Murder in Foggy Bottom Read Online Free PDF Page A

Beirut, playing the bad guy, wondering whether the real bad guys would get on to you and put a bullet through your brain. I—”
    “Are we about to get into an argument? There’s no need for that. We’re not married anymore. You knew what I did for a living when you married me.”
    “No, I didn’t. That was against the rules. ‘Sorry, honey, but I’ll be away for six months, can’t tell you where or why, I’ll miss you, take good care of the kids—’ ”
    “I don’t want an argument, Doris.”
    “Nor do I. I married you, Max, because you were the most charming man I’d ever met, not that I’d met many charming men at age twenty-four, but you were smooth. Part of the job description, isn’t it?”
    Max said nothing.
    “I suppose I just want you to know yourself and not have any illusions about who Max Pauling is. And I understand, I really do. There are men who marry and father children and mean well, but who have a pull in some other direction that overrides changing diapers and helping with homework and attending school concerts and parent-teacher meetings.”
    “I agree, Doris. You’re right. A PTA meeting can’t hold a candle to a cloak-and-dagger meeting in some Moscow alley with a half-crazed Russian mafioso. And as for school concerts, grade-school music teachers either have a special place in heaven or they end up serial killers. No, Doris, my adrenaline did not flow when the kids were squeaking on their clarinets. I’m glad you’ve met your accountant.”
    “You’re being facetious.”
    “No, I’m not. Being married to a solid citizen is—”
    “Don’t jump ahead too far, Max. We’ve just been dating a few months.”
    “Well, however it turns out, know I just want the best for you and the boys.”
    “You always have, and I appreciate it. You? No Mrs. Max Pauling number two in the future?”
    “No. I have my work and my plane and—”
    “Don’t kid a kidder, Max. You aren’t saying that the handsome, rugged ex-Marine I married doesn’t have women falling all over him? I read there’s at least four women to every man in Washington.”
    “Can’t prove it by me. Does your friend own a plane?”
    “No, thank goodness.”
    “Then we probably won’t have anything in common except that we fell in love with the same knockout woman. If I get in trouble with the IRS, will he help me?”
    “Think I’ll get to bed. Good night, Max.” She came to where he sat, kissed him on the forehead, and left him alone to sit in the still darkness for another hour before going to the guest bedroom, where he stood in front of the mirror staring at the face peering back at him. From his perspective, he hadn’t changed much from his Marine days in ’Nam, although there were the dozen or so crevices lining his face that hadn’t been there, and the skin under his eyes sagged a little, and some silver had crept into his brown hair and—he hadn’t lost any hair; there was solace in that, and he kept fit through regular workouts, including weights. His Marine uniform still fit.
    But time marched on, as it was said, and Pauling knew it. His sons were on the verge of becoming men; his wife, still attractive, was not the dazzling young gal he’d married, and seemed interested in settling down with a middle-aged accountant with two teen daughters. On top of that, he, Max Pauling, had been relegated to a desk job, put out to metaphorical pasture. What next?
    He slept fitfully.
    He realized as he approached Washington that he’d been so immersed in his thoughts about Doris and his sons that he’d forgotten there had been a commercial aviation accident in New York. He turned on the plane’s AM radio and tuned to a Washington all-news station in search of a quick update before having to negotiate air traffic control. He sat through a movie review and a story about a murder-suicide in Rockville, and was about to turn off the radio to avoid its distractions when a newscaster came on:
    “We reported