TORTURE MAN

Praise for Warren Adler’s Fiona Fitzgerald Mystery Series

High-class suspense.

—The New York Times on American Quartet

Adler’s a dandy plot-weaver, a real tale-teller.

—Los Angeles Times on American Sextet

Adler’s depiction of Washington—its geography, social whirl, political intrigue—rings true.

—Booklist on Senator Love

A wildly kaleidoscopic look at the scandals and political life of Washington D.C.

—Los Angeles Times on Death of a Washington Madame

Both the public and the private story in Adler’s second book about intrepid sergeant Fitzgerald make good reading, capturing the political scene and the passionate duplicity of those who would wield power.

—Publishers Weekly on Immaculate Deception

Praise for Warren Adler’s Fiction

Warren Adler writes with skill and a sense of scene.

—The New York Times Book Review on The War of the Roses

Engrossing, gripping, absorbing… written by a superb storyteller. Adler’s pen uses brisk, descriptive strokes that are enviable and masterful.

—West Coast Review of Books on Trans-Siberian Express

A fast-paced suspense story… only a seasoned newspaperman could have written with such inside skills.

—The Washington Star on The Henderson Equation

High-tension political intrigue with excellent dramatization of the worlds of good and evil.

—Calgary Herald on The Casanova Embrace

A man who willingly rips the veil from political intrigue.

—Bethesda Tribune on Undertow

Warren Adler’s political thrillers are…

Ingenious.

—Publishers Weekly

Diverting, well-written and sexy.

—Houston Chronicle

Exciting.

—London Daily Telegraph

FICTION

Banquet Before Dawn

Blood Ties

Cult

Empty Treasures

Flanagan’s Dolls

Funny Boys

Madeline’s Miracles

Mourning Glory

Natural Enemies

Private Lies

Random Hearts

Residue

Target Churchill

The Casanova Embrace

The David Embrace

The Henderson Equation

The Housewife Blues

The Serpent’s Bite

The War of the Roses

The War of the Roses: The Children

The Womanizer

Trans-Siberian Express

Treadmill

Twilight Child

Undertow

We Are Holding the President Hostage

THE FIONA FITZGERALD MYSTERY SERIES

American Quartet

American Sextet

Death of a Washington Madame

Immaculate Deception

Senator Love

The Ties That Bind

The Witch of Watergate

Washington Masquerade

SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

Jackson Hole: Uneasy Eden

Never Too Late For Love

New York Echoes

New York Echoes 2

The Sunset Gang

PLAYS

Dead in the Water

Libido

The Sunset Gang: The Musical

The War of the Roses

Windmills

Torture Man

by Warren Adler

Copyright © 2015 by Warren Adler

ISBN (epub): 9780795346910

2nd Edition

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without permission. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination based on historical events or are used fictitiously.

Inquiries: Customerservice@warrenadler.com

STONEHOUSE PRESS

Published by Stonehouse Productions

Cover design by Peter Clark

For Sunny, with gratitude for sharing a long and loving life.

Contents

Praise

Also by Warren Adler

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Author

Chapter 1

In late morning the fluffy white snow had turned watery, and by the time Sarah Raab arrived for the four o’clock Delta shuttle at Reagan Airport, an alarming drop in temperature had iced the plane’s wings and forced the cancellation of the New York flight. She was overburdened by her laptop bag, a rolling suitcase packed with the creased remains of her three-day wardrobe, and a canvas bag stamped with the Rights Abuse Watch International logo highlighting its acronym RAW. It was filled with handouts from the conference.

Because of a dinner party scheduled in New York that night, she immediately instituted Plan B and hurried to catch a cab that, with luck, might get her to Union Station in time to catch a train back to Manhattan.

It took her a half hour to reach the front of the taxi line, and as she stepped off the curb and into the taxi, her right foot slipped on an icy patch and she felt herself begin to go down. The laptop bag slid off her shoulder, but in the split second before she would have hit the ground, she felt suddenly buttressed under her armpits by a steely grip that seemed to have come from nowhere.

In a moment she was upright, and a man who was standing behind her in the taxi line was handing her the laptop bag. She had dropped the canvas bag as well, which the man quickly retrieved.

I can’t believe it! she exclaimed, facing the man. She was too flustered to give him more than a passing glance, but she did note that he was tall and wore a trench coat and a baseball cap without a logo. I thought surely…

No problem, the man interrupted, nodding and offering a thin smile.

The taxi trunk opened automatically. She placed her laptop bag and rolling suitcase inside and then opened the cab door. She addressed the man again.

If you’re going to Union Station, I’ll drop you. My treat. I owe you.

The man surveyed the line and there were no cabs in sight. But he seemed reluctant. Sarah felt his gaze glance over her, more like an inspection. She noted that his eyes concentrated for a brief moment over the logo RAW on her canvas bag.

Why not? he asked rhetorically, shrugging off any hesitancy, following her into the taxi.

Aside from the embarrassment of breaking something, she said as the cab headed toward Union Station, I sure am grateful.

No problem, the man repeated. He looked out the window and she saw him in profile. He had a strong square chin and a chiseled nose, as if his face could be included on Mount Rushmore. She could not see the color of his eyes and the baseball cap was low on his head. He was silent as the taxi moved with the heavy traffic, which slowed further as they crossed the Fourteenth Street Bridge.

Where are you heading? she asked. His attitude suggested that he was closed to small talk and did not seem welcoming.

New York, he said with a sudden air of assertion.

Me too, Sarah said, strangely comforted by the coincidence. She added, I have this dinner party. She looked at her watch. Maybe. Maybe not.

Naturally curious, she was never too shy to strike up a conversation with a stranger. Her husband Gary had often rebuked her for being too open, too inquisitive, offering unnecessary information to strangers. "A born yenta, he would tell her often. It will get you in trouble one day," he had warned. But then Gary was always cautioning, always lecturing. On that score they were two peas in a pod, both believing implicitly that everyone on Earth was entitled to their own opinion.

You live in New York? she asked.

No, he replied, not turning his head toward her. Except, she sensed when she turned away as if he were secretly appraising her.

We might get lucky to catch the Acela, she said, which was the faster train to New York.

Be nice, he said.

She waited for further explanation, which never came. Strong, silent type, she mused, missing any idea of further conversation. The taxi made its way across the bridge toward Capitol Hill and Union Station. She checked the time on her watch and then opened her purse, pulled out her cell phone, and punched in Gary’s number at the law firm. When he answered, she explained her plight.

Plane’s cancelled. I’m in a cab on my way to the train station. Better go without me, darling. I might make the train. If I do I’ll meet you at the Sterns’. She waited through a long pause. I promise. I’ll do the best I can. Quite inspiring. The panel went great. Maybe not a giant step, but I think we’re getting traction on all fronts. I’ll tell you all about it. I’ll try. Love you. Bye.

She finished the call and addressed the man, forgetting he was not the engaging type.

My husband. He was in a meeting, she said as if an explanation were needed. We’re supposed to be with one of his clients. Dinner party. He’s a lawyer. Wall Street. Things are pretty tense out there these days.

So I hear, the man said, facing her. She could see his eyes now, pale blue, the color of Wedgwood. She wondered if his reply was sarcastic. Probably military, she speculated, picturing a very short crew cut under his baseball cap.

Typical shkutz, she thought, her grandmother’s Yiddish slang for non-Jewish boys. She suppressed a giggle. Nevertheless, he certainly had great reflexes. Again she directed her attention to her cell phone and placed a call.

Marta. It’s me. How is the weather there? It will be worse. I promise you. The storm is moving north. Let me speak to Rachel.

She do piano lesson.

Just for a second, Marta.

She smiled at the man. My daughter. Eleven. There was a moment’s pause.

Hi sweetheart. Where? I’m in a taxi heading toward the railroad. Plane cancelled. I had planned to get home first to change. May not. I’ll call when I’m sure. Daddy and I are going to a dinner party. The Sterns? How is the piano lesson going?

Okay, mommy. She sounded glum.

Stick with it sweetheart. It will be worth it. I promise you. Is Iris still there? A test tomorrow? Math. Don’t worry. Just pay attention to Iris. Mommy loves you. Gotta go. Kisses. She closed the cell.

Great kid. Works hard. I managed to get a fabulous tutor. Her grades have really improved. Do you have kids? she asked the man.

One. My daughter Anne, he acknowledged. NYU.

So you’re going up to see her? she surmised. As always, fielding possibilities, some might say being nosey.

In a play.

Don’t tell me she wants to be an actress.

He nodded.

My sympathies, she said. They all want to be celebrities. But then, you can’t stop them if they want to try. Rachel hasn’t made up her mind, but then again she’s barely an adolescent. Working her way through her problems. Who knows? I’ve tried teaching her that helping others should be a goal, rather than some narcissistic impulse.

Here she was again, playing the yenta, offering unwanted information and pie in the sky opinions. Worse, she suddenly realized that she may have been overly critical of his daughter’s choices, so she checked herself.

They do what they do, he muttered.

Follow your bliss, she agreed.

She was slightly surprised. She hadn’t expected such a reflective statement. She groped for the word. It was… philosophical. It belied the man’s straight-arrow macho military persona. She wondered if he was being slyly sarcastic. She searched his face for a clue, but found nothing.

Yes. Exactly.

She noted that he glanced at her canvas bag that lay between them. She intuited some distaste on his part but he made no comment. Typical of the type, she thought, oddly satisfied with her initial appraisal. She somewhat regretted her invitation to share the cab. His type was not her usual choice of social companion.

Finally, the taxi made it to Union Station, and she fished into her purse to pay the fare, but before she could extract any bills he reached over and handed the driver three twenties.

This should cover it, he said.

But it was supposed to be my treat, she protested mildly.

Don’t sweat it, he said, pulling her rolling suitcase out of the back of the cab. Let’s go.

Really, I can handle it, Sarah said, feeling stirrings of annoyance.

It’s okay.

They headed toward the ticket counter. He stood in line ahead of her, and she noted that he was tall and wide shouldered, athletic, fit. He had the confident air of a man who loved himself, who was used to being in charge, she decided. He turned toward her from the ticket counter.

Believe it or not, they have two first-class tickets left on the Acela.

Count me in, she said. He paid cash for both tickets.

She let him roll her suitcase without complaining. No point in arguing. After all, he had rescued her, which gave him a free pass, at least temporarily. Be tolerant, she urged herself.

While they waited at the gate she put out her hand.

I’m Sarah Raab, she said. He nodded and took her hand in a firm grip.

Carl Helman.

Like the mayonnaise. Instantly, she knew it was a bad crack.

No, the mayo has two n’s, he replied, unsmiling as if it was an important distinction.

Sounds German, she thought. Old prejudices die hard, she thought, rebuking herself. Germans were in the forefront of amnesty now, having scrubbed away all the old bigotry. Kneejerk.

What do I owe you?

We’ll settle it on the train.

I better go to the ATM, she said, realizing that she hadn’t enough cash to pay him for the ticket.

The gate opened and the passengers headed for the train.

Too late, he said, moving forward.

I could write you a check.

He shrugged as they moved forward. There was no time for protest.

They found two seats side by side. He lifted her suitcase into the luggage rack and they put their coats on top of it. She noticed that he folded both coats with precision. Then he whipped off his baseball hat and Sarah saw how wrong she was. No crew cut. He showed a full head of curly black hair dappled with grey.

He wore a dark brown corduroy sport jacket with patches at the elbows, an open collar denim sport shirt, jeans, and a belt with a big silver buckle. Half right, she thought. Despite the hair, she was still certain of her guess. His belly was flat, and she felt certain that his body was hard and muscular.

It suddenly struck her that maybe he had the usual motive in mind. Up to that moment, it had not even occurred to her. While she was not totally immune to such fantasies, those activities had long ceased to be part of her agenda. In her years of marriage she hadn’t let it happen, not once, despite there being many opportunities. She had done her share during her wild days. Required too much wasted emotional energy. As she put it to herself, she had other fish to fry.

Gary’s meager needs were enough and in the rare moments when she needed release she had her vibrator in the hatbox at the top of the closet. She felt the sudden heat of a blush on her face. Where did such errant thoughts come from?

At the man’s invitation, she took the seat nearest the window, pulled up the counter and set up her laptop in front of her and fired it up.

Hope you don’t mind, she said, wondering why she felt obliged to excuse herself.

Not at all.

I’ve attended this conference. Better to do the report when it’s fresh in my mind.

Good idea.

I was on a panel, she said compulsively. I’m with Rights Abuse Watch International. Head up the New York office. You know it?

I’ve heard of it, he said. She watched his face for a reaction, expecting a scowl. She realized she had already labeled him as the enemy.

She turned away and started to type. Then she stopped.

My God. I’ve forgotten. What do I owe you?

He looked at his ticket and showed her the figure.

Let me write you a check.

Plenty of time. Don’t sweat it.

If I forget please remind me. It disturbed her to be beholden, especially to him.

He nodded and she went back to work on her laptop. Then she looked at her watch and pulled out her cell phone and called her husband’s office. He answered quickly.

In a meeting, he whispered.

I’m on the train. The planes were cancelled. I might be too late for the dinner party with the Sterns. You go and if I get there in time I’ll show. I’d planned to go home and dress. I guess that’s out. She looked at her watch again and the gloomy weather outside. Looks iffy. I’ll call if things change.

Whatever, he said hurriedly.

The panel went well?

Great.

She broke the connection.

My husband’s in a meeting. She chuckled. Always. Tell you the truth I could do without the dinner party. Wall Street types. They talk in code. Derivatives. Swaps. She shrugged, looked at her watch, shook her head then punched in another number. Marta, their Dominican live-in maid, answered.

I don’t think I’ll make it home as planned Marta. I’m not sure. I may go directly to the dinner party. Everything okay?

Good, Mrs. Raab.

Iris still there?

She here? For some reason Marta had developed an antagonism toward Iris, the tutor, who was actually more than that these days. Rachel adored her and she had done wonders in helping her scholastically.

May I speak with Rachel please?

She heard Marta call her to the phone.

Hi Mom.

How is the homework going?

Well Mom. Really well.

I was planning to be home, but the planes were cancelled. I may go directly to the Sterns’.

Can I watch TV after homework? Iris says no.

I’ll talk to her, Sarah said.

I promise I’ll finish, Mom.

Okay sweetheart, put Iris on.

She wants to watch TV after her homework, Sarah confided to Iris.

I told her she couldn’t, Mrs. Raab. This week she has an important math test and she’s coming along well. Please let’s not interfere with that. With a bit more concentration and hard work I think she can really bring her grade up.

She sounds a bit down.

I know. You see she really doesn’t want to keep up with her piano lessons. Frankly, it makes her quite unhappy.

I know. I used to feel the same way. One day she will understand how enriching it is for her future.

If you say so Mrs. Raab. It’s not my decision.

Do you think we’re overworking her, Iris? Sarah said with an air of confidentiality. It was a question Sarah repeatedly asked, but was never quite able to answer.

Iris had come as an angel of mercy, a wise and patient miracle worker. They had found her through the office of the private school that Rachel attended. Iris had arrived from Egypt as a young girl with her parents, and had received a degree from the Columbia Teachers College. Apparently, rather than teach in the New York City School System she had chosen private tutoring as a career choice.

Her resume stated that she was born in Cairo. Her father and mother had immigrated to America when she was seven. Her parents, they had learned in their interview, had opened a small grocery store in the heart of Brooklyn, near Atlantic Avenue where many other Middle Eastern émigrés had settled. After her father’s death, her mother had tried to keep the store going with little success, and Iris was now the sole support for her mother, with whom she lived in Brooklyn.

Both Sarah and Gary were immediately attracted by her good looks and obvious charm. They deliberately avoided any questions that touched on Middle Eastern politics, Jews, or religion. Besides, such questions would be outside the canon of their sense of justice and equality.

They had introduced Iris to Rachel, who was immediately taken with the woman. They followed through on her references, mostly ex-college teachers. Also they were acquainted with one of the parents of a student who had attended the private school where Rachel was enrolled. They had hired Iris and reported excellent results, although her employment had been brief.

Weighing the pros and cons of hiring her with such slim references and only on the basis of a couple of long interviews, they decided to give her a trial run. In the first few weeks of her five days a week test, she had bonded so well with Rachel that they hired her on a permanent basis and, in the nine months that she had worked for them, she had not only proved her mettle but had practically become a member of the family. They were ecstatic with Rachel’s improvement. Both she and Gary believed it had been a great stroke of luck.

An intense woman, Iris had been hired with the caveat that her pedagogic instructions to their daughter were to brook no interference. In her late twenties Iris was quite attractive, with black curly hair wore long, and the kind of dark almond eyes outlined in long coal-black lashes that reminded Sarah of female faces in ancient Egyptian art. Beyond Iris’ educational background, Sarah knew little of her personal life, except that she lived in Brooklyn with her widowed mother.

At the initial interview, Iris indicated that she came from a devout Muslim family, although she was, as she put it, not religious.

Wouldn’t make any difference to me either way, Sarah said. Nor would I ever ask.

Some people might object, Iris said demurely, adding, My mother is very traditional.

Good for her, Sarah said. The way Muslims are savaged in this country. It disgusts me. One would think that every Muslim in this country wears a suicide vest. She might have said more, but Iris had lowered her eyes and a blush spread over the cheeks of her alabaster skin.

Let’s discuss this issue after the semester is over, Mrs. Raab.

But you did say that she is not happy with piano.

Yes I did, but sometimes a child’s unhappiness cannot simply be attributed to the obvious.

Sarah suspected that Iris was referring to the demands of her and Gary’s busy lives, but refused to pursue it further. Both agreed that their number-one priority was Rachel’s welfare and future success.

Put Rachel back on Iris.

Here I am Mommy, Rachel said.

Please darling. No television tonight. Iris says that you have a real chance to do well on your math test.

I’ll do fine, Mommy, but…

No buts, sweetheart. I promise that if you get great marks on your math test, Daddy and I will come up with a surprise.

Like no more piano lessons?

You should continue trying. Sometimes you have to keep at things to make them work out.

Alright Mommy.

Love you sweetheart. She blew her daughter a kiss.

Me too Mommy.

Put Iris on again, sweetheart.

Iris answered, Yes, Mrs. Raab.

Iris, be sure Marta serves veggies, and sticks to the non-fat recipes. No ice cream for dessert. We have got to cut the calories.

She has her instructions, Mrs. Raab.

Just remind her, would you?

Of course.

And Iris. As always, thank you.

Peripherally, she saw the man pull a paperback from