The Eyes Of Derek Archer. Vickie York
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major’s voice was cold and exact.
Susan clenched her hands together so tightly the knuckles cracked. “If Don Albright’s alive, he must be the one who killed Brian.” Anger released some of her grief, and she didn’t try to fight it. “I’ll see he pays if it’s the last thing I do.”
San Francisco
SEATED AT THE TABLE in his cramped room, Archer stared in disbelief at the picture on the front page of the Spokane Daily Chronicle. Though the focus was a little hazy, he easily recognized the man facing the camera.
It was himself, in the disguise he’d worn in Spokane. Stiff with shock, he read the news item under the picture.
Have you seen this man? the caption read. Eyewitness wanted for questioning in the Wade killing. The article went on to say that the picture was taken by a tourist visiting the cathedral. He’d sent the photo to the paper anonymously because he didn’t want to get involved.
Though only the back of the other man in the photograph was visible, the newspaper identified him as Air Force Captain Brian Wade, the officer who’d been murdered two weeks ago.
Archer crumpled the newspaper in his sweaty fists. Were the police trying to find the eyewitness because they thought he was the murderer? Lord knows, he’d dreamed of strangling Wade with his bare hands.
But the police couldn’t possibly suspect the man in the picture. With the sophisticated techniques available today, they had to know the bullet was fired from the street, not a foot away. But maybe they thought he’d moved from his photographed position and then committed the murder.
He turned his attention back to the picture. Where had it come from? Not from “a tourist who wanted to remain anonymous.” Archer was certain of that. Somebody wanted Glenn Dillon to be charged—either that, or to tell what he’d seen.
What had he seen? he asked himself. In the traumatic moment of Wade’s death, he hadn’t focused on anything but the body toppling toward him. Fuzzy images of a white, late-model sedan with a blond woman at the wheel appeared as indistinct figures in his memory.
He eyed his burgeoning file on Susan Wade. She was a blonde. Could she have been the woman he saw? She certainly had a motive. According to the information he’d collected, Wade’s death had made her rich. From her service decorations, Archer knew Susan was an expert marksman on the rifle range, and she could have fired the gun that killed her husband.
By the time a month had passed, Archer knew he’d have to risk another trip to Spokane to meet her and fill in the blanks about her character and objectives. In the automobile garage where he worked, he plotted his every move as he changed oil and replaced worn-out fan belts.
By night, hunched over a flimsy table in his cramped basement room, he examined the newspapers he bought every day and added more information to his growing files. On days off, he compiled the forms he’d need, had them printed and finalized the background information for his cover as an insurance agent.
Two weeks later he was ready.
Spokane
SUSAN YANKED UP the kitchen blind and peered across her deck through the predawn grayness. After the luscious green foliage of Hawaii’s Big Island where she’d spent the past month, the bare trees and yellowed grass behind her condo looked as bleak as a graveyard. Disturbed by the sight, she released the cord and let the blind drop with a noisy rattle.
On Major Savage’s orders, she’d taken leave in Hawaii shortly after Brian’s funeral. Now she’d been home almost a week, and her spacious condo still seemed filled with his presence. Glancing from the kitchen into the contemporary living room, she could almost see him sitting on his leather recliner.
Why hadn’t she told him the truth about her assignment to Fairchild? Maybe if she’d trusted him more, their marriage would have been better. She’d wanted to tell him she was here on a covert mission so secret no one knew about it except key officers at the Pentagon Intelligence Agency. But her sense of duty always held her back.
Now Susan was left with the piercing guilt that she was somehow responsible for Brian’s death. Brushing her hair off her forehead, she told herself Don Albright was the killer. But she couldn’t help wondering if Brian’s death was somehow tied in to her covert mission—if he might still be alive if he hadn’t married her.
Brian had also left her a lot of money. The authorities had been delicate in their questioning, but there was no doubt they thought she had a motive for killing him.
Worse, she had no alibi for that awful afternoon. Absently, she placed the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher as she remembered what had happened. A telephone call—allegedly from the wife of one of her airmen—had led her on a wild-goose chase. The guard at Fairchild’s main gate remembered both her and Brian leaving the base within minutes of each other.
She’d told the police about the telephone call and her fruitless search for the airman’s wife, hoping they’d realize she’d been set up. They’d asked a few questions and talked to the couple, who denied making the call. Afterward, the police had acted even more suspicious.
Sighing, Susan put on her uniform overcoat. The phone rang as she started out the door. Returning to the kitchen, she picked up the receiver.
“Good morning,” she said, hoping it was somebody from the squadron with an urgent assignment for her, something important that would occupy her thoughts.
“Is Captain Wade there?” a man’s voice asked.
Susan’s heart sank at the friendly tone in his voice. He sounded vaguely familiar. Probably one of Brian’s friends, who didn’t know about the murder. She dreaded telling him. “No. Are you a friend of his?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “I’m an agent with Industrial Indemnity Insurance Company. Is this Mrs. Wade?”
“Yes.” Suddenly warm, she shrugged off her overcoat and laid it over the back of a chair.
“This is Derek Archer,” he said. “I’m sorry to call you so early, Mrs. Wade, but I’d hoped to catch your husband before he left for work. Could you give me his number at the office?”
“No,” she said abruptly. “He doesn’t need any more insurance.”
“I’m not trying to sell him a policy, Mrs. Wade. I’m trying to service the one he’s got.” He sounded tired, like a middle-aged man who was fed up with talking to difficult clients. Susan had a good ear for voices. Where had she heard his before?
Trying to be patient, she took a deep breath. “I didn’t know we had a policy with your company.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, you won’t have it long if you don’t get caught up on your premiums. Your husband’s missed the last two.”
Susan’s throat tightened. The last thing she wanted right now was more talk about insurance.
“Mrs. Wade?”
“Yes, I’m still here.”
“I’ll be in Spokane for the next few days at the Riverfront Hotel. That’s where I’m calling from. Tell your husband to call me so we can get this settled—Derek Archer from Industrial Indemnity.” He repeated his name and then gave her the hotel’s telephone number.
Susan didn’t bother to write it down. “My husband’s been dead two months, Mr. Archer. That’s why your premiums weren’t paid.”
There was a long pause. When he spoke, his tone was grave. “My condolences, Mrs. Wade. That puts a different light on things. Maybe we should get together to discuss your husband’s policy while I’m in town. How about lunch in the hotel dining room at noon today?”
Hesitating, she nearly said no. She was trained to be suspicious, and something didn’t seem quite right about this agent with a policy she had no record of. Why was he servicing the policy personally? Didn’t the company notify tardy payers by mail?
Then