Not My Spook

“Drum called again.” Major Jonathan Drum II worked out of the Pentagon, and he was an even bigger pain in my ass than Mark Vincent.

“That—What did he want?”

“What he usually wants: another favor. I wasn’t home, so he had to leave a message. Needless to say, he wasn’t pleased. He’s got quite an interesting vocabulary.” Lately it had seemed to me he was calling more frequently. Drum worked for the OIG andwas a smart lawyer, but he was also good-looking, and he often got by on those looks. I didn’t mind helping out on occasion, but now it was as if he expected me to drop everything to do his bidding. I wasn’t about to permit him or anyone else to use me.

“Son of a bitch. Why doesn’t he do his own legwork?” Fortunately DB’s question was purely rhetorical. He picked up his drink and finished it in a few gulps.

“You’d better take it easy, David. The last thing you need is to get stopped for driving under the influence.”

“I’m okay. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“There’s no need. I’m fine.” I pushed back my sleeve to check the watch that had been my grandfather’s—I’d been touched when Uncle Bryan had given it to me, telling me Grandfather had specifically requested I have it. “It’s getting late, and I’d better go.” I wanted to find out why Mark had called. “Are you staying?”

“No.” He reached for his wallet.

I stopped him, took out mine, and peeled off a bill, which I handed to the waiter. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You should have let me get this, Quinn. After all, Jack Daniels is more expensive than ginger ale.” He followed me out of the bar.

“I can afford it. Besides, it’s only fair. I feel as if I ruined your evening.”

“Not your fault things got exciting there for a bit. And you were right, much as I hate to admit it. Vincent wouldn’t do something as dumb as blowing himself up. Although I can still dream.”

“You—we may not like him, but you have to give the man his due. He does get the job done.” I unlocked the door to my car and got in.

“Yeah, only people die when he does.” He leaned down, keeping me from shutting the door, and gave me one last warning. “Call me when you get home, Quinn. Or by God I’ll come knocking on your door.”

“Yes, mother. You drive carefully too.” I grinned at him, and fortunately the light was dim enough that he didn’t see how forced it was. I was relieved when he chuckled and shut the door.

I buckled up, put the car into drive, and started home, wondering again why Mark had tried to call me.

* * * *

I returned his call as soon as I got in. He sounded tired, and I wasn’t surprised when I heard myself tell him, “Come over. I’ll make you a sandwich and something hot to drink. You can ‘crash’ in my spare bedroom.”

After all, it was simply the right thing to do for a…colleague.

Now…toasted cheese and tomato soup?

No, that was a boy’s comfort food. He’d need something more substantial—bacon, lettuce, and tomato, perhaps, and I had a fresh loaf of multigrain bread.

The last thing he’d need was caffeine. I had some Earl Grey that was decaffeinated. I’d brew him a pot of that.

One drank it with milk, but I had none in the house. I did have half-and-half for my coffee, but that would make the tea richer-tasting.

Since I had no idea if Mark preferred it that way, I drove down to a small, all-night grocery store, which was only about a half mile away. Most of the milk was dated for the next day, but I found a pint bottle whose pull date was still a few days away.

“You want a bag for that?” The cashier was bored and sleepy looking, and he took my money and automatically made change.

“No, that won’t be necessary.” I took my change and the bottle and returned home, garaged the Lexus, and let myself back into my town house.

After I put the milk in the fridge beside my half-and-half, I hung up my overcoat. Little, inconsequential things, all done by rote.

Once they were taken care of, I brewed the pot of Earl Grey and categorized what I’d need to do:

Switch on the fan in the hood above the stove, take out a frying pan and lay some strips of bacon in it, then turn the flame on beneath it.

I got that accomplished, then glanced at my watch. I really hadn’t expected Mark to show up immediately, but…where was he? And what was he doing?

Well, it was just as well he wasn’t here. I still had to put his sandwich together.

While the bacon fried, I washed lettuce and a tomato and put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster.

There were more things to do:

Drain the bacon on sheets of paper towels, wipe the frying pan down, wash and dry it, and then put it away.

Enumerating all the little tasks that needed to be done and then doing them did nothing to blot out the memory of Mark as he stood in the morgue. He’d been just so fucking nonchalant about the whole thing, as if bodies turning up, being mistaken for his occurred on a frequent basis.

I put the sandwich together, and the sensation in the pit of my stomach grew colder, the rigidity in my jaw tighter. How could he…?

My mouth was in a tight line, and my teeth ached from grinding them. I rotated my jaw,hoping to ease the tension.

And to whom, exactly, did that body in the morgue belong? A lover, perhaps?

A series of loud thwacks brought me out of my furious musings, and I stared aghast from the large knife in my hand to the sandwich. I’d had no intention of slicing off the crusts, but apparently my subconscious had other ideas.

I put the knife in the dishwasher and was distracted by the sight of my breakfast dishalready in place. My breakfast dish, but not my coffee cup. I knew I hadn’t had the time to put it there, and it wasn’t my cleaning service’s usual day. That left Mark. He had been here at some point today—the photograph replacing JessicaTheDumbBlonde’s was proof enough of that. Although why he’d tidied my kitchen…. And then it occurred to me: what better way of thumbing his nose at my security system?

I opened the microwave, and as I’d half suspected, there sat my coffee cup. Smiling wryly, I dumped its contents into the sink, rinsed it, and put it in the top rack of the dishwasher.