One Was a Soldier

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “I take it you don’t know where the money is right now?”

  He gave her a look. “Would I be here asking for help if I did?”

  Clare spread her hands. “What sort of help are you looking for, Chief? What do you want? The money? Revenge? You want to find out who killed her?”

  He frowned. “I thought she killed herself.”

  Clare made a noise. “Officially, yes.”

  “You think—oh, God. Yeah. If somebody was trying to get her out of the way.” He closed his eyes. Opened them. “Will I sound like a sick bastard if I say that would be a relief? I called her just a couple days before she died to tell her the investigation had been taken away from me. I thought maybe the news—”

  “Wait. She knew about the investigation?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I was putting together the pieces, slow, like I told you. I had a pretty good idea of what she’d done. I figured she doctored the manifests, so the paperwork that came from stateside matched the paperwork from inside the theater and the numbers all lined up. Nobody checks against the originals if they think they have authentic copies in hand, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “I needed to see the original invoices. The ones that were generated stateside. U.S. Army Finance Command has a small group of MPs and CIDs attached—specialists in fraud and financial crimes and all that. I made the request through them. A week goes by, and then two weeks. Then I get a surprise visit in person from Colonel Arlene Seelye.”

  Clare blinked. “She’s the one who’s here, investigating the missing funds.”

  “She asks me to turn over everything I have on the case, which was weird, because I hadn’t put any other info on my request form. Then she says she’s taking over the investigation. I’m thinking I’m screwed, that somehow she’s been able to figure out I was the guy who looked the other way and let it happen. So I handed over my stuff and sat down to wait for the arrest. The next day—two weeks ago—I was reassigned to Fort Gillem. Courtesy of Colonel Arlene Seelye.”

  Clare frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “That’s what I thought. I went back and forth, trying to figure out the right thing to do. About telling Tally or not.” He propped his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. “Up to that point, I guess I was still hoping there was going to be some way I could have my cake and eat it, too. Get the money back without Tally taking the fall. At the end, I called her. Told her I’d been working on an investigation. Told her what I found.” He glanced up at Clare. “I warned her that there was a CID finance investigator on her trail. The next thing I heard…”

  “She was dead.”

  “Yeah.”

  They both sat with that in silence for a while. Finally, Clare said, “I still don’t understand Colonel Seelye’s actions. If she knew you were involved, why not place you in custody? And if she didn’t know, why didn’t she ask you to back her up, since you knew about the investigation? The only other guy she’s got here is a buck-green private.”

  “Huh.” He sat up again. “I figured at first she wanted the cred for the discovery all to herself. Policing in the army isn’t all that different than policing on the outside when it comes to being judged on the number of collars you make or the cases you clear. Then I got to thinking. Nobody else in my chain of command knew what I was doing, and if she’s the one who fielded my request for information, nobody else in her unit knows about the missing money, either.”

  “That sounds consistent with not wanting to give anyone else credit for the arrest.”

  “Yeah—but I think she’s after more than a nice write-up from her superiors. I think she’s after the money.”

  “You mean … for herself. To keep.” Clare sat back in her pew. She stared at the reredos behind the high altar, at the dozens of saints and angels carved into the fine-grained mahogany. “Tally died last Wednesday.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stephen Obrowski, the innkeeper at the Stuyvesant Inn, said Colonel Seelye checked in Wednesday evening. He said she was upset there hadn’t been any other accommodations available.” If she had thought about it before, she would have passed it off as the normal annoyance of someone who was going to have to explain blowing her travel budget to the quartermaster. She would have missed the other implication. “Her trip was so spur-of-the-moment, she didn’t take time to make any reservations.” She turned to Nichols. “What if she came here to confront Tally? To see if she could force the location of the money out of her? Maybe she went too far. Or maybe she scared Tally into telling her and then decided to get rid of her.” She stood up. “You stay here.”

  Nichols got up from his pew, frowning. “Where are you going?”

  “To tell the chief of police that he can’t rule Tally’s death a suicide just yet.”

  * * *

  Entering the Kreemy Kakes diner, Russ spotted Clare in what he thought of as her usual spot, the red vinyl banquette against the wall, the wide window behind her showing the granite-and-marble facade of Allbanc and an unusual number of pedestrians on Main Street. Tourists, enjoying the last week of prime fall foliage.

  She was in her clericals, of course, rosy-cheeked in the heat from the crowd. She was finally putting on some weight again, and it looked good on her. Real good. Down, boy. Russ dropped his jacket over the back of a chair and sat.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  He reached across the red-tiled table. “I’m sorry.”

  “I am, too.” She took his hand. “Friends?”

  He grinned. “Among other things.”

  Erla Davis appeared at his side, menus in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. “Well, howdy, strangers!” She beamed at Clare, then at Russ. “It does my heart good to see you two back in the old spot. Reverend, you still partial to a cup?”

  Clare turned her mug over. “Erla, I’ll be partial to your coffee three days after I’m dead.”

  The waitress eyed Russ as she filled Clare’s cup. “I heard you two are getting married the end of this month. Never saw that one coming.”

  Russ laughed.

  Erla served up his coffee and then tapped the large plastic sheets against the table. “You need to look at the menu?”

  “I’ll have the chili, please,” Clare said.

  “Reuben with fries.”

  “That’s what I like,” Erla said. “Folks that know what they want without shilly-shallying.” She winked like a burlesque performer and whisked away, menus in hand.

  Clare leaned forward, but instead of making a joke, she said, “Quentan Nichols is here. In town.”

  The clatter and conversation in the Kreemy Kakes diner created a kind of homey white noise, loud enough to keep a private discussion private, soft enough to hear the person across the table. “Huh,” he said. “Okay. It looks like I really do owe you an apology.” He rubbed his lips. “I’d better tell Seelye.” Then the meaning of her statement caught up with his brain. “Wait. How do you know he’s in Millers Kill?”

  “He’s at St. Alban’s, right now.”

  “Oh, for chrissakes, Clare—” Erla appeared again with their order. “’Scuse my French,” he said as she unloaded the thick china dishes. He waved away the waitress’s offer to bring them anything else. “Nichols may not have killed Tally, but he sure as hell has his hands dirty.” He shoved against the table and stood up. “I’m going to take him into custody for questioning.”

  “Sit down.”

  The steel in Clare’s command voice dropped his ass back into his chair before he could think about it. “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

  “Oh, cut it out. I just want you to hear me out before you run off half-cocked.”

  “Right. Wouldn’t want to do anything without assessing all the information and thinking it through carefully.”

  She gave him a look. “Listen. Nichols admits he enabled the theft by steering his patrols away from the transit warehouse where the money was stored.” She dug her spo
on into her chili. “He says he didn’t know what she was doing and he didn’t want to know. He thought it was all love’s sweet bliss until she got back stateside and dropped him like a hot rock.”

  “More like a hot million,” he said around a bite of his sandwich.

  “After he came here to try to see her—that was the night I got home, you remember?”

  He smiled slowly. She pinked up. “Yes, well. Anyway, after that, he decided to figure out what it was, exactly, that he had done for her back at Balad Air Base. He spent a month or two digging around and figured out she must have altered the invoices coming from the States to hide the theft. So he sent a request in to USAFINCOM’s attached investigators, asking them for copies of the original invoices. Guess who shows up in person?”

  “Colonel Arlene Seelye?”

  She frowned. “Yes, Arlene Seelye. She confiscates all the stuff he’s amassed in the course of his investigation, tells him she’s taking over, and then—get this!—has him transferred to Fort Gillem.”

  He had a good idea where this was going, but he let her spin it out.

  “She’s after the money. For herself.” Clare emphasized her point with her spoon, dropping a blob of chili on her paper place mat.

  He finished chewing a bite of Reuben. Wiped his mouth. “Did he happen to say why he showed up at your church?”

  “I was the only one of the therapy group he could track down. He needs help if he’s going to find the money before she does.”

  Russ held up his hands. “I want you to repeat that last sentence to yourself. Tell me what it sounds like.”

  “He’s not going to keep it!”

  He looked at her steadily. She bit the corner of her lip. “He’s going to keep it?” Sighed. “He’s going to keep it.” Then she frowned. “Wait, what about Colonel Seelye transferring him? That’s way too easy to be checked. He couldn’t have made that up, could he?”

  “If I were running this investigation, and I suspected an MP of involvement in the crime, but didn’t have enough evidence to charge him, the first thing I’d do would be to contain him. So he can’t muck up any evidence or help out his co-conspirators.” He shoved the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. Clare stared into her coffee, still frowning. Probably trying to figure out a way to redeem Nichols. He felt himself smiling like an idiot around the bread and pastrami.

  Clare raised her eyebrows at him. “What?”

  He swallowed. “Just you.” He stood up and pulled out his wallet. “C’mon. I want to talk to this guy.”

  “Russ. He came to me for help. I told him to wait in the parish hall. I can’t lead the local police in to clap him in irons.”

  “I think we’ve been over the fact that the church as sanctuary doesn’t fly in the twenty-first century.” They had had this same lunch so many times he didn’t have to see the bill to know the total and tip. He tossed the money onto the table and stood aside to let Clare out. “Besides. If Nichols is still there, I will wear a kilt to the wedding.”

  Nichols wasn’t in the sanctuary. Nor in the sacristy, the parish hall, or the undercroft. He had picked up a great deal about church architecture for a nonreligious man, Russ realized.

  “Sorry, Clare.” They surprised her secretary eating freeze-dried tuna out of a pouch. “He must have left before I got back from lunch.” She waved her plastic fork. “Obviously not lunch-lunch. I was running errands. I found a great dress for your wedding, and I’m getting it altered. It was a size six. A little bit too big.” She beamed. “Hi, Russ.”

  “Hi, Lois.”

  “A little bit too big, Lois? Really?”

  The secretary smiled smugly.

  In her office, Clare tossed her coat onto her battered love seat and flung herself into her desk chair. “Dang it!” She tilted back with a creak and a snap. “What are you going to do now?”

  He leaned against the tall bookcases lining one wall. “I’m going to call his command and find out if he’s unauthorized absence. If he is, they’ll have people after him. Then I’ll tell Seelye. Based on what he told you, he’s definitely an accessory. If she wants, we’ll put a BOLO on him.”

  “What about her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nichols may be after the money for himself. I’m willing to accept that.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  She frowned at him. “There’s still the matter of Colonel Seelye. She found out about the theft, got Nichols out of the way, and hightailed it here, conveniently just after Tally was found dead.”

  “What are you saying? Are you trying to implicate Seelye in McNabb’s death?”

  “The timing works. She doesn’t have any airtight alibi. She could have—”

  “Okay, first”—Russ held up one finger—“Tally McNabb committed suicide. All the physical evidence points to that conclusion. There is no evidence supporting any other conclusion. Second”—he held up another finger—“Colonel Seelye’s a CID investigator chasing down the theft of one million dollars. Of course she hightailed it over here. What do you think she’d do? Sit on her ass until Tally McNabb finished laundering the money?”

  “Exactly!” Clare sprang her chair forward, jumping to her feet. “One million dollars! Which is up for grabs now that Tally McNabb is out of the way.”

  “Oh, for chrissakes. Will you give it a rest already?”

  She strode toward him, her cheeks flushed, her hazel eyes glinting brown. He wanted to shake her shoulders until she dropped this fact-free victim fantasy she’d dreamed up for Tally McNabb. He wanted to strip her naked and fling her on the lumpy love seat and not let her up until he had wrung them both dry. How could one woman make him so batshit crazy?

  She stopped maybe two inches away, close enough for him to feel the heat she was throwing off. “You’re wrong,” she said. “You’re wrong, and I’m going to prove it.”

  “Do not go chasing after Nichols on your own, Clare. You don’t know what he’s after or what he’s capable of.”

  “I can take care of myself. As I’ve told you.”

  “Is that the deal? Either I knuckle under and drive an investigation in the direction you want, or you put yourself in danger? Is that how you’re going to get your way when we’re married? Forget about talking things out and making compromises, just go straight for the nuclear option?”

  Her face went pale. She turned. Opened her office door. Pointed toward the hall.

  “Clare. For God’s sake. I don’t want to fight like this.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Please, love. I don’t understand why this is so important to you.”

  Her face wavered. He pulled her toward him. She resisted for a second, then collapsed against him. He wrapped his arms tight around her. “Why can’t you trust me on this? Why can’t you let it go?”

  “It’s all wrong.” Her voice was muffled against his chest, but he realized she was crying. “It’s all gone wrong, and I have to make it right.”

  He had a sick feeling that she wasn’t talking about Tally McNabb. Not talking about Tally McNabb at all.

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 13

  Hadley’s notes for the morning briefing were about as abbreviated as she could get. 1. Tourists in town. 2. Check kiting IGA. 3. B and E 52 MacEachron Hill Rd. Cossayuharie, interrupted, no loss. She wrote more detailed grocery lists. Well, this was all penny-ante stuff. There was only one really big case going on in Millers Kill right now, and it wasn’t even theirs.

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of Colonel Seelye, the Army CID who’s heading up their investigation. I’ve left her a couple of messages on her cell.” The chief squared his boots on the chairs again. “Here’s the deal. The theft from the army isn’t technically in our jurisdiction, as you all know.”

  Hadley glanced at Flynn, who looked disappointed. The man was way too invested in policing. He needed a hobby.

  “However. Both Wyler McNabb and Quentan Nichols, whom some of you will remember”—he nodded at Hadley and Flynn—“are in town r
ight now. Nichols has admitted to direct involvement with the theft, and it’s a sure bet McNabb has some knowledge of it.”

  “Wait a minute.” Lyle MacAuley rousted himself from his usual slumped posture against the whiteboard. “How do we know Nichols is back in town?”

  The chief rubbed the back of his neck. “He came to St. Alban’s looking for Clare. Asked her to help him find the money.”

  “I’ll be damned. Where is he now?”

  The chief shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. I faxed his name and description around to area hotels and motels last night before I left. Nothing yet.”

  “That guy is better at disappearing than a bowl of shrimp at the all-you-can-eat buffet. You sure he’s not really a Green Beret or something?”

  “I’m more worried about him reappearing. In Wyler McNabb’s driveway.” The chief pointed at Hadley. “Knox, I want you and Kevin to go by there and pick him up for questioning. I was willing to wait for Seelye, but she’s dragging her tail. I want to find out what he knows before something bad happens.”

  Hadley felt her face heating up. He knew she had lied. He didn’t trust her to pick up the guy by herself.

  “Both of us?” Flynn asked. “I didn’t think he was in any shape to put up a fight.”

  “I’m not worried about him resisting arrest. I’m worried about him being alone with an officer and no witness to say what happened or didn’t happen. I don’t want to give McNabb an opportunity to lodge a false complaint on top of the real one he’s got going.” The chief pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

  “What do we do if Colonel Seelye is already there?” Hadley asked. “She’s going for a warrant to search the place, right?”

  “If she’s there, tell her unless she’s immediately placing McNabb under arrest, we’re taking him in for protective custody. She can come over to the station and question him here.” He slid off the table and thudded to the floor. “That’s all. Lyle?”

  Kevin drove. She took shotgun. It was the first time they’d been alone together in at least a week. So of course, he led off with “What happened with you and Eric at this guy’s house?”