The Parnell Affair Read Online Free PDF

remember your voice, though, so maybe I wasn't transferred to the correct extension last week?  I was told to call back.”
    “I see,” the secretary said.  “Yes, Mr. Parnell has returned to the country but not yet to the office.  Would you care to leave your number, Mr. Hallström?  I'll see that he gets it.”
    Tobias left his number, hung up, and attacked the wheat toast Sam, the morning waitress, set down.  After breakfast, he went into the office and found Joe Parnell's home address—remarkably listed in the DC phonebook.  Not wanting to bike to Barnaby Woods in street clothes on a day that promised to sizzle by lunchtime, Tobias abused his corporate account to rent a car and drove.
    The Parnell's lived on a winding, tree-lined street that would not seem out of place in any middle class neighborhood—except for the price tag.  The cost of apparent normality was steep within easy commute of downtown, with its tough inner-city streets only a catapult's toss from any of the tiny backyards in Upper Chevy Chase/Barnaby Woods.  The sun-dappled street and sidewalks, the swaying white oaks, and the period houses gave the sense of unchanging stability.  Close enough to the good high school—not the one Tobias attended—to hear the crowd if there was a ball game but far enough not to get any of its traffic, the Parnell's street was a good place to raise kids.  Which is no doubt why they returned from Europe and moved to the big house with the small swimming pool five years ago when their eldest entered high school.
    Tobias parked on the street and walked up the sloping, curving walk that led up the steep front lawn to the portico and front door.  After ringing the bell, Tobias heard a chuckle inside before the door opened quickly and Joe Parnell appeared smiling in light tan chinos and a pale yellow two-button shirt, saying: “Did you forget your keys?
    “Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said, seeing Tobias.  “I thought you were my wife, returning from her jog.”
    “I'm Tobias Hallström,” Tobias said, “ The Washington Observer .  Good morning.”
    “Good morning, Mr. Hallström,” Joe said, taking Tobias's proffered hand.
    Tobias caught his usual play toward breaking the ice a second before it slipped over his teeth.  Something in the way Joe dropped their handshake—in slow motion, as if forgotten halfway through—and look of appraisal or indecision touching the corners of the man's eyes held Tobias motionless and silent.  Joe watched him watch and nodded his head unconsciously.
    “It's a hot day,” Joe said.  “Or it will be.  May I offer you something to drink?”
    Tobias accepted (never turned down a drink; finishing it slowly could keep an interview going long after it would otherwise conclude) and followed Joe's outstretched arm through the door and living room into a sun-filled kitchen.  The house seemed smaller from the inside, somehow.  Stairs opposite the door separated the formal dining room (to the left) from the living room (to the right) with a half-wall separating the living room from the large kitchen.  Beyond the French doors, a small pool glittered amidst a tall shrub-encircled backyard.  Tobias caught sight of a bag of golf clubs resting against the stair railing as he passed through to the kitchen.
    “Somehow I don't think it's jetlag keeping you away from the office today,” Tobias said, pointing to the clubs.  “Which course is yours?”
    Joe laughed silently and went around the kitchen island to retrieve a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator.  He said, “I'll tell you something—oh, is iced tea okay, Mr. Hallström?”
    “Sure, great,” Tobias said, sitting down opposite a nearby depleted glass of iced tea and a newspaper (he smiled to see it was The Observer ).  “And you can call me Tobias, if you like.  A little less of a mouthful than Hallström.”
    “Thank you,” Joe said, filling a glass.  “Does anyone call you Toby?”
    “Only people