One Was a Soldier

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  She shook her head. “I think you knew all along. I think she made you a partner when you agreed to help her steal that money from Balad Air Base. So why do you need my help now?”

  “I didn’t know where it was! I didn’t even know what it was she was moving!”

  Russ tensed. Keep cool, Quentan. Don’t jerk the line. Just reel her in.

  Nichols breathed in. “It’s too much for me to shift. And it’s too much for me to deal with. I’m offering you a fifty-fifty split. I show you where it’s stored, you launder the money. If you don’t want in, the door’s that way.” He pointed.

  Seelye paused. “Okay. I’m in. Show me what you’ve got.”

  Beside him, Russ felt Tony Usher’s muscles bunch as he clenched his fist in triumph.

  Nichols and Seelye passed them. Russ could hear the soft scrape of the cardboard tower moving over concrete, and then the rumble of the dolly being rolled into the corridor. “Help me with this,” Seelye said. “I want to see what we’ve got.” There was a faint grunt and then the sound of plastic slapping onto the floor. There was a long pause. Russ looked at Tony. The JAG officer shook his head. Russ nodded. They wanted her to take the money into possession.

  “FDIC tags and all,” Seelye said. “I’d have to match it up to make sure, but it looks like the shipment that was stolen from Balad.”

  Tony frowned.

  “Excellent work, Chief Nichols.”

  The employees’ entrance slammed open. Russ leaped from his seat, his Glock already in his hand. He broke from the blind, empty cardboard boxes tumbling into the boots and black-clad legs of the men pounding up the corridor, and he shouted, “Stop! Police!” hearing his voice huge, reverberating off the walls, many voices, all screaming, “Stop! Police!”

  A helmeted and armor-clad man skidded, faced him, M-9 semiautomatic braced and ready, bellowing, “Police! Put your weapon down! Put your hands in the air!”

  From the other side of the hall, Russ heard Lyle roaring the exact same words. They were everywhere: shouted commands and weapons and body armor and bright yellow letters screaming MILITARY POLICE.

  Russ reversed his Glock and raised his hands. The MP opposite him tore the sidearm from his grasp and shoved him around. “Lyle, give up your gun,” Russ yelled.

  The guy behind him pushed him hard enough to make him stumble. “Shut up!”

  “MKPD, put up your weapons!” They could sort out this disaster, but if someone got shot—

  “I said shut up and get on the floor!” His MP’s voice was on the edge of wild. He shoved Russ with the bore of his M-9 this time. Russ shut up. He got down, one knee and then the other, but he was too slow for the kid behind him. The MP slammed him forward, jolting the breath out of his body. Russ lay panting on the cold concrete, craning his head to see while the MP cuffed him. He spotted Nichols cuffed and on the floor, saw the CID captain down on both knees, hands in the air and his mouth going a mile a minute, saw Seelye, dark shirt yanked aside, unstrapping the wire taped to her T-shirt. She was talking to an officer in BDUs whose body armor and MILITARY POLICE vest looked at odds with his fleshy body and fifty-something face.

  She glanced down. Blinked. Blinked again. “Chief Van Alstyne? What the hell are you doing here?”

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 18

  This time, the fight started because Eric was putting on a uniform.

  “What are you doing?” Jennifer’s voice caught him up short, laying out his BDUs after his shower. “It’s Tuesday. You don’t have anything Guard-related.”

  He had figured no one at the resort would answer his questions if he was in civvies, unless he wanted to misrepresent himself as a plainclothes detective. On the other hand, he was pretty sure no one would call his reserve unit to ask why one of their MPs was at the hotel, interviewing the human resources director. Not that that made it any less of a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. He was edgy, already having second thoughts, and that was why he snapped at her instead of just blowing it off.

  “What are you, my personal calendar?”

  “You haven’t done anything except mope around the house and go to those useless veterans group meetings since you got suspended. Now all of a sudden you’re getting ready to report? What’s going on?” She paled. “Oh, Jesus. You’re not converting your enlistment to regular army, are you?”

  “No.” He tugged on his pants.

  “Then what?”

  He spun around. “I’m trying to help out a friend by asking a few questions. That’s all. For chrissake, get off my back.”

  “Asking a few questions? You mean, like pretending you’re working as an MP? You can’t do that, Eric. If you get caught you could face charges. You could lose your job!” She moved in close, forcing herself into his line of sight. “For God’s sake, what are we supposed to do if you get bounced off the force? You’re in a precarious enough position as it—”

  “Why can’t you for one frigging time just support me?” He sat heavily on the edge of the bed and began yanking his socks on. “Why is it always criticizing and fault-finding and looking at me like I’m a goddamn monster because of what I have to do?”

  “What are you talking about?” She stepped back.

  “I am trying, Jen. I am trying all the time, and you never notice, and you never appreciate it. You have no idea what I’ve been through!”

  “Then tell me! For the love of God, I’m here! I’m listening!”

  He picked up one boot. “You don’t want to hear it.”

  She made a strangled noise and spun around in a circle, something she did when she got too frustrated to stand still. “No, you just don’t want to face your feelings. Because it’s easier to get angry than it is to let yourself feel scared, or sad, or helpless.” She jammed a finger toward him. “You’re too cowardly to—”

  “Mom?” Jake was standing in the doorway, staring, his eyes huge and afraid, his hands clenched in fists as if he were ready to wade into—

  —to protect his mother—

  —and the feeling roared over Eric, swamping him, and he rose, screaming, “Get out of here!” and hurled the boot, snapped it, hard, and it smashed Jake in the chest and sent the boy stumbling back into the hall.

  Then the tide washed out again and he was standing there, dumbfounded, his hand empty, his son sobbing. His son, to whom he had never raised a hand in his life.

  “Jake?” Eric’s voice came out cracked and raw. “Oh, God, son, I’m sorry—” He moved toward the door, but Jennifer was there, blocking him.

  “Jake.” Her voice was calm. She never took her eyes off Eric. “Honey, I want you to get the big black duffel bag in your room, and your backpack, and get into my car. Can you do that, lovey?” Jake sniffled an assent and staggered off down the hallway.

  “I need you to sit back down on the bed, Eric.”

  He backed up blindly and collapsed onto the bed. Jen crossed to her closet, still keeping her eyes on him. She bent down, reaching behind her, and pulled out her overnight bag.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered.

  “Right now, Jake and I are going to my sister’s. I’m going to contact you in a few days and let you know what I’ve decided to do.”

  She didn’t put anything in the bag. He realized she had already packed. She had prepared for this. She was leaving him.

  He lunged off the bed and grabbed her by the arm. “Jen. For God’s sake!”

  She looked at his hand, wrapped around her forearm. Then she looked at him. “You can hurt me, Eric, but you can’t hurt me enough to make me leave my son in danger.”

  He snatched his hand away, and a terrible sound broke out of his tight chest and aching throat. Jennifer backed away, one step, then another, and then she was gone; down the hall, down the stairs, out the door, out of his life.

  He stood in the bedroom for a long time afterward. Then he wandered through the house, touching tabletops and pictures, stacking the books Jake had left behind. Finally, he went into the ba
sement and unlocked the gun cabinet. He looked at his rifle and his .44 and the youth Remington he’d gotten Jake the Christmas before he deployed. He took out his Heckler & Koch 9 mm, his favorite for target practice, and he sat in the rocking chair by the television and rocked and rocked, holding the gun in his hands. He’d have to go back upstairs and unlock the ammo if he wanted to use it, of course. That was the right way to store guns. Not like the McNabbs, who had kept their firearms loaded. He thought about Tally McNabb, maybe feeling as bad as he was right now. All she had to do was take it out and pull the trigger. Permanent headache relief. He indulged in a little wouldn’t-they-be-sorry fantasy, but it kept breaking into the reality of Jake or Jennifer having to see him with his brains blown off. “Jesus, Eric,” he said to himself. “Teen drama, much?”

  He was a grown-up. He was a grown-up who had screwed up unbelievably bad in almost every way there was, and he wasn’t going to get out of it with some grand fuck-you-world gesture. He locked the 9 mm back in the cabinet and trudged upstairs. Put on the rest of his uniform. One thing at a time. He had questions about Ellen Bain to figure out. Then, if he played his cards right, he’d have his job. Then he’d fix things with Jake. Then he’d get his wife back.

  Get one thing right. Doesn’t matter if you have no idea how the rest of it will fall into place, or even if it will fall into place. It was just like his tour of duty. You take it one day at a time, one hour, sometimes one minute at a time, and that’s how you get through it.

  He set his beret on his head and went off to do one thing right.

  * * *

  Eric parked as close to the hotel entrance as he could. He sat there for a while, hearing Jennifer saying, If you get caught you could face charges. You could lose your job. Hearing Will Ellis saying, Nobody gets left behind.

  He got out of the car. Took the curving steps up to the wide cobblestone entryway, jammed with rich-looking retirees getting into Beemers or handing off the keys to the Mercedes to the valets. The parking guys were too busy to pay him any heed, but several guests stared at him. Curious, at first, because the resort was out of the pay grade of anybody lower than a full bird colonel. Then they got the look he had seen before. It was all sorts of warm and approving, like they had slapped a WE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS magnet on their faces. God, he hated that look.

  It was less annoying on the face of the perky blond desk clerk. Hotel receptionists always looked like they were grateful for your service. “May I help you?” the girl said.

  “Yes, you can.” He tried to smile, but it felt off. “I’d like to speak to your human resources manager.”

  Her expression grew guarded. “I’m afraid we’re not hiring at this time, but I can get you an application to fill out if you’d like.”

  Eric flipped his reserve ID badge at her, fast enough to register, not so fast she could make out the details. “I’m with the military police. I need to ask a few questions about Tally McNabb.”

  “Oh. Okay. Wait here, please.” She disappeared through the door behind reception. Popped out again not two minutes later. “Ms. Kirkwood will be right with you.”

  Elaine Kirkwood, the Algonquin Wates HR director, had the softened skin of somebody’s mother and the assessing eyes of a card shark. She led Eric around the edge of the resort’s sprawling lobby, past the dark, leafy bar, into a side corridor punctuated by unmarked doors. She opened one and ushered him into a typical corporate space—copier, cubicles, and computers. Hermetically sealed windows displayed untouchable views of trees, mountains, sky. Several women’s heads popped up like woodchucks out of holes. Eric thought, not for the first time, that he’d rather take a bullet than have to work in an office.

  Kirkwood continued on to an inner door. “This way.” She shut the door behind them, then sat at a desk that was almost as cluttered as the chief’s. He took one of the two chairs facing her. There was a large box of tissues within reach. For employees getting the ax, he supposed. “I don’t know if you’ve checked with them, Sergeant, but we’ve already given a statement to the local police.”

  “I’m not here about her suicide.” He slid his pen and notebook out of his breast pocket.

  “You’re not? What, then?”

  “How long had she been working for BWI Opperman?”

  Kirkwood raised her eyebrows as if to acknowledge his sidestepping her question. “Almost three months. She started on August first.”

  “Can you tell me what, exactly, her job entailed?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Was she responsible for the accounting for the entire company?”

  “Oh, no. We have an outside firm for that. Tally’s job was to keep the books for the special construction projects.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.” He gave her a look that said, I’m slow.

  “Oh, well, let’s see. Let me give you some history.” She held up three fingers. “There are three divisions of BWI Opperman.”

  Not that slow, he wanted to say.

  “The original division is the resort construction company. For its first twenty years, the company specialized in fulfillment. Building for others,” she said in response to his questioning expression. “About fifteen years ago, the company went vertical. Designing, building, and operating its own resorts. In the past few years, BWI Opperman has spun its expertise off into special projects that require single-team, clearing-to-cap construction.”

  “Can you give me an example of that?”

  “Well, the only contracts we’ve taken so far have been with the coalition forces in Iraq.”

  Eric blinked. “There aren’t any resorts in Iraq. At least, not any that weren’t blown up.”

  She smiled. “BWI Opperman was hired because of that vertical integration. We have earth movers and carpenters and electricians and roofers and anyone else you might require to turn a completely undeveloped piece of land into a school. Or a clinic. Or a mess hall. Anything that might be necessary. We’re one-stop shopping for the Provisional Authority’s building needs. All the American contractors are, as I understand it.”

  “So she did all the accounting for that. From here?”

  “Yes. Well.” Kirkwood paused and looked uncomfortable for a moment. “She had been reassigned. It was felt that having the specials’ accountant in Iraq would be more useful. Lead to less cost overruns. Of course, she never actually went over.” Her voice thinned.

  “You had another bookkeeper here before Tally was hired. Ellen Bain.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “What was her job?”

  Kirkwood lifted her brows. “Special construction projects. Tally was hired to replace her.”

  “Three days after she died in an accident?”

  The HR director’s face fell into smooth, untroubled lines. “It was too important a position to leave unfilled.”

  “How did Tally come to your attention?”

  “I’m afraid our hiring process is confidential.” Kirkwood placed her hands on her desk and rose. “If that’s all, Sergeant, I have a busy day ahead of me.”

  Eric stood as well. “Who replaced her?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Who replaced Tally? In the special construction position?”

  Kirkwood blinked, hiding her shark’s eyes for a moment. “We haven’t found anyone suitable yet.”

  * * *

  “It doesn’t make any goddamn sense.” Russ paced from the squad room table to one of the windows to the whiteboard to the huge three-county map hanging near the door.

  “Will you quit that? You’re gonna give me motion sickness.” Lyle handed Tony Usher a mug of coffee. “Don’t worry. Harlene made it. It’s safe to drink.”

  “You made a wrong call, Chief. It happens.” Tony sounded pretty damn philosophical for a man who’d had to admit to a CID investigator and another JAG that he’d been running his own not entirely authorized investigation.

  “Christ, Tony, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I dragged you into
this.”

  “No harm, no foul. They think I was following the same case, just half a step behind them. I can stand looking a little slow. It’s not going to hurt my career.”

  Tony was generous. Two light birds—the JAG had been a lieutenant colonel, too—now thought Usher was some sort of cowboy. Not the performance any major wanted on his record.

  “I just don’t get it.” Russ picked his own mug off the table, wincing at the spasm of pain in his shoulder where the overeager MP had rifle-butted him. “She let her prime informant fly off to Iraq. She didn’t search McNabb’s house or her bank accounts. Hell, as far as we can tell, she never even questioned Tally’s friends. That’s not an investigation. That’s dereliction of duty.”

  “Maybe she got your number when she was here,” Lyle said. “She figured you’d never be able to stand not knowing what happened and you’d find the money for her.”

  “Do you think Opperman’s in on it? He could have paid her off. Made McNabb disappear.”

  Lyle stared at him. “You think the CEO of a fifty-million-dollar-a-year company is going to hook up with one of his construction bosses and his wife in order to split a million in cash? Jesum, Russ, the man’s vacation house in the Caribbean is worth more’n that.”

  “Maybe she stuck with Nichols,” Tony said. “Let him lead her to the money.”

  “Poor Nichols. Christ.” Russ wiped his hand across his face. His jaw stung where he had scraped it raw against the concrete floor. “The guy put it on the line to help us, and he winds up under arrest.” His last sight of Nichols had been the man’s despairing face as he disappeared into one of three personnel carriers Seelye’s SWAT team had brought.

  “Chief.” Tony dropped his hand on Russ’s shoulder for a second. “He knew the risk. It’s not like he was Ivory Soap clean.”

  “I know, I know.” Russ’s frustration goaded him forward, window to whiteboard to map.

  “The money’s back where it belongs.” Lyle raised his mug. “I count that as a win.”

  Russ turned on his second in command. “Does this feel right to you?”

  Lyle pursed his lips together. “No,” he finally said. “It doesn’t. But I’ve seen enough incompetent kiss-asses rise to the top of the heap off of other men’s hard work not to recognize it when it happens. She blew the investigation, then lucked out when Nichols called her. She gets the gold mine and he gets the shaft.”