Collateral Damage by Michael Bowen

sorting through the telegraphic data. “GOY” was Government of Yugoslavia, whose representatives had avoided Andrew Shepherd on this particular trip. Shepherd had come to Jessenice and stayed at a world-class hotel with all the amenities and a price tag to match. Then he had come back to the United States and told Lancer that an influx of Yugoslav religious enthusiasts had forced him to put up with squalid student accommodations.
    â€œLancer” was one of the trade names used at the Central Intelligence Agency by Aldrich Ames. Michaelson happened to know that, but even if he hadn’t, he could have figured it out. Josh Logan had gotten Halliburton’s document to Michaelson the evening of February 23, 1994, and the next morning The New York Times had reported the FBI’s arrest of Aldrich Ames for espionage. That had begun the public exposure of Ames as the CIA’s now-notorious Soviet mole, who soon afterward cut a deal to save his neck and began serving life in prison for selling his country’s secrets.
    Michaelson roused himself sternly from his reverie, for company was coming and there was work to do before it arrived. Even with a flurry of activity, however, he couldn’t entirely avoid a moment’s introspection.
    â€œWhat a pathetic thing to die for,” he muttered as he searched for a fresh envelope.

Chapter Eleven
    You’re sure about the color?” the detective asked Marjorie twenty minutes into his interview with her.
    â€œYes,” Marjorie said. “The smoke definitely changed color when the blast from the fire extinguisher hit it.”
    The detective was certainly the most junior of the three plainclothes officers who had shown up at Calvert Manor a little over half an hour after the ambulance had sped off. He flicked longish and unruly straw-colored hair with a quick head shake as he tapped at a notebook computer on his lap. Marjorie had no trouble imagining what Inspector Morse would have thought about the laptop. Or about people scattered in knots around the first floor, chatting desultorily while they waited for the cops to get around to them.
    Another detective, who could shake his head all day long without flicking any hair, sauntered over and glanced down at his younger colleague’s screen.
    â€œWhaddaya got?” he asked.
    â€œIn the den. Didn’t see anyone go upstairs. Didn’t notice anyone get off the call. Smoke changed color.”
    â€œWhat about this?” He handed the seated man a Baggie.
    â€œDo you know of any reason why this would have been lying outside in the snow?” the guy with the laptop asked.
    â€œNo,” Marjorie said.
    â€œDid you notice anyone running away from the back of the house after the smoke alarm went off?”
    â€œNo,” Marjorie said, “but I had other things on my mind.”
    â€œI understand. Did you notice anyone with the original group inside who didn’t turn up outside?”
    â€œNo. I mean everyone that I knew inside turned up outside, but I’m afraid I didn’t pay that much attention to the musicians.” Marjorie examined the Baggie. She didn’t know what drug residue looked like, but if there was anything at all on the soggy plastic bag, she couldn’t see it.
    â€œAnother witness said that you were here a few days ago with someone who was looking at the house,” the older detective said.
    â€œThat’s true,” Marjorie said. “Patrice Helmsing. And before that with Richard Michaelson. And once on my own before today.”
    â€œThat’s a very precise recollection,” the younger detective said. Smiling. Encouraging. Challenging.
    â€œI can’t hide my own Easter eggs yet,” Marjorie said.
    â€œOkay,” the younger cop said. The right collar tip on his aqua Izod curled upward and he tried unsuccessfully to flatten it. “I’ll try to have a preliminary statement written up for you in twenty