The Night Crew, page 7
part #7 of Sean Drummond Series
Apparently Katherine had also thought about it, because she remarked, “Yes, I’m sure it was awful.” She then asked him, “So it sounds like you have no idea who killed him?”
“Not a clue.” He bent forward, and quickly amended that statement to, “About the killer’s identity, that is. A few clues were at the scene. A big one, in fact—a note, presumably left by the killer.”
I said, “Please tell us about that note.”
“More a message or an announcement than a note, really. It was cut from an article—by the paper type, most likely scissored from a magazine—then pasted on a three-by-five card. The killer positioned it right on the dashboard, after he was done . . . so you couldn’t miss it. It said, ‘God is great.’
Katherine and I left that one alone for a moment. I was seeing a disturbing pattern here, and noted, “So now you have two dead defense lawyers associated with the Al Basari case.”
He nodded.
“Coincidence?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Probably not, though.”
“No . . .” he agreed, “probably not.”
“And probably Captain Bradley Howser’s death was not the innocent accident everybody assumed it was.”
“Well . . . that case has been reopened and now is under review.”
Which was bureaucrat-speak for, Yes, we fucked up and thanks for mentioning it. I wish I could have a do-over every time I screwed up; so do my clients.
But he was looking at me, and I realized it was my turn to say something. When I finally did speak, it was to query of Katherine, “What have I ever done to you?”
She decided not to address this, and instead said to O’Reilly, “You mentioned clues. Plural.”
“A few hairs were vacuumed from the backseat of the car.” His facial expression did not look optimistic. “Maybe the killer’s, or maybe not.”
I asked, “What about footprints around the car, fingerprints on or inside the car, skin under the Major’s fingernails? Maybe the killer signed the note?”
Cops also love being second-guessed by pushy wiseass attorneys, and his expression turned a little agitated. But obviously the answer was none-of-the-above, because he replied, evasively, “A CID forensics team from Fort Gillem flew up this afternoon.”
I should mention here that CID agents are arguably the best-trained flatfoots in the world. Unlike most civilian detective units where everybody specializes—homicide, burglary, financial crimes, and so forth—the CID initial investigating officer is a jack-of-all-vices, and ordinarily, is expected to work whatever case lands in his lap from start-to-end, from the initial forensics work-up, through tracking leads, through tying the final knots that lead to a conviction. But in those rare instances where a case is particularly complex, politically significant, or socially alarming, the army also maintains a forensics center just outside Atlanta that can dispatch a squad of specialists on short notice to assist the local team.
From what I’d just heard, this case didn’t sound all that complex. The method of killing and MO, for instance, were fairly innocuous and aboveboard: a cutthroat. So by process of elimination, it was probably because this particular case assumed some great significance. I mean, as a potential target I thought the decision was brilliant; this was the most important case in the world.
Anyway, O’Reilly was looking at me. “You’ve worked with them before. Am I right? So you know these people. If we missed something, they’ll find it.”
“Assuming there’s anything to find.”
“They’ll at least be able to tell us the type of knife the killer used.”
He chuckled to show this was a joke. Aside from learning the taste in weaponry of somebody who wanted to kill me, as legal professionals we all three were aware that identifying the brand of knife was nearly always useless.
In any event, from the depth of the cut, we already knew what we were dealing with here: what technical experts call a BFB—a big fucking blade.
He commented, “Maybe we’ll know more tomorrow.” But from his tone it sounded more like maybe not.
I looked at Katherine again. It struck me that at no point in this discussion had Katherine flinched, or seemed upset, or surprised, or even mildly annoyed, by news that was so clearly alarming. As females go, Katherine is fairly unemotional and I certainly wouldn’t expect her to flee from the room, pulling on her hair and screaming her lungs out. But to learn that she might be on a hitlist, or a shitlist, belonging to a cold-blooded killer, and remain so blasé—did I mention that Katherine was now absently studying her fingernails?—was a little cold-blooded, even for her.
And further, it struck me that Major General Fister, Chief of the JAG Corps, had to be high on the initial notification list for army lawyers that had just become corpses. Considering that CID had been notified about the body early that morning, and Katherine had met with Fister regarding my reassignment sometime that afternoon, maybe her surprising lack of surprise wasn’t all that surprising after all.
This was neither the time nor place to have this conversation. But I needed to get on the record early, so I turned to her and said, “I owe you.” I then asked O’Reilly, “Are you part of the crime scene investigating team?”
As I suspected he might, he replied, “Nope. I visited the site but only in connection with my actual duties.”
“Go on.”
“I work in the Pentagon. Office of Protective Services.”
“And are you now assigned to protect us?”
He gave me a terse smile. “I’m your designated guardian angel. Effective 2100 hours, all defense attorneys for the Al Basari case will be under constant surveillance and guard. We don’t want another dead attorney on our hands.”
No, we certainly do not—especially not this defense attorney—though if I had the killer’s phone number, I might offer him a helpful tip about which throat to cut next.
The victim of my mortal ruminations asked a very pertinent question. “Exactly what does that mean?”
“It means we’ll do our part to keep you safe, and you’ll have to do yours.” He pulled a pair of devices from his pants pocket—they looked like small amulets—and handed one to Katherine and one to me. “For starters, here are your panic buttons. Keep them on or near you at all times, even when you shower. They’re waterproof. And never hesitate. If you’re wrong you’ll just waste a little of my time. But if you wait till a knife’s already at your throat”—he ran a finger across his neck, as though we needed another graphic—“you’ll be outta time. If you see something remotely suspicious, push the damn panic button.”
He went on for a few minutes, offering us helpful tips and precautions we should follow. It was mostly the usual stuff a cautious person would do anyway, lock the doors and windows, close the blinds, pay attention to anybody paying you undue attention, or following you, but there was one additional precaution—always check the backseat of the car before you get in.
This is called the shutting the barn door after the cow escaped, but it wasn’t a stupid suggestion.
A two-man security team would trail us at all times. All travel arrangements had to be approved through his office. He or his people were to be notified in advance of all visitors. He was aware that Katherine had already set up shop in Highland Falls, New York—the small village outside the gate of the Military Academy at West Point—and a team was already en route to scope out the place and devise a security plan.
When he finished he looked at Katherine and asked, “What are your plans now?”
“My business here is finished. I’m driving back up to New York.”
He paused, then looked at me. “You understand, sir, that it would be very convenient if the two of you remained together at all times.”
I looked at Katherine. “Convenient for who?”
O’Reilly was a little slow on the uptake because he felt the need to explain, “Between five defendants there are a total of nine attorneys we have to protect and—”
I interrupted him to note, “Now eight.”
“Eight . . . right. But we’re still spread pretty thin. For now, the service can only spare three agents for the two of you.”
“Understood, Chief.” What I didn’t say, what I didn’t need to say, was everything else I now understood. He and his unit were going through the paces, providing the appearance of security in the event the killer had not filled his quota, and the shit hit the fan. He and I both knew, though, that effective full-time protection for a single party requires a team of at least six trained agents. Three agents for two targets is what they call in the trade a deterrent force, like using a perforated Trojan rubber; maybe you’ll get lucky, but maybe not.
He produced a sheepish smile. “What I’m trying to suggest is, why don’t you be a gentleman and drive the lady up to New York?”
I’d rather drive over the lady and drag her corpse to New York. But I nodded, then explained my need to drop by my apartment to pick up fresh uniforms, spare undergarments, shaving supplies, and one item I failed to mention—the pistol I kept hidden on the top shelf of the closet.
Chapter Six
Predictably, Katherine’s car was a leased Toyota Prius, what they call a hybrid, and, though I consider myself as sensitive to the assassination of our environment as anybody, Sean Drummond was not the least bit happy with this choice.
The car didn’t even require a key to get started, just this stupid button you push, then you can’t even hear the engine, so after the fifth time I punched the button, Katherine said, “Stop that, Sean. The damned car is already started.”
“Are you sure?”
“Unlike you, it doesn’t make a lot of noise. Yes, I’m sure.”
She can be very funny. We proceeded up 95 North, then the Palisades Interstate Parkway, cutting left just before the Bear Mountain Bridge. Katherine napped with her head against the window for most of the drive. Thankfully, she didn’t snore and required no potty breaks, which was a treat. Men and women share an organ called a bladder, which serves roughly the same function, though theirs must be a quarter of the size and lacks an off switch.
During her few waking moments, she did share a few tidbits of relevant knowledge. She notified me, “Our court date is in one month. We’ll have to work hard, and fast.”
“You mean thirty days?”
“Like most months, yes, Sean. I know it’s short. But I’ve already done a lot of the preparation.”
“Have you interrogated the other accused yet?”
“No. I thought we’d do it together.”
“Filed any motions, yet?”
“None have been necessary, yet. The answer’s no.”
“Have you met with any witnesses?”
“I have not . . . no, not yet.”
“What have you done, Katherine?”
“I hired a capable staff and arranged an office.”
I shook my head. “Who’s paying for all this?”
It was obvious where I was going with this line of inquiry and she chose not to answer. But I wasn’t letting go and suggested, “Isn’t Nelson Arnold a bit old, even for you?”
“Why do you always see the worst in other people?”
“Because the worst usually applies.”
“You’re underestimating him, Sean.” She looked at me. “Don’t.”
“He’s also rich, handsome, and owns half of Manhattan. Some women find that an attractive combination. Shallow, I know, but please answer the question.”
“I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
“If he’s paying the bills, it’s very much my business. I want to know the extent of his involvement with this case—” And with you, though I didn’t say that, because obviously who Katherine sleeps with was no concern of mine. Right?
But apparently she found this topic tiresome, because Katherine put her head against the window and was instantly asleep. I think she had decided to avoid me for the rest of the trip.
Amazingly, we made it all the way to the small, sleepy village of Highland Falls on less than half a tank of gas. If they could manufacture one of these things in the size and shape of a Ford Bronco, I might even buy one.
Anyway, Highland Falls, as I mentioned, is, in the official lexicon, a village, a small, charming, but slightly depressed burg whose main purpose seems to be serving the needs of the military academy. The first foot was set here way back in 1609, according to local legend, but it wasn’t until West Point was established in 1802 that any feet stopped moving. Most army bases get the garrison towns they deserve and, for the large troop bases, this means plenty of whorehouses, gin mills, pawnshops, and these days, a smattering of fast food joints and tattoo parlors. In the case of the military academy, that means a drowsy village with plenty of souvenir shops and nice churches.
I gave Katherine a poke in the arm. “We’re on Main Street in Highland Falls. Where next?”
She stretched for a moment, and looked around. “Stay straight, then hang a left on Partner Lane.”
Partner Lane? This sounded presumptuous, but I didn’t think I could convince them to change the name just to fit my sensibilities. So I stayed straight, and, a moment after I took the left, Katherine said, “Drive to the top of the hill. A surprise is waiting for you.”
I don’t like surprises and anyway, Katherine had already used up her limit for the night.
I pulled up to the only house with the lights still on, and Katherine confirmed that I had made the right choice. The house was a small, two-storied clapboard affair, perhaps eighty or a hundred years old, or fifty neglectful years, green or red or yellow in color—but who cares?
Another clue that this was the right house was the man in a cheap civilian suit waiting hospitably by the curb. Presumably, O’Reilly, who was somewhere back there, following behind us, had called ahead on his cellphone to alert the troops.
“Please get your stuff quickly and follow me inside,” the agent said by way of introduction and welcome.
I grabbed my duffel bag, Katherine climbed out her side, and he led us up the crumbling sidewalk to a small front porch.
The moment I stepped inside a voice from the back of the house yelled, “This here’s my office, so don’t you mess nothin’ up. Don’t you leave that damned bag on my floor, neither.”
I had heard that voice before, and I had heard that order before. I replied, in my most authoritative voice, “I’m a lieutenant colonel, now. I’ll put my damned bag wherever I please.”
Imelda Pepperfield appeared out of a room in the back holding a pot of steaming coffee, and wearing a scowl. “Oh no you won’t. I’m a civilian now, so I don’t care if you got ten stars on them shoulders. You’ll carry that bag up them stairs if I say so.”
I thought about crossing the floor and hugging her, but Imelda would probably reward such a display of warm bonhomie with an affectionate knee in the balls.
So instead we just stood and admired each other a moment. Imelda had been a sergeant first class, and my legal assistant, years before. Katherine and I had shared her services back in Korea, and I now had a fairly good idea how Imelda was spending her retirement. A legal assistant in the army is sort of a cross between a paralegal, an office manager, and a major domo. Though she was a sergeant and I an officer, the lines of authority often became blurred. But I can be difficult as a boss, and Imelda can be difficult as a subordinate, so it worked out okay. She was single, mean, frighteningly smart, sporadically warm-hearted, as knowledgeable about the law as many attorneys, and as the current conversation indicated, she tends to be a bit on the autocratic and pushy side.
By way of compliment, she noted, “You put on a little weight. Must be gettin’ lazy.”
“Thank you. You look great, too.”
“What’re you doin’ wearing that stupid suit?”
“It’s Brooks Brothers,” I replied with just the right whiff of a Brahmin drawl.
She shook her head. “If it belongs to them brothers, why’re you wearin’ it?”
I nearly explained, but of course Imelda was joking. I thought I even detected a hint of a smile.
Well, enough pleasantries and empty chitchat. Imelda pointed at a side room, apparently the dining room of this old house before it was converted into a legal office, and said, “That’s your office. Already put the discovery materials and dead lawyer’s files in there. Read through that first. And put it back together the way you found it. Don’t leave me no mess.”
“Thank you.”
“Already hung curtains over all the windows, too. You leave them curtains alone. Don’t want nobody shooting at us. And lock the doors whenever you leave.”
“I’ll also be sure to put the lid down on the toilet.”
I could tell she wanted to smile but didn’t want to break the mood. “Anything else you need, you see Imelda.”
She placed the coffee pot on the table, where there were already four mugs, backed away, and disappeared into the kitchen.
I carried my bag upstairs with orders not to be disturbed until eight.
I would never admit this to Katherine, but I was glad to get a break from my duties in the CIA. I missed the law, I missed soldiers, and yes, I even missed the army.
Indeed, most of all, I had missed Katherine. Bickering and sexual misunderstandings aside, I had always been strongly attracted to her. But army life is murder on personal relationships, and Katherine’s own causes and all-consuming dedication to her clients had left little time or opportunity for us to sort out our personal feelings for each other. She was a big unresolved issue for me; it was time to discover if I was one for her, as well.
