Taylor Smith - Liar's Market

Withdrawing a handkerchief, he wiped down the stem of her glass, the only part of it he’d touched, as well as the ice bucket and the bottle. Perhaps the initial thought would be that she’d been drinking alone, depressed on her birthday. The notion wouldn’t stand up to five minutes of careful scrutiny, of course, but he didn’t care. He’d be long gone, from the Peak, from Hong Kong, before the police ever got around to putting together a credible theory of what had happened here tonight—if they ever did.

Back inside, he crossed the living room quickly and silently. The place smelled like a bloody funeral parlor, he thought, with all those ostentatious floral arrangements. Appropriate, though, under the circumstances.

He withdrew a Sig-Sauer automatic from the holster at the small of his back, under his tuxedo jacket. The suppressor was in his other pocket, the one not holding the blue box. He screwed it onto the end of the barrel as he backed quietly along the wall, through the formal dining room and toward the kitchen.

He was at the swinging door when he heard the first faint yell of alarm rising from the front drive, twenty-eight floors below. A male voice. It wouldn’t be the doorman, though. His driver would have long since taken him out, dumping the body in the trunk of the limo before leaving to dispose of it. It could be days before it floated to the surface of the harbor.

He gave the silencer one last, tightening twist. The motorcycle on which he himself would make his getaway had been pre-positioned near the servants’ entrance at the back of the building. He calculated that he had as little as four minutes to get to it before the first police cars came up the Peak Road. In the meantime, the civilians on the scene would be preoccupied with that silk-clad mess on the front drive.

Poor thing. She probably wasn’t so gorgeous now.

When he burst through the kitchen door, the maid was sitting on a stool at the center island, a gossip magazine spread out in front of her, a bowl at her chin. Her chopsticks froze in mid-air and her mouth dropped open, grains of rice tumbling from her lips.

He put a single bullet in her forehead. The rice bowl sailed in one direction, the chopsticks in another, as the stool tipped backward. She slumped to the floor, her head wedged between the gleaming stainless steel stove and a maple cabinet.

Taking care to leave no prints, he left quietly through the rear kitchen door. The maid stared blindly after him, her black eyes milking over.

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FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPTION

CASE NO. 1786521-02

CODE NAME: ACHILLES

DATE OF INTERVIEW: August 14, 2002

LEAD INTERROGATOR: FBI Special Agent S. V. Andrews

(Special Agent Andrews) Okay, let’s get started. Today is Wednesday, August 14, 2002, and this is interview number two with Mrs. Drummond MacNeil, also known as Carrie MacNeil.

I should note for the record that two witnesses are present: Mr. Frank Tucker, representing the office of the Director of Central Intelligence, and Mr. Mark Huxley, from MI-6, the British foreign intelligence service. They’re being allowed to observe this interview as part of their damage assessment on joint-intelligence operations resulting from the alleged activities of Mrs. MacNeil’s husband. As of right now, Drummond MacNeil, CIA Deputy Director for Operations, is still at large, whereabouts unknown.

Okay, I think we’re ready to begin now. So, for the record, please, state your full name and date of birth.

(Mrs. MacNeil) Didn’t we establish that in the first interview?

We do it every time to keep the tapes properly identified for the transcribers.

Oh. That makes sense, I guess. So, once again then, it’s Carrie Jane MacNeil. Originally Carolyn, but I’ve always been called Carrie. My maiden name was Morgan.

And your date of birth?

May 16, 1973.

So you’re…um…twenty-nine years old, is that right?

Yes. I’ll be thirty on my next birthday. The big three-oh. And don’t I have a lot to be proud of approaching that landmark.

Such as?

I was being sarcastic, Agent Andrews. Obviously, my accomplishments are pretty limited. In fact, all things considered, I’d say I’ve made a real mess of things, wouldn’t you?

In what way?

Take your pick. I’ve pretty much blown everything over the last decade—education, marriage, credibility. Abandoned my personal goals, so no career to speak of. And now, here I am, suspected of treason—and murder, too, if I understand correctly where you were heading when we talked yesterday. Good job, Carrie.

I told you yesterday, Mrs. MacNeil, the Bureau’s official position is that you’re assisting our investigation into your husband’s activities and subsequent disappearance. No one has said you’re a suspect.

Not yet they haven’t. You’ll be sure to tell me when I am, though, won’t you?

You’ll be the first to know. But in the meantime, I want to confirm for the record that your participation in this debriefing is entirely voluntary. Is that right?

You mean, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing?

No, I mean you’re here of your own accord and we both understand that you’re free of leave at any time.

Yes, fine, we both understand that. I can think of plenty of places I’d rather be, mind you. Having a root canal, for example.

No doubt. But getting back to the subject of your accomplishments, what about your son? You’re proud of him, aren’t you?

Oh, God, yes, I am. He’s the best part of my life. All right, fair enough. I’ve messed up the rest of it, but I wouldn’t have Jonah if it weren’t for everything else. Let’s just hope I haven’t completely ruined his life, too.

That has to be a concern, for sure. But depending on the extent of your involvement in your husband’s activities—

There was no involvement! I don’t even know for sure that he was doing anything illegal. It’s you people who keep insisting he sold state secrets and caused the deaths of I don’t know how many people. Even if that’s true, I had no idea anything was wrong until he vanished two days ago.

And you say he’s gone into hiding, but what if you’re wrong? What if he’s been kidnapped? Isn’t it possible he’s innocent? That he’s being held hostage—or worse—by terrorists? And you’re just sitting here, wasting time, asking me questions I don’t know the answers to?

We think it’s highly unlikely he’s been kidnapped, the evidence being what it is.

I’m still waiting to see all this supposed evidence.

All in good time. And if, in fact, it turns out you weren’t involved, you’ll be free to go home and raise your son and try to get past all this. But first, we have some information blanks to fill in and we think you can help.

So, let’s just get back to the task at hand, shall we? State your address and place of employment once again for the record, if you don’t mind.

What if I do?

Do what?

Mind.

Are you saying you won’t cooperate with this investigation?

I’m just—never mind. It doesn’t matter. My address—1221 Elcott Road, McLean, Virginia. At the moment, anyway.

You’re planning to move?

I’m not sure. It’s a little awkward there right now, and I’ve been offered the chance to house-sit for some family friends so…Well, I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do.

Do you own the house in McLean?

No. I think I mentioned yesterday that it belongs jointly to my husband and his mother. Actually, the house was left to Drum when his father died, but with the stipulation that my mother-in-law continue to live in it during her lifetime. Drum left her on the deed as co-owner because he was out of the country so much.