type.
There was a newsstand in the lobby, and we bought the Times, the Post, the Daily News, and USA Today, despite the fact that all these newspapers and more are delivered to us five days a week. I like my newspapers fresh, unread, and undipped.