A Slow Walk to Hell Page 2

  Not exactly surprising news. Congressman Harris was an acknowledged master of political hardball. I pointed out to Charlie that by definition, a hate crime meant someone had killed Talbot specifically because he was gay. I added, “If his homosexuality was never proven—”

  “The key is whether people believed he was gay. A lot of them did. When the story broke, Talbot received close to a hundred letters. Sick stuff. A dozen or so threatened his life if he didn’t resign his commission. We managed to track down a few of the senders. Most were former military. One guy was a white supremacist from Alabama. Look, Marty, I want Talbot to be straight. I want the killer to be some pissed-off husband who found out Talbot was screwing his wife. But we both know someone stuck his dick in his mouth for a reason.”

  While I understood the symbolism of the act, I didn’t consider it a slam dunk. I almost reminded Charlie about a similar killing where a colonel had lopped off the penis of his wife’s lover. But instead of placing the appendage in the dead man’s mouth, the colonel wrapped it in a box with a pretty bow and had it delivered to his wife.

  I said, “Relax, Charlie. It shouldn’t take long to determine if Talbot was straight. His housekeeper or friends will probably know. Hell, he might even have a subscription to Playboy or Pent—”

  “Call as soon as you know.” He rustled papers, getting impatient. “A couple of quick items. Congressman Harris is the reason we’re keeping a lid on the story until twenty-two hundred. He was campaigning in Pennsylvania when they told him about his nephew. He’s catching a charter flight back and doesn’t want to be swarmed by reporters when he lands. He’s scheduled into Reagan National at twenty-one thirty, give or take. He’ll have questions, so get your ass over to Talbot’s and find some answers. I got the address here someplace…” More papers rustling; Charlie wasn’t what you would call organized. “What was that, Marty?”

  “You order up a RIP?” I repeated. RIPs were computerized personnel printouts and would provide us Talbot’s complete assignment histories.

  “Chief Tisdale has a copy. He’s en route to the Pentagon, to secure Talbot’s office. You can swing by and pick it up from him. Anything else?”

  Charlie had already briefed me that Talbot had worked in Air Force manpower, the directorate responsible for tracking the personnel authorizations mandated by congress. It was essentially a high-tech bean counting job. I said, “Those people you identified who wrote threatening letters—”

  “Forget about them. There were only five and none live within five hundred miles of here. Captain Hilley’s trying to contact them now. So far, he’s spoken to three. A fourth is hospitalized and the fifth is working the night shift at a plant in Dallas. You got a pen handy?”

  As I jotted down Talbot’s address on the back of a business card, I was relieved to see that he lived in Arlington, Virginia.

  Location of a crime determined jurisdiction. Since an Air Force member had been killed off a military reservation, the appropriate civilian authority—the Arlington County PD—would take the lead and I, as the OSI representative, would assist.

  Don’t misunderstand me; I had no qualms about running a high-visibility investigation. I’m a solid homicide investigator and was confident I could solve the crime. My concern was whether I could do so quickly enough to satisfy the media talking heads and various military and political heavyweights.

  With luck, possibly.

  But a man had to know his limitations and I knew mine. If anyone could solve this case in a rapid fashion, it would be the man who almost certainly would handle this investigation for the Arlington County PD.

  Lieutenant Simon Santos was the department’s homicide chief and a brilliant, instinctual investigator. Over the past decade, his successes had elevated him into a local law enforcement legend. Simon rarely took more than a few days to wrap up a murder. Often, he’d make an arrest within hours. How he did this, no one knew. After working with him on numerous cases over the years, I concluded there was one reason for his success: The guy was a genius, an investigative savant.

  Of course, it didn’t hurt that Simon was also worth a few hundred million dollars and could afford to keep an army of informants on his payroll.

  “Yeah,” Charlie said, when I asked, “Santos is going to be in charge. I spoke to Chief Novak; he’s trying to hunt Santos down to break the news.” His voice became apologetic. “You won’t like this, but it comes straight from the SECDEF. Congressman Harris wants a daily update on the investigation—let me finish.” He talked over me as I tried to cut in. “Anything Harris wants, you play along. He tells you to kiss his ass, you plant a wet one and smile. The SECDEF doesn’t want to give Harris any reason to think the military is engaged in a coverup. You understand what I’m saying, Marty.”

  He was using his I’m-a-general-and-you’re-not voice. I said calmly, “This is bullshit, Charlie.”

  “It’s called politics. You seen the latest poll numbers? Harris is a lock to become the Democrats’ presidential nominee. He’s also holding a six-point lead over the president. Like it or not, the man’s got a better than even chance to be sitting in the White House next January.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from saying something I might regret. “That it?”

  “No.” He waited a beat. “What’s with you and Amanda?”

  I tried not to sound surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “I also assigned her to the case. She’s at home, waiting for your call…”

  “Okay—”

  “When I told her that she’d be teaming with you, she said something mighty curious. She asked if I could find someone to take her place. What the hell is going on? Since when doesn’t she want to work with you?”

  “I don’t know, Charlie.”

  “Don’t give me that crap. If my two best homicide investigators can’t work together, I’ve got a right to know.”

  “I don’t know, Charlie,” I said again.

  “Fine. Play it cute. But there’s a lot riding on this thing. You and Amanda have issues, it’d better not affect your goddamn job. Now call her and get down to Talbot’s.”

  After he hung up, I stood there, staring at the phone. She’s at home, waiting for your call…

  But only because it was her job.

  I punched in her number anyway.

  Of course, Major Amanda Gardner was the woman I had strong feelings for. We’d met three years earlier, when she was assigned to assist me on a triple homicide. While I found her bright, competent, and attractive, I was initially put off by her Joan Wayne, supercop attitude. Whether we were crawling over the grisly crime scene or grilling an uncooperative suspect, she felt compelled to prove that she was as tough as any male. If you acknowledged her femininity, made allowances for it in any way, she became angry.

  I didn’t get it. She wasn’t only a cop, she was a woman. A beautiful woman. Why deny it?

  During our second case, I got the nerve to ask her this question, over a few beers. Instead of the telling me to mind my own business, she said, “You sure you want to know?”

  When I nodded, she slipped back to her days as an Air Force Academy cadet and moved forward to the present, explaining what it’s like to be an attractive woman in a man’s world. In a quietly reflective voice, she described a pattern of whispered sexual inferences and unwelcome amorous advances. The harassment had been constant and wearing, and Amanda grew to hate her appearance, hate the way men were attracted to her. When she became an officer, she considered bringing charges against some of the more blatant offenders, but knew that if she did, she would end her military career. In desperation, she decided to alter her image, create a persona that men would find intimidating and less appealing.

  “So I cut my hair, quit wearing makeup, placed chips on both shoulders, and dared anyone to knock them off. I made it clear that I wasn’t someone you messed with.”

  “And the men quit hitting on you?”

  She nodded. “But there was a downside.”

>   “They thought you were a dyke?”

  “Yeah.” She smiled. “I’m not, you know.”

  When her eyes lingered on mine, I had my first inkling that she might have feelings for me. In the ensuing years, I tried not to reciprocate them. Looking back, I realized I’d made a mistake. But that’s how it is with emotions; you don’t control them, they control you. Now, when I’d finally reached a place where I could put Nicole’s death behind me, it was too late.

  I’m not naive; I never expected Amanda to wait forever.

  I’d only hoped she’d wait a few more months.

  The phone was ringing in my ear. I pictured Amanda staring at the caller ID, trying to decide whether to answer. For the first time in months, she picked up. “Hello, Marty.”

  She didn’t sound happy.

  We conversed less than thirty seconds. Amanda kept her voice clipped and professional and never mentioned her aversion to working with me. Since the school was en route to Arlington, Amanda said she’d swing by and pick me up.

  I asked her to stop by my place and retrieve my weapon, OSI credentials, latex gloves, and a notepad. “Mrs. Anuncio knows where they are.” Mrs. Anuncio was my live-in housekeeper.

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  After Amanda clicked off, I made two quick phone calls. The first was to Sara Winters, whose daughter was also at the dance. “Sure, Marty,” Sara said, “I’ll be glad to give Emily a ride home.” Next, I phoned Mark Haney, my senior deputy, and told him that he’d be running the office, while I moonlighted with the OSI.

  Clipping my phone to my belt, I swung over to Coach English and Mrs. Roche, and informed them that I had to bail out on chaperone duties. When I broke the news to Emily that I’d been called out on a case, she couldn’t stop smiling. Walking away from her, it occurred to me that the two most important women in my life didn’t want me around.

  A guy could get a complex.

  It was a cool spring night and I’d only been waiting on the sidewalk for a few minutes when I spotted the gold Saab turn into the parking lot. I walked toward it, waving my arms. As it rolled to a stop, I went over and got inside.

  AC/DC played on the radio. Anything softer than heavy metal Amanda considered easy listening. I gave her a smile. She watched me for a moment and seemed about to say something. Instead, she bit her lip and nodded tersely toward the back seat. “Your stuff’s in my briefcase.”

  “Thanks.” Popping the latches to retrieve the items, I decided not to force the conversation. It was clear that my presence wasn’t easy for her.

  Five minutes later, we merged onto State Highway 26 for the hour drive to Arlington. Amanda never said a word and I could feel the tension between us. Easing back in my seat, I risked a glance and saw her fixated straight ahead. Under the flickering streetlights, I studied her profile and thought she’d never looked more beautiful. Over the past several months, she’d shifted away from the butch image that she’d crafted for herself. She was allowing her red hair to grow out and it now framed the perfect oval of her face. Her skin was tight, her complexion flawless, and she wore more makeup than usual. I also became aware of the scent of perfume, another recent concession to femininity.

  My eyes drifted down to her suit. Another sign of the new Amanda. As long as I’ve known her, she’s favored loose fitting and neutral colored clothing; this suit was an eye-catching red, stylishly cut, with a flared gold collar. In the OSI, we wore civilian clothing because we’re more effective when no one knows our rank. Officers can be a pain in the ass when they’re questioned by someone they outrank and enlisted personnel feel intimidated when grilled by someone they know is an officer.

  I slowly faced front, troubled by a sudden realization.

  When I’d first noticed Amanda’s increasingly feminine makeover, I had enough ego to assume she’d made the changes for me. But thinking back, that conclusion didn’t make sense. She’d been avoiding me for months. She made it clear that she didn’t want me to see her.

  So she must have made the changes for someone else.

  By the time we reached I-395 twenty minutes later, Amanda was still giving me the silent treatment. This was ridiculous. Turning down the radio, I said, “Look, we’re both professionals. We should be able to handle this situation.”

  She concentrated on her driving. “I am handling it.”

  “By not talking to me.”

  A shrug. “We’re talking now.”

  “You know what I mean.” I hesitated. “General Hinkle told me you wanted to be removed from the case.”

  “I thought it would be best.”

  “Why?”

  “You have to ask?” Her eyes still focused on the road.

  “Actually, I do. Any history between us shouldn’t affect our ability to do our jobs. We should have enough self discipline to—What?” I caught a shake.

  “Take my word for it. You don’t want to get into this, Marty.”

  “Why not?”

  The only response was the humming of the tires on the road.

  “Amanda…”

  Still nothing. She wasn’t going to tell me. I was about to give up when she said softly. “You couldn’t stand the answer.”

  The implication stung. I retreated, looking outside.

  “Marty.” Her voice was soft and sympathetic. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s not what you’re thinking.”

  I continued to gaze into the dark. “What? That you find my presence…offensive?”

  “That’s not it at all. I’m…I’m trying not to hurt you.”

  As the statement drifted toward me, I shifted toward her. She was finally looking at me. In the semidarkness, I sensed rather than saw her sadness. I said, “Hurt me?”

  “Jesus…” She hunched forward and gripped the wheel hard. “I didn’t want to get into this now. I wanted to wait. I wanted to a figure out a way to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  She struggled for a reply. “Last night, he asked me. Bob. He asked me to marry him.”

  I felt a sudden, stabbing sensation. Even though I knew the answer, I had to ask. “And?”

  No response. She sat there with an anguished expression.

  As if with great effort, she slowly lifted her left hand. In the glow of oncoming headlights, I caught the glint of a diamond.

  “I’m so sorry, Marty,” she whispered.

  “I’m not,” I heard myself say. “I think it’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

  At that moment, my facade crumbled and I had to turn away.

  3

  The remainder of the drive was difficult for both of us. Amanda was wrapped up in self-recrimination for causing me pain and I was struggling to accept the reality that she would never become a part of my life. As a defense, we withdrew into our private worlds, to lick our emotional wounds. There was no eye contact and no conversation.

  This couldn’t go on. We had a job to do; we had to bridge our hurt and find a way to work together.

  Could we?

  I had my answer when Amanda turned into an upscale North Arlington neighborhood and simultaneously extended directions that she’d downloaded from the internet. “You mind?”

  “No.”

  Flipping on the map light, I concentrated on the directions. At a four-way stop, we turned left and followed a winding street up a hill, passing increasingly larger homes, some that qualified as mansions.

  “This explains why an Air Force major needed a housekeeper,” Amanda said.

  I nodded, glancing up from the paper. Here within the Beltway, anyone from a lieutenant colonel on down usually resided in apartments or townhomes, since that was all they could afford.

  “What do you think these places run?” Amanda said. “A couple million?”

  “At least.”

  “So Congressman Harris must be footing the bill,” she said. “Generous uncle.”

  “He can afford it.” Congressman Harris had a fortune in the tens of millions, courtesy of his grandfather who
’d founded a department store chain. I added, “Besides, Major Talbot was probably like a son to him.”

  “You know that Major Talbot is Mrs. Harris’s sister’s kid. He’s not related by blood to the congressman.”

  “So what? The congressman raised Talbot. He obviously loved him—”

  “That just it, Marty. They weren’t close. Harris never even formally adopted him.”

  I gave her a look.

  “I downloaded a couple articles on Talbot,” she explained. “Got them in my briefcase. The National Enquirer had the most interesting account—” She caught my scowl. “Hey, a lot of what they write is true.”

  “Like J-Lo having an alien baby?”

  “Look, you want to hear what I found out or not?”

  “Can’t wait.”

  She was glowering. It was an encouraging sign. Maybe we could quit walking on egg shells and resume a normal working relationship.

  “According to the article,” Amanda said, “Talbot moved in with the Harrises when he was eleven and had serious problems adjusting. He ran away constantly. When Talbot was twelve, he took off for an entire summer. Harris finally sent him to a military school and that apparently did the trick. Talbot got into the military lifestyle and has been a model citizen ever—” She stopped, frowning hard.

  I waited. “Yes?”

  “I think the article said…I’m sure that’s where he went to college. Talbot’s one of your fellow alums, Marty.”

  “He went to Virginia Tech?”

  “Yeah. He was also in the corps.”

  This spoke well of Talbot. During my four years in the corp of cadets, I’d never met anyone who came from the kind of wealth or influence that Congressman Harris represented. As a rule, the rich and powerful don’t fight wars; the poor and middle class do.