The Forgotten (john puller)

by David Baldacci

  He noted the alarm panel next to the front door. The green light showed that it was not on, a fact he already knew because the alarm had not gone off when he had opened the back door.

  There was an abundance of photos-mostly old ones-on shelves, consoles, and occasional tables set around the family room. Puller studied them one by one and found several of his old man, and him and his brother in their respective uniforms with their aunt Betsy. The last of these was from when Puller had joined the Army. He wondered now where the break in the family had come but couldn’t quite put a finger on it. There were also quite a few photos of Betsy’s husband, Lloyd. He’d been a little shorter than his wife, his face was full of life, and there was one picture of the two of them in which Lloyd was wearing his Army greens from World War II. Betsy was in her WAC, or Women’s Army Corps, uniform. The way they were gazing at each other in the photo it looked like love at first sight, if there was such a thing.

  Puller heard it before he had a chance to see it.

  He stepped to the window and drew the curtain back just a fraction of an inch. Ever since his tours in the Middle East he never revealed more of himself-physically or emotionally-than was absolutely necessary.

  The police cruiser pulled to the curb and the driver killed the engine.

  No sirens, no lights; the two cops inside were obviously in stealth mode. They climbed out and drew their guns, looked around, their gazes inching to the front of the house.

  Someone had seen Puller in the yard, maybe going into the house, and had called the cops.

  The male officer was bald and burly, the same one he had seen earlier. Next to him was his female partner. She was two inches taller and looked in better shape. He was thick and muscular up top but light in the legs. Too many bench presses and not enough squats. He looked, to Puller, like a washout from the military, but he obviously couldn’t be certain about that. Maybe it was just the condescending nod the man had given him earlier.

  The guy held his nine-millimeter awkwardly, even unprofessionally, as if he had learned how to do it by watching TV or by sitting on his butt at a theater to see how action stars handled their weapons. She carried hers with perfect control and ease, her weight balanced equally between both legs, her knees slightly bent, her silhouette angled to the side to lower her target profile. It was like a Pro-Am tournament pairing, thought Puller.

  If his aunt was dead and there had been an investigation, he sure as hell hoped bald and burly hadn’t been heading it up. That had screwup written all over it.

  Puller decided to cut to the chase, mainly because he didn’t want the guy to accidentally shoot himself. He slipped a photo from its frame and slid it into his shirt pocket. Then he walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped out into the brilliant sunshine of Paradise.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Freeze!”

  The order came from the woman.

  Puller obeyed the command.

  “Hands over your head,” added her partner.

  “Do you want me to freeze or put my hands over my head?” asked Puller. “Because I can’t do both. And I’m not looking to get shot over a misunderstanding.”

  The two cops moved closer, one to his right, one to his left.

  Puller noted that the woman watched his hands, while the guy was glued to his eyes. The woman was right. Puller couldn’t kill with his eyes. But his hand could pull a weapon and open fire within a second without his eyes moving an inch.

  She said, “Put your hands over your head, fingers interlocked. Then down on your stomach, legs spread, facedown.”

  “I have an Mu in a rear belt holster. And my Army creds and badge are inside my front pants pocket.”

  The two cops made the mistake of glancing at each other. Puller could have shot them both dead in the two seconds they took to do that. But he didn’t and so they would get to live another day.

  “What the hell is an Mu?” asked the male officer.

  Before Puller could answer the woman said, “Army’s version of the Sig P228.”

  Puller eyed her with interest. She was about five-seven, with blonde hair pinned up tight with a clamp at the back. Her build was slender, compact, but she moved with a dancer’s grace and her hands looked strong.

  He said, “If I could reach very slowly in my front pants pocket I’ll show you my creds and badge.”

  This time the woman didn’t look at her partner. “What unit?”

  “The 701st out of Quantico, Virginia,” he answered promptly.

  “CID or MP?” she asked.

  “CID. I’m a CWO.”

  Before her partner could ask she translated: “Chief warrant officer.”

  Puller looked at her curiously. “You former military?”

  “My brother.”

  Puller said, “Can I get my pack out?”

  “Do it really slowly,” said the guy, tightening the grip on his gun.

  Puller knew that was the exact wrong thing to do. An overly tight grip meant you would increase your error rate about thirty percent or more. But he was more concerned that the guy would mess up and accidentally shoot him.

  “Two fingers in the pocket, that’s all,” said the woman. “And keep your other hand on the top of your head.” Her voice was firm, direct, even. He liked that. Her nerves were definitely not running away with her senses, unlike her partner.

  Puller two-fingered out his cred pack and held it up, ID card first, badge second. The CID’s one-eyed eagle symbol was unique.

  The two drew close enough for Puller to simply hand the pack to the woman while the man kept his drawdown on him. He actually wished it had been the other way around, because the guy looked wound tight enough to shoot all three of them dead.

  She lifted her gaze from the cred pack, checking the photo on there with the man himself, and said, “Okay, but I’m going to have to take your sidearm as a precaution until we sort this out.”

  “Small of my back, belt holster.”

  She moved behind him while her partner took a step back and lined Puller up in his iron sights.

  She gave him a quick but efficient patdown, her hands flitting over his backside, then down and up the insides of his legs. Puller felt his shirt being lifted up. Then she slid the pistol out of the holster and a moment later she stood in front of him, gripping his pistol by the muzzle and pointing it downward.

  She said, “We got a call about a break-in. What are you doing here?”

  “This is my aunt Betsy Simon’s place. I came down here to pay her a visit. No one answered the door, so I went in through the back.”

  “Long way to come, from Virginia,” said the man, with his gun still aimed at Puller’s head.

  Puller didn’t look at him but spoke to the woman. “Can you ask your partner to holster? Accidents can happen.”

  “The cred pack’s legit, Barry, and he’s unarmed now. You can stand down.”

  “John Puller,” said the woman. “And your aunt was Betsy Simon?”

  He nodded. “And you are?” He had glanced at her nametag, but the sun’s glare made it impossible to read.

  “Officer Landry, Cheryl Landry. That’s Officer Barry Hooper.”

  She handed him back his cred pack.

  “Any idea where my aunt is?” asked Puller. Landry looked at her partner nervously.

  Puller caught the look. “I saw some interesting things in the backyard. Did something happen back there?”

  “Why do you think that?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Clues around the fountain. And I saw tracks in the grass back there where a gumey had been wheeled in and out. I’m assuming that gumey was carrying someone. Was that someone my aunt?”

  “We were first responders,” said Landry quietly.

  “To what exactly?”

  “The lady who lived here drowned in the little pool back there,” interjected Hooper.

  His partner shot him a reproachful glance and said, “It seemed to be an accident. I’m sorry, Agent Puller.”<
br />
  Puller stood there trying to take it all in. In a way, he was not surprised. In another way he was flummoxed. He had been hoping that the victim was someone other than his aunt.

  He asked, “Can you walk me through what happened?”

  Hooper snapped, “We’re responding to a B and E right now and you’re it. We’re not standing here jawing with you. We should be cuffing you and reading you your rights.”

  Landry looked at him. “He’s right. We don’t know if your aunt was Betsy Simon. And we don’t know what you were doing in her house.” “Photo in my shirt pocket. I took it from the house.”

  Landry slid the photo out, looked at it.

  “It’s quite a few years old, but if you saw my aunt I don’t think she’s changed that much. And I look pretty much the same, with a few more lines. And our names are listed on the back.” Landry studied the picture and the reverse side and then let Hooper look at it.

  “It’s him, Barry,” said Landry.

  “Still not conclusive to me,” retorted Hooper. Puller shrugged and took the photo back. “Okay, so let’s go down to the station and straighten it out. I was heading there anyway after I finished looking around here.”

  “Like I said, the lady fell and drowned in her little pool,” said Hooper. “Accident all the way.”

  “Medical examiner confirm that?”

  Landry said, “Haven’t heard. Autopsy should be done by now.”

  Hooper said, “It was an accident. Lady fell and drowned. We checked the scene out thoroughly.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you keep saying. What, are you trying to convince yourself it’s true?”

  Landry added, “That’s what it looked like all right, Agent Puller. I can understand it’s hard to accept a tragedy like that, but it happens. Especially with older folks.”

  “And Florida has more than most,” added Hooper. “Dropping like flies every minute of every day.”

  Puller turned to look at him and took a step closer to the man to accentuate their differences in vertical prominence. “Except they’re not.”

  “Not what?” said Hooper, looked confused. “Flies. And in case you didn’t know, autopsies reveal about twenty-five percent of the time a different cause of death than the one everybody thought it was.”

  “We can go down to the station,” said Landry in a placating tone. “And straighten things out, like you said.”

  “You want me to follow you or go in your car?” asked Puller.

  “It’s not a choice. You go in our ride,” said Hooper, before Landry could speak. “With your hands cuffed and your rights read.”

  “You’re really going to arrest me?” asked Puller.

  “Did you break into that house?” Hooper shot back.

  “I went in to check on my aunt.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police if you were concerned?” asked Landry. “We could have filled you in.”

  “Maybe I could have, but it’s not my way of doing things,” replied Puller.

  “Army have the luxury of letting its guys just bop around the country doing their own stuff?” said Hooper. “No wonder our taxes are so damn high.”

  “Even the Army lets its guys have some R and Rtime, Officer Hooper.”

  “We’ll leave your car here,” broke in Landry.

  “You ride with us, but without the cuffs or the rights read.”

  “Thanks,” said Puller, as Hooper eyed his partner darkly.

  “But if your story doesn’t check out,” she warned, “that all changes.”

  “Fair enough,” said Puller. “But after you find out I’m legit, I’ll need to see my aunt’s body.”

  He walked toward their cruiser. “Let’s roll,” he called back over his shoulder.

  The two cops slowly followed.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Paradise police station was located two blocks off the beach in a two-story stone and stucco structure that had an orange terra-cotta roof and a pair of palm trees out front. It sat next to a Ritz-Carlton hotel and looked more like a country club than a place where cops went to get their patrol assignments and cruisers to go hunt criminals.

  As Puller climbed out of the police car and looked around he said to Hooper, “Did you purposely locate in the high-crime area to keep watch over the criminal element?”

  Hooper ignored him, but placed an arm on Puller’s elbow to shepherd him into the building. Apparently Hooper was under the impression that Puller was in custody and the only things missing were the cuffs over his wrists and a Miranda warning ringing in his ears.

  The place inside looked much like the place outside. High-dollar, clean, orderly. In fact it was the cleanest, most orderly police station Puller had ever seen. The personnel working inside pristinely delineated office spaces barely looked up as the trio came in. Their clothes were starched, spotless, and looked to have been fitted by a veteran tailor. No phones were ringing. No one was screaming for his lawyer or declaring that he was innocent of all trumped-up charges. No uncooperative prisoners were puking on the floor. No fat, sweaty cops with major B.O. and pissed-off attitudes were waddling down the halls in search of a myocardial infarction in the form of a vending machine stuffed with chocolate and sodium.

  It was such a total disconnect for Puller that he looked around for a camera, seriously wondering for a few moments whether he was being punked.

  He glanced at Landry, who was walking next to him. “I’ve never seen a police station quite like this one.”

  “What’s so different about it?” she asked.

  “You been in any others?”

  “A few.”

  “Trust me, it’s different. I was looking around for a valet outside and a place to order a drink in here before I teed off for a quick round of nine holes. And I don’t even play golf.”

  Hooper nudged his elbow harder. “So we’ve got a strong tax base. That’s a problem somehow?”

  “Didn’t say it was a problem. Just said it was different.”

  “Then maybe everybody else should follow our example,” retorted Hooper. “Because I think we’ve got it right. Money equals a better life all around.”

  “Yeah, next time I’m in Kabul, I’ll let them know your thoughts.”

  “I was talking the United States of America, not dipshit land where they talk funny and think their pissant god is better than our real God.”

  “I think I’ll keep that one to myself,” replied Puller.

  “Like I give a crap what you do.”

  Puller tried to remove his elbow from Hooper’s grip but the man kept it there, as if he were a magnet and Puller were a block of metal. The guy was doing it just to piss him off. That was clear. And Puller could do nothing about it unless he wanted to end up in a jail cell, which would seriously crimp the investigation of his aunt’s death.

  Hooper directed him to a chair outside of a frosted glass-enclosed office with the name Henry Bullock, Chief of Police stenciled on the door. Landry knocked twice and Puller heard a gruff voice say, “Enter.”

  Hooper stood next to him as Landry disappeared inside the office.

  Puller had nothing else to do so he looked around. His attention was captured by a man and a woman in their early forties because they appeared distraught in a sea of otherwise complete calm. They were seated at the desk of a man dressed in black slacks, white-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a muted tie. A plastic lanyard with a badge on it hung from his reedy neck.

  Puller could catch only snatches of the conversation, but he heard the words “late-night walk,” then the names “Nancy and Fred Stor- row.”

  The woman dabbed at her nose with a tissue while the man looked down at his hands. The guy behind the desk hit keys on his computer and uttered sympathetic noises.

  Puller drew his attention away from this exchange when the door to Bullock’s office opened and Landry and another man whom Puller assumed was the chief of police stepped out.

  Henry Bullock was a fraction
under six feet with thick shoulders and hammy arms that pulled tight against his regulation uniform. His gut was widening and offered even greater strain against the fabric than did his muscles. His body was better balanced than Hooper’s because the man’s legs were thick but tapered down to unusually small feet. He looked to be in his late fifties, with thinning gray hair, thick eyebrows, a bulbous nose, and skin that had seen too much sun and wind. The furrows on his brow were deep and permanent and left him with a perpetual scowl.

  If he’d been in a different uniform Puller would have sworn the man was his former drill sergeant.

  “Puller?” he said, staring down at him.

  “That’s me.”

  “Come on in. You too, Landry. Hoop, you can wait outside.”

  “But Chief,” said Hooper. “I was in on the bust too.”

  Bullock turned to look at him. “There is no bust, Hoop. Not yet. If there is, I’ll let you know.”

  And in those few words Puller could tell that Bullock was a savvy man and knew exactly the limits of Officer Hooper.

  Hooper stood there sullenly, his gaze on Puller as though this slight was somehow his fault. Puller stood and walked past the man, his elbow finally free.

  “Just hang tight, Hoop” he said. “We’ll get

  back to you.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Puller walked into the office, trailed by Landry. She shut the door behind her.

  The office was a twelve-foot-wide, eight-foot- deep rectangle of space. It was furnished in a spartan, no-nonsense way, which, Puller assumed, precisely paralleled the personality of the occupant.