A Long Day for Dying Page 2

  “Emily will be disappointed,” Amanda said. “So if you don’t mind a suggestion…”

  It didn’t matter if I did. Over the past year, Emily and Amanda had spent a lot of time together. It was a relationship I’d encouraged; Emily needed a female role model in her life. The downside was, I had to put up with Amanda’s less than subtle hints on parenting. “What?”

  “Give Emily her present now.”

  “It’s not her birthday.”

  “So what? You want her to be happy, right?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “At least bring her over and let her see it.”

  “I’m going to wait.”

  She began to argue with me. I interrupted her, saying it was because of the letter.

  “Letter? What letter?”

  So I explained how Nicole had written a series of letters, to be given to Emily on each birthday, until she turned twenty-one. The letters were filled with humorous anecdotes and advice on life. The kinds of things a mother tells a daughter. Over the years, I had learned to give Emily the letter a couple days before her birthday, to give her time to recover emotionally so she could enjoy her party. “Emily read it last night,” I said. “She’s pretty down. Even if I tell her about the pony now, it might not do much good.”

  Amanda was quiet. For once she seemed at a loss for words. “It must have been difficult for Nicole. To write those letters.”

  “It was,” I said. “She wrote them shortly before she died. She could barely hold a pen. It took her almost a week.”

  Amanda started to say something, but her voice began breaking. Her display of emotion caught me off guard. I said, “Amanda, I didn’t mean to—”

  The phone clicked softly in my ear.

  I returned to the breakfast table, perplexed by Amanda’s reaction. She’d always been someone who prided herself on maintaining control, keeping her feelings in check. It was an image she’d carefully cultivated, to prove she was as tough as any male investigator. I’d seen her walk into the gore of a triple homicide crime scene where two of the victims were children and never bat an eye. Same thing with the funerals for victims of the 9-11 attack on the Pentagon. People getting teary-eyed all over the place, including me.

  But not Amanda.

  Uh-uh. Someone with her emotional discipline doesn’t break down because of a touching story over the phone. That meant there had to be another reason.

  As I sipped my coffee, I thought back to when I first realized something was wrong.

  It had been almost two months earlier. Initially, there wasn’t anything I could put my finger on. I just sensed a sadness around Amanda. A short time later, she began withdrawing into herself. She quit dropping by for dinner and frequently didn’t answer her phone when I called. Last week, Emily popped over to see her and noticed her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. What I found particularly worrisome was Amanda’s recent habit of sitting on her porch in the evenings. She’d remain there for hours, sipping on wine and staring into the dark. More than once, I’d been on the verge of walking over, but for some reason, I could never bring myself to do it. If she wanted my company, she’d ask.

  Emily had decided that Amanda was lonely and had been bugging me to find her a boyfriend. Maybe I’d give it a try. Deep down, I cared for Amanda more than I’d liked to admit, and to see her so unhappy—

  My thoughts were interrupted by the clicking of Emily’s footsteps on the hardwood floor. I turned to the entryway and saw the dejected slope of her shoulders and the sadness in her eyes. At that moment, I hated myself for what I was about to say.

  But that was the price of being a single parent.

  Emily slowly made her way up the table, her curly brown hair still damp from her shower. With each passing year, she looked increasingly like her mother. Same wide-set blue eyes, lightly freckled cheeks, and dimpled chin. And she was getting tall, well over five feet. She wouldn’t be a child much longer.

  As she listlessly dropped her Britney Spears backpack to the floor and slipped into her chair, I said, “How are you holding up, honey?”

  A little shrug. “Okay, Dad. I miss Mom.”

  “We all do.” She sat, staring vacantly at her plate. I said, “Better eat something.”

  “Not hungry.”

  “Try.”

  She reluctantly fished a waffle from the serving plate. I asked, “Mind if I read the letter?” Because we always discussed them together, so I could make sure she understood everything Nicole was trying to tell her.

  Emily’s hand froze. She looked at me with a mixture of guilt and fear.

  I frowned. “What is it, honey?”

  No response. She dropped the waffle back to the plate and sat back.

  “Is it the letter?” I asked gently.

  She hesitated, nodded. “You…you can’t read it, Dad.”

  “Oh? Mind telling me why?”

  She stared at her plate, avoiding my eyes. “It’s…personal.”

  “I see.” But I didn’t. I sat there, feeling a little hurt and confused. Nicole and I never had secrets. I couldn’t believe she’d have written anything that I wasn’t supposed to know about.

  Mrs. Anuncio pushed through the kitchen door, took one look at Emily’s downcast expression, and glared at me.

  “I…I gotta go, Dad.” Emily pushed back her chair and climbed to her feet.

  “Go? You still have ten minutes until the bus.”

  But she’d snatched up her knapsack and was hurrying toward the door.

  “Emily, wait. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  Her pace quickened.

  “Emily! I told you to get back—”

  She flung open the door and was gone. Through the window, I saw her running up the gravel road toward the two-lane highway and the bus stop. She kept wiping at her eyes. From behind, I heard Mrs. Anuncio go off on me in Spanish. When I turned around, she was glaring at me, hands on her hips.

  I sighed. “Mrs. Anuncio, it’s not my fault. I didn’t say anything.”

  She snorted and withdrew into the kitchen. I heard dishes banging.

  For the next few minutes, I sipped coffee and tried to resist the impulse. I finally went upstairs to Amanda’s room. The letter was with the others, in one of Nicole’s old jewelry boxes, sitting on a corner of the dresser beside the brass-framed picture of Nicole.

  I removed the envelope and stood there staring at it for what seemed a long time. My eyes went to Nicole’s picture.

  They’re Emily’s letters, Marty. Promise you won’t read them unless she asks.

  I promise, honey.

  My hand was trembling as I returned the letter to the jewelry case. By the time I got downstairs, the phone was ringing. It was Amanda, her voice clipped, urgent.

  “Better get outside, Marty,” she said. “I think I hear it.”

  2

  The helicopter cruised toward me at maybe two thousand feet. I could make out only a hazy silhouette, framed against the sun. I hurried back into the house, threw on my suit jacket, and checked that the government issue 9mm pistol in my hip holster was loaded. After grabbing my cell phone, I found Mrs. Anuncio in the kitchen and told her not to be alarmed by the approaching helicopter. She gazed back without interest and continued stacking dishes; she was used to seeing airplanes land here.

  As I returned to the living room, the sound of the beating blades had become noticeably louder. I saw Amanda already waiting on the porch, eyes fixed in the distance.

  She really was a looker. Not a classic beauty, but she possessed a freshly scrubbed quality highlighted by perfectly tapered bones and tanned, seemingly flawless skin. As usual, Amanda wore little makeup, and her red hair was cut boyishly short, revealing two simple gold earrings. Her gray business suit was buttoned, hiding the gun clipped to her waist. Function over style. That was Amanda.

  I studied her for a moment. Her face was a mask, suggesting that whatever had bothered her earlier was forgotten.

  As I p
ushed through the front door, she glanced over with a puzzled expression. “Wasn’t the helicopter coming from Andrews?”

  “It should be. Why?”

  Two steps later, I understood her confusion.

  The chopper was visible below the roofline, less than a mile out. Instead of military camouflage, it was painted a metallic blue with a shiny silver roof. It crossed a power line and banked left toward the grass strip out front. At that instant, I noticed a distinctive Nike-like swoosh of red on the tail.

  I recognized it at once. “What’s he doing here?”

  Amanda looked to me in surprise. “Youknow who’s in the chopper?”

  “So do you.”

  She frowned. “Someone from the FBI or—”

  “That’s a private helicopter. Probably goes for ten million easy. Take a shot on who could afford—”

  “Simon?”

  “Yeah. That’s his company’s logo on the tail.”

  “But this is a classified operation. Why would the government bring in an outsider? Hell, they wouldn’t even tell Colonel Hinkle what’s going on.”

  “We’re talking about Simon,” I said simply.

  Amanda passed on a response. She knew if anyone was exempt from bureaucratic red tape, it would be Simon.

  Lieutenant Simon Santos was the chief of the Arlington Homicide Division and over the past decade had solved a number of high-profile murder cases, most in a relatively short time. He was a brilliant, instinctual investigator with an uncanny ability to sniff out the truth. The media lapped up his successes, escalating him into something of a local law enforcement legend. Admittedly, the press’s infatuation had less to do with Simon’s investigative prowess than his bank account. After all, it’s not like every homicide cop had a couple hundred mil burning a hole in his pocket.

  Then there were his eccentricities, which also made good copy. As Simon often told me, when you’re rich, you’re eccentric. When you’re poor, you’re committed and forgotten.

  By now the chopper was practically on top of us. As it chattered past, Amanda said, “If Simon’s involved, that means it’s a murder.”

  “Probably. And odds are he’s the mystery man who brought us on board.”

  “Simon would have that kind of pull with the SECDEF?”

  I shrugged. “He gives big bucks to political campaigns.”

  “Must be nice to be able to buy your friends,” she said sarcastically.

  “Hey, I thought you liked him.”

  “I do. It’s just—” She glanced away. “Look, I know you two are tight and all. But putting up with his Simon-says bullshit gets a little old.”

  Simon had a controlling nature, but hey, the guy was a genius.

  “Careful,” I said. “I might have to mark you down for not playing well with others.”

  She shot me a look. “Implying what? That I’m hard to work with?”

  “That was a joke.”

  “Don’t give up your day job.”

  We stood there staring at each other. I smiled; she didn’t.

  So I said, “We’d better get going. The chopper’s about to—”

  She turned her back on me and went down the stairs.

  Touchy, touchy.

  As private helicopters go, the one we were watching was enormous. It had dual rotors and easily approximated the size of the one used by the president. After slowing to a hover, the big chopper descended to the edge of the grass strip. As Amanda and I walked toward it, we could see two pilots sitting in the cockpit. One threw up a wave and began to unstrap.

  As we waited for him to open the passenger door, Amanda and I hung back, warily eyeing the spinning rotors. I removed my fingers from my ears and tested the noise. Tolerable. I gave the passenger windows a once-over and couldn’t make out any faces peering out.

  The cabin door opened, and stairs unfolded. A pilot hopped to the ground and beckoned to us. He was a heavy-set man with a pleasant face. As we approached, he winked at Amanda.

  “Ladies first,” he shouted, offering her his hand. “My name is George, and I’ll—”

  She blew right by George and went up the stairs.

  He lowered his arm with a chagrined expression.

  “Penis envy,” I said into his ear.

  He frowned.

  I said, “Grew up with five brothers. Felt left out because they all had—”

  He got it then and erupted in a big laugh. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was serious.

  I clambered inside, and George followed. He thumped the door closed, and the quiet took me by surprise. From hidden speakers, we heard the sounds of classical music.

  As expected, the interior was roomy and very plush. Nothing but the best for Simon. At six feet, I could almost stand without crouching, and my shoes practically disappeared into the deep-pile carpeting. I counted five rows of leather first-class seats, two to a row, an aisle in between. At that very back was a lav and a curtained area, which probably hid a small galley and a bar with good booze.

  My eyes drifted over the chairs. Empty.

  Amanda gave me a questioning look, which I interpreted, telling her Simon was in the lav.

  “Grab any seat,” George said, squeezing past us toward the cockpit door. “Flight to Andrews will take twenty minutes.” He gave Amanda another wink. I sighed. Man didn’t learn.

  Amanda’s face went cold. “Something wrong with your eye, George?” she demanded.

  He looked startled.

  “I asked if something was wrong with your eye.”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Then you’re harassing me. Knock it off.”

  George stared at her as if he couldn’t believe she was serious. He looked to me for help. I just gazed back sympathetically. George muttered an apology and dove for the safety of the cockpit. I could see the other pilot laughing.

  I shook my head at Amanda. “He was interested, and you cut him off at the knees. Not smart. Pilots are a good catch. They make good money and—”

  “I’m not in the mood, Marty.”

  “I’m serious. You’ll never meet a nice guy if you keep scaring them off.”

  “Drop it, or I’ll hurt you.”

  And she could. I’d seen her bring a weight lifter to his knees with a flick of her wrist. “Violence,” I said, “isn’t the answer.”

  She ignored me and stepped over to a front-row seat. “How do you know Simon’s in the lav?”

  I shrugged. “He likes Bach.”

  On cue, we heard a click and the lav door opened.

  Most people who meet Lieutenant Simon Santos for the first time are struck by the contrast between his reputation and his appearance. He looks more like a maître d’ or a big-band leader than a homicide cop.

  A youthful thirty-six, he is tall and dark, with a gaunt face topped by longish black hair combed straight back. As usual, he had on a pressed Armani shirt and his trademark dark blue Brooks Brothers silk suit, a red carnation pinned to his lapel. The only variation he ever made to his dress were the bow ties, which he cycled depending on the day of the week. Since this was Friday, he was wearing the red one with white polka dots. It jumped out at you with the subtlety of a face slap, which was the intent. People remembered Simon.

  “It’s good to see you, Amanda,” Simon said warmly. “Hello, Martin.”

  Everyone in the world called me Marty. Not Simon. Motioning us to the seats at the back, he said, “I’m sorry about the timing, Martin. I had no choice but to request your assistance. If you miss Emily’s birthday party, tell her I will make it up to her.”

  Which meant another expensive gift. “Uncle Simon” was always showering Emily with gifts. As Amanda and I went down the short aisle, I picked up on the conditional and said, “IfI miss her party?”

  He shrugged. “Everything is in flux. Nothing on this investigation has been decided.”

  “Are you in charge of the task force?” Amanda asked him.

  Simon hesitated. “How much do you know?”<
br />
  She deposited herself into the seat to his front, while I took the one beside him. “Not a thing,” she said. “We figured it has to be a homicide. Maybe more than one.”

  I nodded, adjusting my seat belt. Through the open cockpit door, I could see the pilots at the controls. The engine noise became louder and the pulse rate of the rotor blades increased.

  “There’s only one victim,” Simon said. “The initial reports suggest the death was accidental.”

  I clicked the belt latch and stared at him. Amanda poked her head around her seat back and did the same.

  She said, “An accident?What the hell are we doing here?”

  Simon slid a hand into his jacket. “It’s a complicated situation. There are conflicting interests. So far, the two parties have only agreed that everything should be handled quietly.”

  “Two parties?” she said.

  A vague smile. “We’ll discuss the details in the air.”

  Amanda said, “At least tell us who the victim—”

  But Simon had bent forward and closed his eyes. He was holding a set of rosary beads in a manicured hand. His mouth began moving in silent prayer.

  Amanda sighed and looked at me. She mouthed,Fear of flying?

  I nodded.

  Moments later, the big helicopter rose into the air, and Simon squeezed the rosary beads even harder.

  3

  At a couple thousand feet we turned east, toward the Potomac River and the Maryland border. The sky was clear and bright, the cool morning making for a smooth flight. I pressed against the window and gazed out across the northern Virginia sprawl. The helicopter made a correction to the right, and soon I could make out a blanket of fog over D.C., the top of the Washington Monument poking through. Settling back, I checked out Simon. His mouth was still moving.

  Arlington County has a large number of military residents, and Simon and I have worked close to a dozen murder cases over the past ten years in which air force personnel were victims, suspects, or witnesses. Most of that time I’ve spent trying to figure him out—not so much his quirks, but the big stuff. Like why a religious guy with a zillion bucks wanted to be a cop.