Murder in Foggy Bottom Read Free

she kissed him and said, “I love you, too, Harry. Everything will be all right.” She meant it. Although there would be the requisite period of recriminations, and should be, her determination not to allow a single indiscretion to take away what they had built as a family was as strong as her husband’s.
    They rejoined their daughters and he kissed both girls again. “Call tonight,” he told Hope.
    “I will.”
    “You girls be good and do what Mom says. But not when she says get lost.”
    “Those are a fine-lookin’ couple of young ladies,” the grinning, chubby businessman ahead of them said, Alabama coating his words.
    “Thanks,” Syms said.
    “First time on an airplane?” the man asked.
    “No,” Hope answered. “They even have their own frequent flier accounts.” To Harry: “Go!”
    “Call.”
    “I will, I will.”
    Syms backed away, waving, and almost tripped over a suitcase belonging to another passenger. He left the terminal, got in his car, and headed for his meeting at company headquarters in White Plains, torn, wishing he’d been able to get away and accompany his family— wishing Hope had wanted him to, yet ready for the short separation. His in-laws were nice people, no bad mother-in-law jokes for him. Maybe when the negotiations were over he’d just get on a plane and surprise them. Even though Hope said she didn’t want him there, he thought she’d like it if he arrived unexpectedly.
    At least he hoped she would. He’d have to think that through. No room for more missteps at this juncture.
    As Syms turned back onto 684, Al Lester looked up at a twin-engine Saab turboprop taking off from the airport. It passed directly over him, low, engines whining at full throttle, and banked left to the west, a standard takeoff pattern when the wind blew from west to east.
    Lester, sixty-eight, was enjoying his retirement, finally having time for his passion: fishing the lakes, streams, and reservoirs that were, perhaps surprisingly, plentiful in Westchester County, Manhattan’s primary source of potable water. Minnesota might be the land of ten thousand lakes, but New York State and Westchester within it were no Sahara. But you couldn’t just go out and fish the reservoirs. It took a special license from New York City’s Bureau of Water Supply. Among many restrictions was a prohibition on powerboats. You paddled or didn’t fish. Lester believed in fishing regulations and followed them faithfully, knowing that the licensing requirement had been initiated during World War Two, when it was feared a foreign power might poison the city’s water supply. No such fear existed today, but still having to obtain the special license kept the number of fishermen down, something he approved of. Al Lester wasn’t a social fisherman. He liked to fish alone.
    He’d left the house at six after Nancy had made him a hearty breakfast. The key to still getting along fine after forty years of marriage was, as far as Al was concerned, understanding and respecting each other’s needs. His days were spent fishing; she enjoyed tending to their flower garden and reading the dozen or so romance novels that seemed to arrive weekly from a book club. Many of their friends had moved to Florida or North Carolina, in search of cheaper living and more consistently moderate weather. Those states had their attractions, including a usually benign climate—except when it turned terrifying—but there would be no such move for Al and Nancy Lester. “Like signing your death certificate” was the way he saw it. Bring on the change of seasons, including snowy winters. It kept a man alert and alive. And no early-bird specials at the local eatery in this couple’s future. Nancy could cook . . . and liked it.
    He had just reached his favorite spot in Webers Cove when the Saab aircraft roared into the sky above, causing him to mutter a curse. There would be a dozen more departures that morning to intrude on his quiet, solitary