by Lauren Carr
“Leroy was a drunk,” Bogie said. “And I remember that accident. The medical examiner said his blood-alcohol level was twice the legal limit.”
“And so no one looked any closer at the accident, did they?” David asked. “Dad didn’t look into it, because he was sick.”
“I handled it,” Bogie said. “I didn’t see anything suspicious. I knew about the suit, but—” He peered at the ring in his hand. “Why would this ring make you think that Leroy was murdered?”
“How did Bill end up with it?”
“After Leroy died, Bill inherited it,” Bogie said with a shrug of his broad shoulders.
“He wanted it so badly that he got into a fight over it with Leroy at their dad’s funeral. If he inherited it after Leroy died, why isn’t he wearing it?”
Bogie responded with silence. His eyebrows furrowed.
David leaned over Bogie’s desk. “You read the inscription. It goes to the leader of the family—the patriarch. It signifies Bill’s birthright, which is being the leader. If he got that ring legally, he’d be wearing it proudly—with honor. The fact that he’s hiding it in his desk tells me that he didn’t get it lawfully.”
“I know that you don’t like Bill Clark and that you have no respect for him,” Bogie said in a low voice. “I’ve heard rumors for years saying that he killed his mother—”
“I already looked into that,” David said. “Turow confirmed that there’s nothing there.”
“Do you realize what you’re suggesting?” Bogie asked. “Bill Clark is a liar and a cheat, but do you really think he would’ve been capable of killing his brother for a ring?”
“And to end a lawsuit that threatened to cost him a lot of money,” David said. “Bill was living in Oakland. He’d always wanted the status of living here on the lake, but he hadn’t been able to afford it—at least not until after his mother died, and he inherited the family fortune. If Leroy had won his suit, Bill would have lost half of everything. Now, I don’t know the specifics of his financials, but even if he hadn’t been in financial trouble—”
“Bill hates to lose anything to anyone,” Bogie said. “I’ll get that case file for you.”
Chapter Thirty
Fort Belvoir, Fairfax, Virginia
“I don’t know if I can get used to this.” While keeping one eye on the road, Jessica glanced down at the white button-down shirt and the blue slacks of an enlisted army soldier. “Why can’t I be an officer, like you?”
She glanced across the front compartment of their SUV to where Murphy was dressed in the blue uniform of an army lieutenant. Gnarly was strapped into the dark-gray vest of an army canine and sitting in a crate in the back, which the dog did not like at all. He would’ve much preferred to ride in the backseat. Ideally, he would’ve been riding in the front passenger seat.
“Because I am an officer,” Murphy said. “Your ticket into this case is that you’re Gnarly’s handler. Only enlisted personnel are dog handlers in the army. Be happy. This is your first undercover job.”
“Why are you undercover as army?” she asked. “I mean, you’re investigating—”
“Because the existence of the Phantoms is a highly classified secret,” Murphy said, “that has been neither confirmed nor denied by the Joint Chiefs of Staff. If I go in as a navy officer, these soldiers will spit in my face. But if I go in in an army uniform and tell them that General Johnston sent me, they’ll kiss my feet.” He checked his reflection in the mirror. “You should see me in my marine uniform.”
“Maybe later on tonight we can play show-and-tell,” she said with a naughty grin.
“I love show-and-tell.”
They were on their way to Fort Belvoir to meet with the army’s CID agent tasked with solving First Sergeant Belle Perkins’ murder. Over the years, the case had officially grown cold. After Murphy had contacted his CO with his suspicions about the motive for Perkins’ murder, she’d requested that the Joint Chiefs of Staff enlist the investigator to go along with Murphy’s plan to reveal the killer.
It was a simple but ambitious plan. Murphy and Jessica would meet with the army’s investigator at Fort Belvoir. Then Murphy and the agent would simply walk into wherever Captain Frank Watson was training his team, many of whom had been members of the same team that Sergeant Belle Perkins had been stationed with in Iraq. Murphy would be introduced as a special investigator who was working for the army’s chiefs of staff and had been sent to gather information about Sergeant Belle Perkins’ murder. After a few standard questions, without warning their suspect, Jessica would walk in with Gnarly, who they hoped would in some way identify Captain Frank Watson as the killer.
Basically, Gnarly was going to a suspect lineup.
At the gate, Jessica flashed the phony military ID that Murphy had picked up from the Joint Chiefs of Staff’s office that morning. The CID agent, an older man in a summer suit, met them in the visitors’ parking lot. He introduced himself as Special Agent Logan Silverman.
Greeting Murphy with a firm handshake, he said, “Lieutenant Thornton, I heard about Sergeant Major Gnarly running for the office of something or other and about the army releasing a statement saying that he wasn’t a suspect in First Sergeant Perkins’ murder, but I had no idea that General Johnston was going to be personally overseeing this investigation.”
“It’s been cold for a long time,” Murphy said, “and the family wants answers.”
Jessica had unloaded Gnarly from the crate in the back of the SUV and put him on his leash.
The CID agent, a civilian tasked with investigating crimes involving military personnel, eyed Gnarly. “I broke out the case file a few days ago, after the news of Perkins’ murder thawed out the case. I had inherited it from an agent who retired three years ago. He’d considered it one of those cases where everyone knew who did it but couldn’t prove it.”
“Who was that?” Murphy asked.
“Benjamin Frost,” Agent Silverman said. “A contractor the team was escorting. He went missing the night Perkins was killed. Was never found. It was assumed that he’d either been captured by the terrorist cell shadowing the team or had died in the desert after killing Perkins.”
“Well,” Murphy said, “General Johnston figures that as long as we have a witness”—he gestured at Gnarly—“we should let him tell us if your assumption is right or wrong and if the person who killed his partner was one of her teammates.”
Agent Silverman shook his head. “I don’t know why they never thought of this before.” With a jerk of his thumb, he gestured toward a classroom building a short walk away and led them toward the front entrance. “We’re in luck. Most of the team is still intact. Only four who were on Perkins tour have been discharged or requested reassignment. The members of Captain Watson’s team are very close knit and extremely loyal. As a matter of fact, First Sergeant Scalia was recently offered a promotion to another unit in Florida. He turned it down because he wanted to stay with this team. He’s been with Watson since boot camp. It’ll be near impossible to get any of them to turn in a fellow teammate.”
“But Sergeant Perkins and Gnarly saved their lives when they all got pinned down by those snipers.” Jessica was relieved that Gnarly was heeling nicely between her and Murphy. Usually when she walked him, the German shepherd would drag her down the street.
“Captain Watson charged Sergeant Gnarly with negligence since he didn’t defend Sergeant Perkins when she was attacked and murdered,” Agent Silverman said.
“We talked to witnesses who told us that Sergeant Perkins had sedated him so that she could stitch up a wound he’d received in the gunfight that afternoon,” Jessica said.
“I read witness statements in her case file saying that as well.” Agent Silverman held the door open so that Jessica, Gnarly, and Murphy could enter the building used for training. He then led them down the hallway. “How do you want to do this, Lie
utenant?”
“Our witness will remain out in the hallway until after you introduce me, and I’ll ask a few preliminary questions to get us started.”
Gnarly uttered a low growl from deep in his throat.
Jessica jerked his leash. “Gnarly, shush.”
Ignoring her, the German shepherd pulled on the leash. Behind them, Murphy stepped up his pace so that he could grab the leash and help Jessica, but he wasn’t fast enough. His hackles up, Gnarly practically pulled Jessica’s arm out of her shoulder socket when he bolted down the hallway. Afraid she was going to lose her footing and land face first on the floor, Jessica dropped the leash.
Upon reaching the classroom at the end of the corridor, Gnarly jumped up, grabbed the round doorknob in his jaws, turned his head to open the door, and flew inside.
In the classroom, a dozen army combat soldiers jumped up onto their desks when a hundred pounds of fur, claws, and teeth charged through the door. Not certain of what the attack was about, they all reached for their weapons. But upon recognizing the army vest the dog was wearing, they realized that he must have been a friend—possibly a dog that a new handler had lost control of.
“Gnarly! Down!” Murphy tried to grab Gnarly, who dodged his attempts to capture him.
“Gnarly?” some of the soldiers said. “Is that Gnarly?”
Seeing that their former teammate had only one man in his sights, most of them holstered their guns and climbed down from their desks.
“What’s this about?” the army captain at the front of the classroom asked
Agent Silverman showed Captain Frank Watson his badge and identified himself. “Who is that man?” The agent pointed to the young man standing like a statue on top of his desk with his weapon clutched to his chest.
“Sergeant Major Scott Scalia,” Captain Watson said. “What’s going on here?”
“Thank you, Gnarly!” Murphy yelled. “You did good! Sit!”
Breathing hard, Gnarly sat down with his eyes trained on Sergeant Major Scott Scalia. He dared the sergeant to make a false move.
Knowing that he was a hairbreadth away from being torn to shreds, the sergeant held his gun and was ready to aim and fire it.
Feeling foolish for allowing Gnarly to escape, Jessica rushed over to gather up his leash.
“Sergeant Major Scott Scalia,” Murphy said, “as in your protégé who has done every tour with you since boot camp, Captain?”
“Yes,” Captain Watson said. “I thought Sergeant Major Gnarly was dishonorably discharged after he let his handler get murdered.”
“But they never caught Perkins’ killer,” Agent Silverman said. “General Johnston has personally sent Lieutenant Thornton to get to the bottom of this case.”
“It was that contractor,” Captain Watson said. “Frost was his name. That’s why he took off. Disappeared the same night Perkins was murdered.”
“No,” Murphy said. “It was your sergeant. Our witness just identified him. Out of everyone in this classroom who was on the team and in the camp when his partner was killed, Sergeant Major Gnarly picked you, Sergeant Scalia. You’re the only one he wants to kill. Why is that?”
“Because when he came out of the anesthesia after Sergeant Perkins stitched him up,” Jessica said, “he could still smell your scent on her from when you strangled her.”
Captain Watson stepped up to the desk. “Is that true, Scalia? You killed Sergeant Perkins? Why?”
“Because she was going to ruin your career,” Sergeant Scalia said. “We all heard her. She was going to report you to command for getting your people killed. She was ignoring all of those missions that we did together. All of the good you did. All of the men and women who gave their lives for you—for you. She was going to have you drummed out of the army in disgrace. Don’t you see? I did it for you.”
Jessica saw the captain’s hands shaking. His chin quivered. The disease that had been dogging him was creeping up on him.
There was silence in the classroom.
Murphy reached up to where the sergeant was still standing on the desktop. “Give me your gun, soldier.”
Instead of obeying the order, Sergeant Scalia clutched the gun tighter. His eyes seemed to glaze over.
Moving slowly, Murphy turned slightly to the side so that his side arm would be out of sight and laid his hand on his weapon.
“Perkins and Gnarly saved our lives,” a young soldier in the back of the room said. “I was there that day. Most of us were. They were both heroes, and you killed her and disgraced Gnarly. How could you have done that, Scalia?”
Tears came to the sergeant’s eyes. “Captain, tell them. Make them understand. We’re all a team, and you’re our leader. Someone messes with you, and they mess with all of us.”
“Sergeant,” Murphy said, “yes, your captain is your team’s leader, and your team is your family. You’re not out there to serve your commanding officer. You’re first loyalties are to your country and your team, and when you have a leader who makes bad decisions—putting your team in danger—he’s putting your mission and your country in danger.” He moved in closer in hopes of getting within grabbing distance of the weapon in the soldier’s hand. “Give me the gun. Please.”
“No!” Tears spilled from Sergeant Scalia’s eyes.
“Get him out of my sight,” the captain said to Agent Silverman.
Captain Frank Watson turned his back on the sergeant who had been so devoted to him during his whole career.
“Don’t leave me, Captain!” Before Murphy could react, Sergeant Major Scott Scalia’s arm shot out and he pulled the trigger on his gun.
Murphy yanked his gun out of its holster.
The soldiers flew in every direction, taking cover.
Jessica was tackled by half a dozen soldiers, and they plunged her to the floor. In the pileup, she lost Gnarly’s leash—again.
Agent Silverman fumbled for his weapon.
When Murphy threw up his arm to take aim, his target was already gone.
Sergeant Scalia’s abrupt move was all the excuse Gnarly needed to leap up and capture his arm in his jaws. Gnarly, Scalia, and the desk all fell to the floor.
Murphy scrambled over to where Sergeant Scalia had been forced to release his grip on the gun. With the sergeant’s arm locked in the grip of his jaws, Gnarly was dragging the soldier kicking and screaming across the floor to the front of the classroom as if he wanted to show off his prize for show and tell.
Murphy picked up Scalia’s gun. “Gnarly, release him.” He took out his handcuffs and knelt down to secure the killer.
That was when Murphy noticed that Jessica, Agent Silverman, and many of the soldiers had crowded around the one fallen man in the room—Captain Frank Watson.
Tears in her eyes, Jessica broke away from the crowd.
“Captain Watson?” Murphy asked.
Jessica shook her head. “Bullet to the back—through the heart.”
Chapter Thirty-One
It was one of those moments when Bogie heard himself say, “How did I miss that?” As soon as David opened the file on Leroy Clark that the deputy chief had brought to his office, he tossed the first crime-scene picture of Clark down in front of him and pointed to his hand. Not only was the Clark family ring absent from Leroy’s right hand, but there was also a visible tan line around his pinkie finger.
The picture had been taken at the crime scene by a forensics officer as soon as Leroy Clark’s body had been pulled up from the bottom of the lake. His truck had been found empty with the driver’s side door open, prompting them to send divers in to search for Leroy.
After a routine accident investigation, Bogie had concluded that Leroy had missed the turn onto the Glendale Road Bridge and driven his truck into the lake. He’d figured that as the truck had begun to sink, Leroy had opened the door to escape, but he’d been too drunk t
o swim to shore—causing him to drown.
Even though the deputy chief hadn’t been aware that Ida Clark had cheated her elder son by giving the ring to his brother, Bogie should have noticed that a piece of jewelry was missing from his finger.
“The only reason I knew about the ring was because Lisa told me.” David picked up the autopsy report. “If it had been anyone else, I probably would’ve given him the benefit of the doubt when Bernie and Hap brought it to me, but knowing Bill—”
“What’s your problem with Clark?” Bogie asked.
“He’s a bully,” David said. “I grew up with his sister, Lisa. He used to beat her up. When she’d complain, he’d lie, and his father would take Bill’s side—calling him a real man.”
“So you hate the guy because when he was a kid, he beat up his sister? David, we’ve dealt with a lot of jerks in our time—”
“Did I ever tell you how Lisa died?” David asked.
“We were told that she was killed in action—”
“Well, I know the truth,” David said. “She was stomped to death by an abusive boyfriend—beaten, kicked, and stomped with a pair of combat boots. Bill Clark and his father had sent a message to her that it’s okay to beat up women, and I was trying to convince her otherwise.” He gazed down at the words in the report. “But it was too little, too late.”
“You’re too much like your pappy.” Bogie’s voice was soft. “You can’t save the world, David. You can try, but there are times when you just have to accept that there are bad people in this world, and while they may escape justice here on earth, they’ll have their due handed to them by the big guy upstairs.”
Without looking up from the autopsy report, David asked, “On which side of the bridge did Leroy’s truck end up in the lake?”
“South side,” Bogie said. “We decided that he missed the bridge and the bridge embankment, drove through the weeds and tall grass, and went right into the lake. He had to have been driving at least forty miles an hour to miss that turn.”