Davis stood there dressed in white capri pants, sandals, a pale blue striped shirt, and a wide-brimmed sun hat. A pair of sunglasses dangled from her fingers.
“I’m heading down to the beach. You want to come?”
“I have to get back. It’s getting late.”
“When can I see you again?”
He stood. “Look, I’m old and you’re young. I’m poor and you’re not. You can have any guy you want. Rich, handsome ones like Mr. Quentin.”
“I’m not looking to marry you, Paul. I just want to know when we can hook up again.”
“I work tonight. You planning to come to the bar?”
“I wasn’t. But I am now.”
“Okay, I’ll see you then. If you’re in the VIP room I can’t go in there. Only Mr. Quentin’s guests can.”
“Stop calling him Mr. Quentin. You make him sound far more important than he is.”
“Well, he’s a very important client of the Grunt.”
“Whatever. I’ll see you tonight.”
Rogers pointed out the window. “I see a man on the beach with a bunch of guards. Is that where you’re going?”
She nodded.
“Is that the person who adopted you?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” she said, but in a humorous tone. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Okay, sounds good.”
“Thanks for breakfast. And the rest,” she added, flicking a smile at him.
She left and he watched a few minutes later as she walked out to the beach and joined the old man.
Rogers drove back to Hampton more confused than he’d ever been.
Chapter
42
AFTER LEAVING KNOX, Puller had hoofed it to a rental place and a half hour later driven out in a Mitsubishi Outlander.
He had not discounted anything that Knox had told him. In fact, he believed every word.
If this project at Building Q had ended in the murders of four women, and possibly his mother as well, that would be a secret the government would go to great lengths to bury. And for very good reason.
Money drove the Defense Department as much as anything else. If this story got out, Puller could see billions and maybe tens of billions of dollars of defense spending drying up. And shoulder stars, promotions, and retirement packages might be eviscerated as fingers were pointed and blame placed.
And a lot of private contractors who made their living off Uncle Sam would see their bottom lines crash and burn, their stock prices crater, and their huge executive paychecks disappear.
What would folks do to prevent that?
Pretty much anything they have to.
He got a room at a motel, paying in cash. He’d had to use a credit card for the rental because there was no other way. They could track him that way, but he needed wheels. He hunkered down for the night while he thought over everything Knox had told him.
He was tempted to call his brother but didn’t want to do anything that might get Bobby put back in jail.
He ate breakfast the next morning at a place near the motel. After that he drove straight to Fort Monroe, parked, and hoofed it the rest of the way on foot.
He had a map of the fort and quickly located Building Q.
The first thing he noted was that it was obviously still active. The parking lot was full, the perimeter fenced and guarded. People came and went. Trucks arrived, unloaded or loaded, and left.
What he couldn’t see was what the hell they were doing inside there.
Over the hours he watched many people come and go. Some were older. Some younger. Men and women, with the majority being men. He read their body language and processed the possibilities.
He had counted nearly fifty people arriving and leaving when he settled on the one he wanted. He had seen her come and go twice now. Perhaps for a break. She had gotten into her car one of those times and headed out.
He snapped a picture of her with his phone as she was sitting idle at the security gate. As she passed by his hiding place, he noted her appearance up close. Around thirty, petite, unassuming. She had avoided direct eye contact with the security guards. Perhaps an introvert? She drove a beige Ford Fiesta that was as nondescript as she was.
Those were all good things for what he wanted to do.
Six o’clock came and a large group of people headed out the doors of Building Q. Puller found her in the crowd and hustled back to his car. When she passed by in her Fiesta he dropped in behind her.
They drove to what was most likely her apartment. She went directly inside.
Puller stayed in his car contemplating what to do. He could make his flanking maneuver now, or he could wait.
She came back out dressed in a short skirt, a low-cut blouse, and three-inch heels.
That was interesting.
He continued to follow her.
He looked at his watch. It was nearly eight p.m.
Puller wondered where the lady was headed.
She drove about a mile across town and parked her car on the street.
Puller did likewise.
He followed her down the street and around a corner.
And ran into a long line of people waiting to get in somewhere.
He looked up ahead and saw a sign over a door.
The Grunt?
He’d never heard of it, but then he’d never spent much time down here since he’d been a child.
The woman he was following was in the line ahead of him. Puller had two soldiers and a Navy guy in uniform behind him and a gaggle of college-age women in front of him. And the two groups were flirting with each other. Puller finally stepped behind the guys in uniform so they could more directly carry on their flirting with the ladies.
They finally worked their way up to the front, where a tall, well-built man in his fifties wearing a hat, glasses, and black clothing was checking IDs.
The woman Puller was following was cleared in, as were the young women behind her.
Then the soldiers stepped up to the line and presented their IDs.
The man checked them, held a light up to them, and handed them back.
“Nice try, guys,” he said.
“These are legit,” said one of the uniforms, a tall, thin male. “I’m twenty-two.”
“Maybe in another life.”
“This is crap,” snapped the man.
“My light says it’s a forgery, and the light is the judge,” said the bouncer.
“Listen, old man—”
That’s when Puller stepped in. He put a hand on the soldier’s arm.
When the guy whipped around, ready for a fight, he was staring at the clawed eagle on Puller’s CID badge.
The grunt stiffened.
“Bad luck for you all around, son,” said Puller. “Now, I have no jurisdiction over the water boy there,” he said, indicating the man in the Navy uniform. “But I sure as hell do over both of your butts. So turn back around and tell the man you’re sorry, and get back to your post. And consider yourself lucky I don’t haul your asses down to the stockade for using a fake ID, soldiers!”
Puller’s voice had steadily risen as he was speaking, and by the time he was done he was in full-on drill sergeant mode. The two uniforms jumped out of line and tried to do their best imitation of world-class sprinters. After a moment’s hesitation the Navy guy followed. They turned the corner and were soon out of sight.
Paul Rogers looked up at John Puller and put out his hand. He said, “Thanks for that. I never want any trouble.”
“That’s always a good way to look at things. And by the way, I’m old enough to drink.” He showed his ID card.
“Works for me, Mr. Puller. Have a good time.”
Puller walked past him and into the bar.
Rogers flicked a glance at him and then turned back to his work.
Chapter
43
THE GRUNT WAS already three-quarters full, but Puller had little difficulty finding the woman. She was at the bar with a drink
already in hand.
Over the next hour he watched her work the room. Flirting, drinking, dancing, flirting some more. Finally she ended up in a corner with a guy who had his hand on her butt and his tongue down her throat. And in a show of equality, she was returning the favor.
Around ten, Puller’s gaze shifted to the front door when a group came in led by a tall young man dressed in what looked to Puller to be a suit that maybe cost more than his Army-issued Malibu, kicking in the government discount. He and his group walked past a security guard and up the stairs. They passed through another door and it closed behind them. The security guard moved his bulk back in front of the staircase.
Puller assumed that no one else was going to be allowed up.
A good-looking woman passed in front of his field of vision. She was dressed professionally, unlike most of the other women here, and seemed closer to Puller’s age than the rest of the clientele. He watched as she had a word with one of the bartenders and then went over and checked the till. Owner or manager or both, thought Puller.
He checked the woman he was following. She was still lip-locked in the corner.
He walked over to the bar where the woman was just closing up the cash register.
“Looks like you got a gold mine here,” he said.
She stared up at him and smiled. Then she saw his empty hands.
“But you’re not contributing to the gold,” she said. “Won’t you have a drink?”
“Sure. I can get it from the bartender.”
“No, I’ll pour it for you. On the house.”
“Not much gold in freebies.”
“One good deed, you know.”
She drew the pint and handed it to him.
“I’m Helen, Helen Myers.”
“John Puller.”
“You’re a bit…”
He looked around and grinned. “Older than your usual clientele.”
“That’s very delicately put.”
He took a sip of his beer. “Is this your place?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You look like a lady in charge.”
“Well, I am as a matter of fact.”
“Good for you.”
“How about you? What’s your line of work?”
“Uncle Sam.”
“You look military. What branch?”
“Army.”
“My father was in the 82nd Airborne.”
“Hell of a division.”
“That’s what he said, right up to the day he died. He was career military. That’s where I got the idea for the Grunt. He was enlisted. Guy in the trenches.”
“Me too. I’m sorry I had to pull a couple grunts out of line. They had fake IDs.”
She frowned. “I know. I hate that. You’d think if you’re old enough to fight and die for your country, you’re old enough to buy and drink a beer. It’s stupid.”
“Preaching to the choir.”
“Then you probably saw our bouncer, Paul.”
“I did. He looks like he can take care of himself.”
“Oh yes he can. Have a second beer. On the house.”
He raised his glass. “No, that one I’ll pay for.”
She smiled, walked across the room, and went past the security guard and up the stairs, passing through the door, which she closed behind her.
Puller watched all of this and then turned his attention back to the woman. Her “friend” had left her and she was fumbling with something in her purse.
He walked over to her.
“Got a minute?”
“Excuse me?”
She glanced up at him as she pulled out her lipstick and redid her mouth. Puller figured most of what had been on her lips had ended up on the guy’s face or down his throat.
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“You can talk. And you can also buy me a drink. That’s the price.”
He pulled out his CID shield and held it up. “Let’s talk. And you can buy your own drink, though I think you’ve had enough, so make it a Coke.”
She froze with her lipstick poised a centimeter from her mouth. “You’re an Army cop?”
“Yes I am. Building Q?”
“W-what about it?”
Gripping her arm, he said, “Over here, please.”
He led her around a corner and down a hall that led to the kitchen. It was probably the quietest part of the place right now. Most people were drinking, not eating.
Puller said, “You work at Building Q?”
“What if I do?”
“Highly classified work. And yet here you are, getting drunk and letting young punks paw you? Where the hell is your brain?”
Her face flushed. “Where do you get off—”
Puller held up his badge again. “This is where I get off. You’re under the jurisdiction of the Department of Defense. Your work is directly related to the United States Army. And my job is to protect the United States Army.”
Puller didn’t know if the Army was paying her salary, but the Army was by far the largest component of the military and it had its fingers in pretty much all pies. “And the national security interests of this country,” he added.
“I-I know that. I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“Your contract has a morals clause, correct? And listed behavior that you can and cannot do. One of those prohibited activities is putting yourself in situations where you could be blackmailed.” He looked down at her. “Do you think if someone took
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