Rios saw the anger rise in Durant like a building thunderstorm. He had to break the tension of the moment before it brought on another heart attack. “Agnes,” he said, “take your clothes off.”
The woman’s image on the screen looked shocked. “Oh, Mr. Rios!” Agnes laughed, dark and sultry. “You know a good girl can’t do that.”
“Have you been programmed under false pretenses?” Rios replied.
Durant looked at Rios. Then he laughed and the tension was broken. “Agnes, where did you come up with that answer?”
“Well, when I can’t find a standard answer or a preexisting decision matrix, I scan the novels I’ve been reading. Writers are always coming up with new plots, strange ideas, and unusual situations. So I prioritize the stories that come closest to the problem I’m working and select the one that has the highest coincidence and use the author” s solution.”
“How many novels have you read?” Durant asked.
“About two-point-five-six-four percent of the Library of Congress. I’ve got four clerks working full-time, around the clock, on a high-speed optical scanner. They think I’m CIA.”
“Where did you get that idea?”
“From a novel.”
“Who’s paying for it?”
“The CIA,” Agnes answered. “They’ve played games with their budget for so long by hiding, diverting, and redirecting money for covert operations that they don’t know what they’ve got. I’ve found four secret accounts where no questions are asked. If you’ve got the account number, you’ve got the money.”
7:11 A.M., Wednesday, July 21,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Sutherland was cooking breakfast when he heard a soft knock at the door of his VOQ suite. At first, he wasn’t sure it was at his door. When he opened it, he found a very subdued Toni Moreno standing there. “May I come in?” she asked.
He smiled and motioned her in. “Care for an omelet? Best in Missouri.”
“Please. I haven’t eaten since Monday night.” She leaned against the kitchen counter and folded her arms under her breasts, watching him cook.
“You must be pretty hungry,” he said. “Here you go.” He slipped the omelet onto a plate and set it on the table. He started a second one while she daintily picked at it. Then she really started to eat and quickly finished it off.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“I love to cook,” he told her.
“For that too. Thank you.”
He turned and looked at her. “Is this about yesterday?”
She nodded and started to speak. The words wouldn’t come and she rushed into his arms. “I was so upset and angry.”
He stroked her hair and held her close. “That message came through loud and clear.”
She lifted her face and for a moment, they teetered on the edge of a kiss. “Thank you,” she whispered. A sharp knock at the door broke the spell and they pulled apart.
“That’s my den mother,” he said. He opened the door to Cathy Blasedale.
“Good morning,” she said. She looked at them. “No fraternization between the troops.”
Sutherland gave a sheepish grin. “She means it too.”
“Damn right.” She came over and touched Toni’s shoulder. “How are you doing?”
“Better. I dropped by to tell you I’ve been assigned to a joint task force formed by DOJ to investigate Harry’s murder and the money trail. The FBI thinks they’re connected. I leave today.”
“Where are you going?” Sutherland asked.
“Kansas City first, then wherever.”
“We’ll miss you,” Blasedale said. Toni gave Blasedale a hug. Then she did the same with Sutherland. A feeling of loss swept over him when she pulled away.
“I’ve got to go,” Toni said, quickly leaving them alone.
Blasedale sat down. “She is such a pretty little thing. I’ll miss her.”
“Me too,” Sutherland said. “Harry’s death was very traumatic for her.”
“She’ll handle it,” Blasedale assured him, “once she lets herself grieve. So, what’s on the schedule today?”
“Per Col. William W. Williams’s instructions, Capt. Bradley A. Jefferson starts psychiatric evaluation by two practitioners of the disturbed science.”
“And the ‘in all due haste’ part of his order?”
“We take one Lt. Col. Daniella McGraw into custody.”
The Rock led the convoy of three cars that pulled up in front of McGraw’s quarters in base housing. He got out and was closely followed by the two FBI agents in the second car and the area defense counsel, Capt. Ed Jordan, in the last car. The FBI agents barged ahead and marched up the walk to ring the doorbell. A matronly woman in her early fifties answered and stared at them in defiance. “She said to expect you.”
“We need to speak to her,” one of the FBI agents said.
“She’s not here,” the woman replied, more than willing to stand up to the entire U.S. government if need be.
The Rock shouldered his way forward. “Please, Mrs. Hamilton, can you help us?”
“You’re a good boy, Leroy. Are they gonna hurt Mrs. McGraw?”
“Not if I can help it.”
It was the answer she wanted to hear. “She’s at the hospital with Mikey. He took a turn for the worse Sunday evening.” The small crowd backed off. “You leave that poor woman alone, you hear. She’s done enough sufferin’.”
The men gathered around The Rock’s car. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “I think it would be best if me and Capt. Jordan went alone.”
The two FBI agents protested but the area defense counsel settled the issue. “For God’s sake, give the woman something. She’s not going to cause any trouble.”
8:43 A.M., Wednesday, July 21,
Warrensburg, Mo.
The reception desk at the Warrensburg Medical Center was a hub of activity when The Rock and Jordan walked in. “Where can we find Colonel McGraw?” Jordan asked. “She’s here with her son, Mikey.” The receptionist fixed them with a blank look and hit the intercom, summoning a doctor. A few moments later, a doctor wearing green surgical scrubs came down the hall.
“We’re looking for Lt. Col. Daniella McGraw,” Jordan said, starting to feel like a stuck record.
“She left a few minutes ago, right after her housekeeper called. Obviously, she was very upset. You just missed her.”
“Damn,” Jordan said. “We screwed up.”
The Rock took a half step forward. “Why was she upset?”
The doctor stared at them as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard. “Mikey died early this morning.”
“We hadn’t heard,” The Rock said. “Thank you.” He turned to Jordan. “Sir, we need to return to the base.” Without waiting for an answer, he headed for the parking lot. Once outside the hospital, he flipped open his cellular phone and dialed the law enforcement desk. “This is Rockne. If those FBI pukes are still there, tell them Col. McGraw is returning to her quarters.” He snapped the phone closed.
“You sounded very sure of yourself,” Jordan said. The Rock slipped behind the wheel without a word and drove slowly out of town. An ambulance with flashing lights and blaring siren overtook them as they turned onto DD, the road leading back to the base. They rode in silence most of the way. “You don’t seem in much of a hurry to catch her,” Jordan groused.
“She’s going home,” The Rock said.
“Right,” Jordan grumbled. Ahead of them the ambulance was pulled off to the side of the road and a county sheriff cruiser had blocked traffic. “What now?” Jordan muttered.
The Rock pulled over and got out of the car. “Let’s check it out,” he said. Jordan followed him toward the accident. A blue-and-white van was overturned in the ditch, its top smashed down. Fire marks scorched the body around the engine compartment. The sheriff came over.
“Hi, Rock. It’s another one of yours. Base sticker on the front bumper. A female officer, still inside. Christ-a
-mighty, she must have been going a hundred when she went past me. I gave chase, but she never slowed down. Never hit the brakes before she went off the road. Luckily, I was right there. Put out the fire. Couldn’t save her though. Wasn’t wearing her seatbelt.”
The Rock spoke in a low voice. “There was nothing you could have done. It’s better this way.”
7:30 A.M., Friday, July 23,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Sutherland finished clearing his office by signing over the eighty-four boxes of the Osmana Khalid file to a very unhappy security police evidence custodian. With nothing to do, he wandered down to Blasedale’s office, which was also cleared out in anticipation of this being their last day on base. “I got my orders,” he announced. “As of the conclusion of the court-martial, I’m a civilian again and back on reserve status.”
“It’s back to San Antonio for me. The court-martials are piling up.” She smiled at him. “It has been an experience.”
He returned her smile. “Friends?”
“Always.”
“Cathy, why were you always on my case?”
“About what?”
“You know, the sexual harassment thing. I couldn’t open my mouth without you putting your foot in it. And I was playing it straight.”
“It’s a tool.” She laughed at the stunned look on his face. “It keeps you off balance. Men have been running the show for so long that women have got to use everything to get an even break.” He obviously didn’t agree. “It’s a two-part problem,” she continued. “First, we got to keep the predators in their cages. You know, the assholes who use position and power to stroke their hormones.”
“I don’t think anyone has a problem with that,” Sutherland replied. “But I’m not one of them.”
“True. But that gets us to the second part of the problem. Hank, you don’t realize how attractive some men are to women. You’re one of them, you know. I’m not sure if that makes you lucky or not, but it does give you an unfair advantage. Even your ex-wife can’t keep her hands off you. They talk about men being driven by hormones. Well, we all are. It’s just different for women. Men like you have to understand that and not use it.”
Sutherland shook his head. “So if a guy happens to stir a woman’s emotions, it’s suddenly his problem. Then if she gets pissed off at him for any reason, she can claim sexual harassment simply because she was attracted to him in the first place. Talk about a no-win situation.”
She laughed. “Ain’t life grand. It is a problem—for you. Men don’t understand how emotionally vulnerable women can be. Look at Toni. She is attracted to you, you know. If you’re not careful, you can hurt her.”
Sutherland stared at her in amazement. “Toni?”
Blasedale didn’t answer and snapped her briefcase closed, ready to leave. “Hank, did you really like my perfume?”
He looked at her in amusement remembering the time they had first met in the courtroom. He had just arrived at Whiteman and it seemed so long ago now. “Yeah. I really did. In fact, I sent some to my mother.”
Blasedale smiled at him. “Thanks a bunch, asshole.” She handed him a card and picked up a large bouquet of flowers. “Sign this,” she commanded. Sutherland did and then followed her down the hall to the outer office. Linda looked at them and smiled. “If you ever get tired of Whiteman,” Blasedale said, handing her the flowers and card, “you’ve always got a job in San Antonio.” Linda nodded her thanks and read the card. Her eyes misted over.
The Rock came through the door and joined them. He handed Sutherland a legal envelope. “You need to see this.” He stood there, a pillar of granite, and waited. It was the autopsy report on Mikey McGraw. Sutherland had seen too many of them and his eyes automatically found the paragraph listing cause of death.
“Oh, no,” he moaned. He handed it to Blasedale.
“‘Cause of death,’” Blasedale read, “‘suffocation.’”
“She smothered her son with a pillow,” The Rock said. “According to the doctor, it didn’t take much, he was so weak.”
“And then she committed suicide,” Sutherland said. He slammed his fist into the wall, hard. “Has everyone gone crazy?”
Williams looked around his chambers and waited for the three lawyers to finish reading the two psychiatric evaluations of Bradley A. Jefferson. Both reports claimed that Jefferson was rational, in total touch with reality, and acting of his own free will. “I see no need to call the psychiatrists as witnesses,” Williams said. “Can I have a stipulation from both sides that the court can consider these reports as written?”
“So stipulated,” Sutherland said.
Capt. Jordan took a few moments longer. “So stipulated.”
Williams walked into the courtroom at exactly nine o’clock and the court-martial resumed. It reminded Sutherland of a Shakespearian tragedy in overdrive as it played out. It took less man three minutes for Williams to accept and enter the psychiatric evaluations into the record. The words that followed were vague echoes and Sutherland had to concentrate as the image of a young boy in a wheelchair held him captive.
“Capt. Jefferson,” Williams said, “I will ask you again, has any sort of coercion or duress been applied to you or your family to change your plea to guilty?”
“No, Your Honor, there has not.”
Sutherland’s head jerked up. The tone of Jefferson’s voice had changed. Years of experience had conditioned him to the subtle cues that marked emotional trauma. It’s McGraw, he thought. He’s really upset.
“Do you agree to cooperate fully in any future investigations?” Williams asked.
“I do,” Jefferson answered.
Williams continued through the questions required by the manual for courts-martial. Jefferson’s answers came with a predictable finality, each one driving a spike into Sutherland. Listen to him! Sutherland roared to himself. This guy is full of guilt.
Suddenly, the questions stopped and Williams read the words Sutherland did not want to hear. “I find that the accused has knowingly, intelligently, and consciously waived his rights against self-incrimination, to a trial of the facts by a court-martial, and to be confronted by the witnesses against him; that the accused is, in fact, guilty; and his plea of guilty is accepted.
“Capt. Jefferson, you may request to withdraw your plea of guilty at any time before sentencing is announced in your case, and if you have a good reason for the request, I will grant it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I understand.”
“Capt. Jefferson,” Williams intoned, “in accordance with your plea of guilty, this court-martial finds you of Charge One-oh-six-ay: Guilty.”
The silence in the courtroom was absolute. Suddenly, the whir of the air conditioner came on and a gust of cool air wafted down from the ceiling vents. Who is going to believe this? Sutherland thought. Then another, much stronger emotion swept over him. What happened to justice here?
“This court-martial is in recess until thirteen hundred today,” Williams announced. Before the bailiff could utter his command to rise, everyone rose, Williams swept out of the room, his robe billowing in the rush of cool air. The reporters hurried out, anxious to file updates.
Normally, Sutherland was good at waiting, always able to find something to occupy his mind. But this time, nothing helped and he went for a run before it became too hot. He pounded the pavement, driving his body at a fast pace. He ran out the main gate and past the band of protesters who had become a permanent part of the scenery. But this time, they were strangely silent and were not waving their posters at every passing car. He turned left on DD and ran toward Warrensburg. His lungs were rasping, straining for air, when he crested a small rise.
Ahead of him, a car was pulled off to the side of the road and two women, one in uniform, were kneeling where McGraw’s van had overturned and burned. He slowed and coasted up to Blasedale and Linda who were pounding a small white cross into the ground. A big wreath of flowers lay on the ground beside them.
He bent over, his hands on his knees, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Why?” he asked.
“Because no one else will,” Blasedale said.
Linda stood up, tears streaking her face. “I knew her.” She hesitated, searching for the right words to make sense out of it all. “It was too much for her. It would have been too much for anyone. She was a good mother until she broke under the strain.” She reached out and touched Sutherland’s cheek. “We’re here because of all the good things she did.” She pulled her hand away, leaving the warmth of her touch behind.
He turned and ran back toward the base, his own demon quiet for the moment.
Sutherland made it back to his suite in the VOQ with over an hour to spare and peeled off his sweat-soaked clothes. He stared at himself in the mirror and took stock. He had changed and not just physically. Besides losing twenty pounds and looking ten years younger, he knew exactly who he was. He turned on the shower. “Get to the bottom of this,” he muttered to himself. “Don’t let it go.” He stepped into the shower and the hot water coursed over his body. The doorbell buzzed. Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and answered the door. It was Toni. “Hi. I thought you had left.”
“I did,” she answered. She was tense, on edge, and tired from the lack of sleep. “I’m working on the McGraw investigation. We need to talk. May I come in?”
He waived her inside. “What a sad case. Give me a few minutes to dress. I’ll be right back.” Before he could move, she was in his arms, her arms were around his neck and he felt the beginnings of an erection. Don’t even think about it, he cautioned himself, remembering what Blasedale had said. Toni’s face was buried in his chest and she started to cry. At first, it was little more than a whimper, then it broke free and her body wracked with sobs. He held her close to him as she cried, at last grieving for Harry and Andrea.
Sutherland was dressed and ready to leave for the court-martial. He looked at Toni and she came into his arms. She raised her face to his and their lips brushed. “Why?” he asked.
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