“If you were born in Miami, the Civil War isn’t exactly foremost on your mind,” I replied.
“I guess not. Hell, Miami ain’t even in this country.
Any place where they got to vote on whether English is the official language don’t belong in the United States.”
Marino’s digs about my birthplace were nothing new.
Slowing down as he turned into a gravel drive, he said, “Not a bad crib, huh? Guess the feds pay a little better than the city.”
The house was shingle style with a fieldstone foundation and projecting bay windows. Rosebushes lined the front, east, and west wings shaded by old magnolias and oaks. As we got out, I began to look for clues that might give me more insight into Benton Wesley’s private life. A basketball hoop was above the garage door, and near a woodpile covered with plastic was a red rider mower sprayed with cut grass. Beyond, I could see a spacious backyard impeccably landscaped with flower beds, azaleas, and fruit trees. Several chairs were arranged close together near a gas grill, and I envisioned Wesley and his wife having drinks and cooking steaks on leisurely summer nights.
Marino rang the bell. It was Wesley’s wife who opened the door. She introduced herself as Connie.
“Ben went upstairs for a minute,” she said, smiling, as she led us into a living room with wide windows, a large fireplace, and rustic furniture. I had never heard Wesley referred to as “Ben” before. Nor had I ever met his wife. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, an attractive brunette with hazel eyes so light they were almost yellow, and sharp features very much like her husband’s. There was a gentleness about her, a quiet reserve suggesting strength of character and tenderness. The guarded Benton Wesley I knew, no doubt, was a very different man at home, and I wondered how familiar Connie was with the details of his profession.
“Will you have a beer, Pete?” she asked.
He settled into a rocking chair. “Looks like I’m the designated driver. Better stick to coffee.”
“Kay, what may I get for you?”
“Coffee would be fine,” I replied. “If it’s no trouble.”
“I’m so glad to finally meet you,” she added sincerely. “Ben’s spoken of you for years. He regards you very highly.”
“Thank you.”
The compliment disconcerted me, and what she said next came as a shock.
“When we saw Mark last, I made him promise to bring you to dinner next time he comes to Quantico.”
“That’s very kind,” I said, managing a smile. Clearly, Wesley did not tell her everything, and the idea that Mark might have been in Virginia recently without so much as calling me was almost more than I could bear.
When she left us for the kitchen, Marino asked, “You heard from him lately?”
“Denver’s beautiful,” I replied evasively.
“It’s a bitch, you want my opinion. They bring him in from deep cover, hole him up in Quantico for a while. Next thing, they’re sending his ass out west to work on something he can’t tell nobody about. Just one more reason why you couldn’t pay me enough to sign on with the Bureau.”
I did not respond.
He went on, “The hell with your personal life. It’s like they say, ‘If Hoover wanted you to have a wife and kids, he would’ve issued them with your badge.'” “Hoover was a long time ago,” I said, staring out at trees churning in the wind. It looked like it was about to rain again, this time seriously.
“Maybe so. But you still ain’t got a life of your own.”
“I’m not sure any of us do, Marino.”
“That’s the damn truth,” he muttered under his breath.
Footsteps sounded and then Wesley walked in, still in suit and tie, gray trousers and starched white shirt slightly wrinkled. He seemed tired and tense as he asked if we had been offered drinks.
“Connie’s taking care of us,” I said.
Lowering himself into a chair, he glanced at his watch. “We’ll eat in about an hour.”
He clasped his hands in his lap.
“Haven’t heard shit from Morrell,” Marino started in.
“I’m afraid there are no new developments. Nothing hopeful,” Wesley replied.