A Slow Walk to Hell Page 7

  He eyed me sullenly, unconvinced.

  “Where were you between four-thirty and five-thirty this afternoon?” I asked.

  “My office till four. I slipped out to the POAC for a workout. I was back before five. You can check with my exec, Major Tenpas.” The Pentagon Officer Athletic Club was located on the east side of the building.

  I made a note, feeling a twinge of hope. While this wasn’t an ironclad alibi, it was close. It would take Sam ten minutes to walk to his car and another ten to fifteen to drive to Talbot’s. Round trip, we’re talking forty to fifty minutes.

  And the killer took a lot more than twenty minutes, torturing and murdering Talbot.

  “Can anyone verify seeing you at the POAC?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not very crowded then. The guy who checks IDs might remember me. There were also a couple men in the locker room. I don’t know who they were.”

  “You got Major Tenpas’s home number?”

  He opened a desk drawer and produced a Palm Pilot. After I jotted down the number, I asked him when he last saw Major Talbot.

  “Hell, I don’t know. His office is only two doors down from mine. The last time he briefed me was over a week ago, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  It sorta was.

  I said, “And that’s the last time you spoke with him at any length?”

  He glowered in disgust.

  I took that as a yes and moved on, asking him if he’d ever visited Talbot at his home.

  “No.”

  “Did you ever call him at home?”

  “Never.” He paused. “He did phone me here on Tuesday evening. He had a question about a talking paper he was putting together on the POM. I’m using it to brief the Air Force Council next week.”

  The Program Objective Memorandum was the military’s budgetary wish list and the Air Force Council was a group of three-star generals who oversaw its formulation. The talking paper had been mentioned in one of the messages on Talbot’s answering machine.

  “Is that the only time he called you at home?”

  A nod.

  I jotted a note to check Talbot’s phone records and shut my notepad. “All right, Sam. We’ll need to question Talbot’s co-workers tomorrow.”

  “Call Major Tenpas. He’ll make the arrangements.”

  As I rose to leave, Sam remained seated. He was slumped back against his chair, staring at the photograph on his desk. I said, “I’m sorry about this, Sam. I really am.”

  He didn’t seem to hear me. I turned for the door.

  “Marty.”

  I glanced back.

  When Sam spoke, his voice was quiet, but contained an undercurrent of emotion. “It’s coincidence. That’s all. I wouldn’t jeopardize Ryan’s future or my family’s name. You know I wouldn’t.”

  “I know.”

  “This investigation. Who knows what might come out. If something does, I could lose everything.” His gaze hardened. “I trusted you. You gave me your word. Remember?”

  The guilt floated toward me. “I remember.”

  He eased forward, eyes fixated on me in anticipation. I knew what he was waiting to hear.

  “I want the truth, Sam,” I said quietly. “Did you have any contact with Talbot other than what you told me or any knowledge of what’s behind his death?”

  “No, Marty. I swear to God.”

  “Sam, if you’re lying, you realize I can’t—”

  “Have I ever lied to you?”

  He had me. As far as I knew, I was the one person he’d always told the truth to, except for possibly his ex-wife.

  I was torn. As I cop I was supposed to maintain my objectivity. But all I could think about was what would happen to Sam if the truth came out.

  “All right. I’ll do what I can to cover for you.”

  He sagged back with obvious relief. “Thanks, Marty.”

  As I left the room, he was again staring at the photograph of his son and ex-wife.

  9

  As I crossed the living room toward the door, the eyes of Sam’s guests followed me, indicating they’d at least caught the volume of his tirade, if not the words. For any other host, this would lead to an awkward scene. In Sam’s case, he’d smoothly dispel their concerns with a beaming smile and a plausible explanation. Before they could assimilate what he’d said, he’d hit them with a series of one-liners that would have them in stitches. By the time the guests departed, the argument they’d overheard would be long forgotten.

  In the end, this was why Sam excelled socially. He had an innate charm that allowed him to manipulate people without them being aware of it. Or if they did catch on to what he was doing, they didn’t give a damn. They enjoyed the ride too much.

  A mutual acquaintance once called Sam the best bullshit artist he’d ever seen, and I agreed. That’s why, as I waited for the elevator, I had to ask myself if he’d been bullshitting me.

  I replayed his reaction to Talbot’s death, trying to understand what had troubled me. I recalled his horror and revulsion…

  And then I remembered his eyes.

  Just now, they’d been filled with desperation as he practically begged me to cover for him. Yet earlier, when he’d listened to the grisly details of Talbot’s murder, they’d been curiously flat and unresponsive.

  Had Sam been putting on an act? Could he already have known Talbot was dead?

  Impossible.

  Sam was a dedicated professional soldier and a good man. Sure he had a temper which could lead him to harm someone in a fit of rage. But we’re talking about a methodical, sadistic killing. No way could Sam be capable of something as horrific as that.

  Still…

  I recalled the specific phrases he used moments earlier.

  I wouldn’t jeopardize Ryan’s future or my family’s name. Dammit, you know I wouldn’t.

  He thought those words would enhance his innocence, but they had the opposite effect. They gave him a motive.

  I shook my head. I had to know if he’d only left his office for an hour.

  The elevator dinged and the doors opened. By then I was already thumbing in the number for Major Tenpas.

  The elevator descended toward the lobby.

  In my ear, the ringing stopped and a woman with a tired voice answered. When I asked for Major Tenpas, she shouted. “Lowell! For you.”

  I heard a TV playing loudly. A Bugs Bunny cartoon. A girl shrieked, “Mommy, Davy hit me. Mommy!”

  A boy said, “I didn’t. She’s lying. I didn’t.”

  “In the face,” the girl wailed. “He hit me in the face.”

  “Davy,” the woman said, sounding more exasperated than angry, “how many times have I told you not to hit your sister? Lowell, do something about your son.”

  “Upstairs to your room, young man,” a man growled. “Now.”

  “But, Dad—”

  “You heard me.”

  Into the phone, the man said wearily, “Major Tenpas.”

  After I identified myself, I immediately noted his suspicious tone. For anyone in the military, receiving a call from the OSI was like hearing from the IRS. Whatever the news was, it could only be bad.

  “Sounds like you’ve got a war going on, Major,” I said.

  He forced a laugh, sounding only slightly more relaxed. “Yeah, and we’re losing. What can I do for the OSI, Agent Collins?”

  Once I told him, he said, “That’s about right. The general went to the POAC around sixteen-hundred and returned an hour later.”

  “Can you be more specific on when he returned?”

  “Only when he left. We had a staff meeting which broke up a little before sixteen-hundred. I know the general was back before the secretary Mrs. Lopez left for the day, at seventeen-fifteen. He signed a couple letters she’d typed up.”

  “So he was back by seventeen-ten?”

  “A few minutes earlier.”

  “How long did the general remain in his office?”

  “Until he went home at eigh
teen hundred.”

  “You were at work until then?”

  “You know any execs who leave before the boss?”

  It was a silly question. An exec’s job was to be at his boss’s beck and call. I asked him if Major Talbot had gone to work today.

  He sounded puzzled by the topic change. “No. He took a day of leave.”

  “He say why he needed the day off?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Do you know if Major Talbot had any conflicts with his co-workers?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Franklin…Major Talbot…can be a pain in the ass. He’s meticulous as hell, always rechecking his figures and everybody else’s.” He hesitated. “Look, I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask what this is all about.”

  The elevator chimed and I stepped into the lobby. The guard was still at his desk, looking bored out of his mind. “You’ll know tomorrow, Major.”

  “Know what exactly?”

  This guy was smooth. No wonder he was a general’s exec. “Nice try, Major.”

  After I asked him to arrange for Major Talbot’s co-workers to be available for interviews tomorrow, I thanked him for his help and hung up, feeling a palpable sense of relief.

  Sam had an alibi.

  Tucking away my phone, I checked my watch. A quarter after nine. Amanda would need at least an hour to search the offices, so that left me plenty of time.

  “Quigley’s,” the guard said. “Sure, I know where it is.”

  10

  All I had to do was head south for a few blocks and hang a right into the strip mall across from a Days Inn. Quigley’s was tucked into the northwest corner, a green neon sign flashing its name.

  After I walked inside, I hung out by the door, checking out the interior. As the name suggested, it was a cozy, English-style pub, complete with burnished wooden floors and wainscoted walls. A long bar ran the length of the room, a chalk board mounted behind it, listing a variety of beers and ales. Comfortable booths lined the right side, tables spaced out on the main floor. A juke box at the back played an old Rolling Stones tune, a dartboard affixed on the wall beside it. Over to the left, I located the pay phone, wedged into a tiny alcove beside the restrooms.

  My eyes drifted over the predominately male patrons. Because it was a Friday night, the place was crowded. Most wore civilian attire, but there were a number of military uniforms. People who had just gotten off work from the Pentagon or one of the other DoD offices in the area.

  Two attractive waitresses in short Union Jack skirts shuttled between the tables, occasionally barking out orders to the bartenders, a balding guy with Popeye forearms and a buxom brunette wearing a low-cut peasant blouse.

  As a waitress scurried by with a tray of beers, I said, “Oh, Miss—”

  She never broke stride.

  Bellying up to the bar, I waited for one of the bartenders to notice me. “What’ll you have, Mister?” the woman asked.

  I produced my credentials, trying to keep my eyes above her impressive cleavage.

  As I asked her about the phone call last night, she said, “You want Joseph. He talked to the other cop.”

  “What other cop?”

  She hurried over to her partner. After a whispered conversation, Joseph came up to me, placing his massive forearms on the counter. In a conspiratorial voice, he said, “You’re fast. I didn’t expect you for another fifteen minutes.” He glanced down at my credentials, which I was holding open. “Hey, you’re not Lieutenant Santos.”

  By now I figured it must have been Simon whom he’d spoken with. “I’m a military investigator, working with him.”

  He still seemed perplexed. “You are here about the phone call, right? The one Santos said was made from the pay phone last night?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know he’d contacted you.”

  “Not more ’n five minutes ago. Do your thing, but be cool, huh? I run a nice, clean place. Mostly government and military types. That’s how come I knew who made the call. I’m not sure of his name, but he told me he was military. Air Force. Staying across the street at the Days Inn. He’s been coming in regular for about a month. Never made any trouble except for last night. He was one pissed-off camper from the minute he came in. Kept going on about how he’d been fucked over to anybody who’d listen. Something about a promotion. Man, he pounded them down. Whiskey straight up. Really got hammered. I had to ask him to keep it down. Before he left, I saw him make the phone call.”

  I was frowning, struck by something he’d first said. “You want me to do my thing and be cool?”

  “If you’re going to arrest him, do it outside. I don’t want you spooking the customers. Like I said, this is a reputable place.”

  It hit me then. “You mean the man is here now?”

  “Sure. That’s why Lieutenant Santos was coming out. The guy shows up almost every night at nine and never stays more ’n an hour. Like clockwork.” He glanced past me. “That’s him, sitting in the back corner. He’s starting off like he did last night. Knockin’ down the booze.”

  I found myself following his gaze. Through the dim light I saw a table full of Yuppie thirty-somethings, flirting with a waitress. I saw a woman and a man with their heads bent together, cooing intimately. I saw several young Army officers, playing darts and trash-talking drunkenly. And just past them, in a booth near the jukebox, I saw a large man with close-cropped red hair, sipping a drink.

  The last thing I expected was to recognize him.

  “I’ll be damned,” I said.

  It’s someone you’re familiar with.

  Those are the words Amanda had said to me in the car. At the time I thought she was referring to General Baldwin, but she wasn’t.

  The reason I hadn’t considered this man a suspect was because he was supposed to be out of the country. If anyone had a grudge against Talbot, it would be him.

  When I asked Joseph if there was someplace where I could talk to the man in private, he looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  I said, “Up to you. I can do it in here, but it could get ugly…” I didn’t have to say anymore. Joseph indicated a door behind the bar.

  “Use my office in the back.”

  “Thanks. How much has he had to drink?”

  “Three or four whiskeys.”

  Nothing like questioning a pickled full colonel about a murder. I dug out a twenty from my wallet and held it up to Joseph. “I need another favor.”

  “What?”

  When I told him, he looked even less thrilled. “Make it fifty.”

  All I had left was seventeen dollars. When I offered it to him, he reluctantly pocketed the money. “What if he won’t come?”

  “He’ll come. Just give him the name I told you.”

  “He doesn’t, I still keep the money.”

  Another concerned citizen. “Fine. Keep the money.”

  He started out from behind the bar. I was about to head for the office when my phone rang. I checked the caller ID; it was Simon.

  “I need to take this, Joseph.”

  He shrugged and wheeled around back to the bar.

  Into the phone, I said, “Hello, Simon—”

  That was as far as I got before he went off on me. At first, I thought it was because I wouldn’t tell him about General Baldwin. Then I realized it was something else entirely.

  Someone had talked.

  Simon spoke for a full minute without seeming to take a breath. He was furious. As I listened, I pushed through the door behind the bar, entering a darkened hallway that reeked of stale smoke. Continuing past a storeroom, I turned into a cluttered office that contained a battered desk strewn with papers, a couple of rickety chairs, and little else.

  Settling behind the desk, I pushed aside an overflowing ashtray. In my ear, I noticed a silence and realized Simon had finished talking.

  I said, “It’s not like this is a surprise.”

  “It is a surprise, Martin. It shouldn’t have happened.”

  “Simon, your
department leaks like a sieve. This isn’t the first time you’ve been burned.”

  “Exactly. That’s why Chief Novak and I were so careful. Only people whom we trusted were told of the murder.”

  “One of them must have talked.”

  “They didn’t.”

  “What about your investigating team?”

  “No.”

  I decided not to argue. Simon didn’t have many weaknesses, but one was loyalty to the people who worked under him. Frankly, that’s the reason I didn’t think he’d make a play for Amanda. Out of loyalty to me.

  “It wasn’t the OSI,” I said. “We can keep our mouths shut.” I wasn’t being defensive, but stating a fact. Unlike civilian cops, military ones never leaked.

  “It must be someone on the mayor’s staff. Perhaps one of Congressman Harris’s political enemies.” Simon sighed unhappily. “Not that it really matters who talked. The damage is done. Congressman Harris will be angry and I’m forced to address the situation. Are you in Crystal City?”

  “You know I am.”

  He ignored my comment. “Listen carefully. I want you to go to Quigley’s bar. According to the bartender, the person who made the call is—”

  “I’m about to question him now.”

  “You’re at the bar?”

  “Yeah.”

  A silence. He wouldn’t say it, but I could tell he was impressed. “Call when you’re finished.”

  “Give me about fifteen—”

  A dial tone. Typical. Simon had enough ego to assume that when he was finished talking, you were to.

  As I put my phone away, I heard the sound of a door open. Then Joseph’s voice: “Second room on your left, sir. Yes, sir, that’s the name I was given.”

  Heavy footsteps came toward me. I quickly uncradled the desk phone, laid the receiver aside, then attempted to look busy by shuffling papers. When the footsteps stopped, I glanced up. There in the doorway stood the man who a year earlier had generated headlines by accusing Major Talbot of being gay.

  Colonel Brian Kelly.

  11

  Colonel Kelly was a big, heavy-framed man, with a rugged face and the misshapen nose of a boxer who’d caught one punch too many. Even though he was dressed in a tan sports coat and yellow golf shirt, no one familiar with the military would mistake him for a civilian. Not with his see-through haircut or tiny colonel’s insignia pinned to the lapel of his coat.