The Other Traitor by Sharon Potts Page B

of Slugger was delivering vital atomic-bomb documents to the Soviets.”
    “Slugger? How spylike.”
    “I know,” she said. “Yaklisov insisted that Goldstein wasn’t Slugger, but wouldn’t say who was.”
    “That’s interesting.” Bill took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses with a cloth from his pocket. “I’d never heard Slugger mentioned in connection with the Goldstein case.”
    He put his glasses back on and they started down the winding road toward the Boathouse. “So where do you go from here?”
    “Obviously, it would be great if I could track down this Slugger person, but I’m not egotistical enough to believe I’ll be able to decode something that stumped the FBI and CIA.” She took a sip of water from the bottle she had in her pocket. “For now, I’ll settle for trying to understand what kind of person my grandfather really was.”
    “I checked into Aaron Lowe for you.”
    “Oh good. Did you find anything?”
    “He published a number of papers while he was at NYU. Mostly theorizing on how economic central planning would work in America.”
    “So Aaron Lowe was a communist?”
    “Probably.”
    “That might explain why his grandson was a little rattled when I asked him if Mariasha Lowe had communist leanings.”
    “Whoa.” Bill stopped walking and stepped to the side of the road to study her. “Back up. Grandson?”
    “I met her grandson yesterday.” Her cheeks grew warm.
    Bill scrunched up his eyebrows. “He’d be the son of the woman you said was friends with your mother. Essie Lowe?”
    “Good memory.”
    “I imagine he’s a lot older than you.”
    Bill knew Annette’s mother had had her late in life. “Actually, he’s around thirty.”
    “Ooooo.”
    “Don’t start, Bill.”
    “From the way you’re blushing, I’m guessing he’s not married and he’s hot.”
    “It’s a nonissue,” she said. “I was hoping to use him to get to Mariasha, but I probably blew that.”
    “I doubt that.”
    “I’m not very good at lying,” she said. “He seemed to pick up that I wasn’t interested in Mariasha for her sculptures.”
    “That’s what you told him?”
    “Well, I didn’t think she’d talk to me if I came out and said I was trying to clear Goldstein’s name and did she happen to have any ideas who the real spy was?”
    “Maybe not.”
    “Oh come on, Bill. You’re the one who taught me to be cagey as a journalist.”
    “Not cagey. Subtle.”
    “Fine. I don’t think subtlety is the best approach here.”
    “And what’s the deal with the grandson?”
    “I think he was more interested in me than in giving me background on his grandmother.” She continued walking.
    “And that’s a bad thing?” Bill got in step with her.
    “I’m not interested in him.”
    “Of course you’re not. You haven’t had a love interest since when? Oh that’s right. Since never. You write off every guy thinking he’s going to drop you like your father dropped your mom.”
    “Enough,” she said. “How about we stay away from my love life and I promise I won’t give you life advice?”
    He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine.”
    They reached the Boathouse. There was a line of people buying coffee at the Express Café window. They went to stand at the end.
    “Anyway,” Annette said. “His name is Julian Sandman. There’s a remote possibility he’ll contact you for a reference on me.”
    “A reference?” Bill grinned. “I’ll tell him you’re very lovable, but you can be a real pain in the ass.”
    “A professional reference,” she said.
    “Really?”
    “Since he didn’t seem to believe my story, I told him to check my references.”
    “Next time don’t interview people in your Annie-Oakley braids.” He reached over and gave one of hers a tug.
    “I had my hair down.”
    “Then you probably looked pretty hot yourself.”
    “ Ras le bol !” she said. “Enough.”
    “Okay, okay.”
    They got to the take-out window and ordered two cinnamon buns and