The prodigal spy

“Well, there was a funny thing about that lighter. Very funny, I thought. No prints. None. Wiped. We dusted right away, don’t let them tell you different. I knew about prints. We got hers all over the place. But the lighter’s all smooth and clean. You asked before about the glass-no prints there either. Now that I can understand. You have a drink, you kill somebody, you wipe the glass, nobody knows you’ve been there. But who’d wipe their own lighter and then leave it behind so we’d find it anyway?”

“Somebody who wanted it found.”

McHenry nodded. “Right. I mean, if you’re worried enough to wipe it, why not take it with you? Somebody else planted that lighter.”

“Who?”

“That I don’t know. They were all out to get him, but who’d want to get him that bad? Like you said, he had the motive and we had the lighter. Case closed.”

“Even if you didn’t think he did it?”

“Well, it wasn’t my case, was it?”

“No.” Nick paused. “You know, the lighter never appeared in the Bureau report.”

“It didn’t? Well, they sure as hell had it. I gave it to them myself. In a bag, sealed, everything the way it should be.”

“Why wouldn’t they mention it?”

“That I don’t know either. Who knows why they do anything there? It’s all politics over there, not police work.”

“Who did you give it to? Who specifically?”

“The guy running the case, the Canuck. French name. La something.” He snapped his fingers. “Lapierre. That’s right. One look, he’d freeze your blood. Snotty little bastard.” Again to Molly, “Pardon. Anyway, that’s who had it. After that, I don’t know. Maybe they got it over there with Dillinger’s prick, who knows?”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“No idea. Still there for all I know. Well, twenty years-” He did a mental calculation. “Maybe not. Not with their pension. I wish I had it. Not this chickenshit they give you on the force.” He waved his hand around the room, living proof. “You want to see him too?”

“Maybe there’s something else.”

“Well, I doubt it. Like I said, we did everything right. What are you expecting to find, anyway? Who did it?”

“No, just who didn’t. My father did a lot of things, but I never thought he did this. I just wanted to be sure. Anyway, thanks. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No bother, no bother. What else would I be doing but hacking my lungs up?”

He walked them to the door, reluctant to see the meeting end, his eyes lively with interest, back on the case. “One other thing that never came out. Not about your father,” he said to Nick. “About the girl. It was really out of respect to the family.” This to Molly, tentative. “We figured they had enough on their hands already. Terrible thing, suicide, for a Catholic.”

Molly looked at him, waiting.

“Maybe she didn’t know it herself,” McHenry said. “She didn’t need the douche. She was pregnant.”

Molly was thoughtful in the car.

“Is that possible?” Nick said. “Not to know?”

“I suppose. For a while, anyway. Maybe she did, though. Maybe that’s why she wanted the money. Not for a dress.”

“A good Catholic girl?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“I don’t know. Remember in the letter how she made this big point about his not being married? I’ll bet she thought it was going to be all right. Once they got past the hearing.”

“I wonder if he knew.” She moved her hand, brushing the thought aside. “Anyway, you don’t kill somebody for that. You get it taken care of.”

“He did.”

Molly worked her phone magic again with the Justice Department’s Personnel Office, pretending to be unaware that her old friend had retired, and got Lapierre’s address out in Falls Church. They decided not to call first.

“What if he says no?” Nick said. But when they got there, a condo development pretending to be colonial row houses, there was no question of his not opening the door-he was in the garden. A slight man, still wiry, digging on his hands and knees. When he got up, slowly, his whole body seemed wary, not standing but uncoiling. His face was blank when they explained themselves, then drew even further behind an official wall. But his eyes stayed on Nick, curious, as if he were looking at an old photograph. “I can’t discuss cases.”

“It’s not a case anymore,” Nick said. “The statute of limitations was seven years.”

“On espionage. Not murder.” He wiped some dirt from his hands. “It’s still an open case.”

“My father’s dead.”

“Yes? I hadn’t heard that.” He looked at Nick again. “You were the kid. I remember you. At the house.” A man holding his hat, his face unfamiliar, just a blur even then. “Said you were playing Monopoly, wasn’t that it?”

“Scrabble.”

“Scrabble.” He nodded. “Right. Scrabble.” Noncommittal.

A woman opened the back door. “Dad, you all right?”

“Fine. We’re just talking here.”

She looked at them suspiciously, wanting more information, then had to give it up. “Don’t forget your pills,” she said, reluctantly going back in.