by Diane Capri
“Why did Reacher think you’d killed your own family?” Gaspar asked again.
Weston said nothing.
Otto stepped in. “Have you communicated with Reacher since you left the army, Colonel?”
“I’ve been living abroad.”
Otto said, “The globe is a lot smaller than it used to be. People travel.”
“Too bad Reacher hasn’t been to Iraq.” And like that, Weston’s control again seemed to snap. “I’d happily kill the bastard. Cooper, too, given the chance.”
“What’s your beef with the Boss?” Gaspar asked. The guy was crazy, but whatever he thought about the Boss, it was better to find out than get caught napping.
“We all wore the green back then. We were brothers in arms. We were supposed to be taking care of each other. The Army’s family, man,” Weston said. “You served, didn’t you? You’ve got the bearing. I can smell the green on you. You’ve gotta know what I mean.”
Gaspar did know. He was tempted to make a sarcastic remark about simply surviving being a better outcome than what had happened to Weston’s real family. Not to mention the dead and disabled who served under Weston’s command. But instead Gaspar said, “Right.”
Weston stopped a second to wipe the spittle from the corner of his mouth, to gather himself. When he spoke again, the switch had again been tripped. The controlled calm had returned. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?” Otto asked.
“You can’t be that stupid.” Weston’s lip curled up. The kind of smirk that made Gaspar want to break his face. “Cooper’s the biggest snake alive. Always has been. Turn your back and he’ll bite you in the ass. Reacher was Cooper’s go-to guy. The two of them were behind everything that happened to me.”
Gaspar shook his head exaggeratedly, like he’d heard better tales from the Brothers Grimm. “You think Reacher killed your family? On Cooper’s orders? Then blamed you?”
“I’ve had a lot of years to think this through. Cooper and Reacher had a vendetta going against me. It had to be them.” He paused, smiling like a demented circus clown. “That’s the only possible answer.”
Otto intervened. “The hit man said you hired him. He testified you wanted your family killed.”
Once again, Weston’s agitation resurfaced. The man was like a carnival ride. His face reddened. His eyes narrowed. His lips pressed hard together and he stuck out his chin. “Lies!” he shouted, loud enough for members of the crowd filtering in nearby to hear and turn to stare.
“Close enough for government work,” Otto replied without flinching. “You’d been threatened by the gang you tried to rip off. You were told what would happen to your family. You failed to deliver their money. Reacher had nothing to do with any of that.”
She didn’t mention the Boss had reached out by sending them here today and probably by sending Reacher back then, too. Gaspar wasn’t the only one who noticed.
Weston rocked closer and loomed over Otto again. “Little girl, if you were half as smart as you think you are, you’d have stopped believing Cooper’s fairy tales long ago.” He lifted balled fists and unclenched his hands, reaching toward her. He looked like he wanted to shake her by her slender neck until she stopped breathing.
Gaspar hoped he’d try. Otto would knock Weston on his ass the second he touched her. But all this talk about Reacher had heightened his tension, too. On the way through security, Gaspar had been concerned. Now, he felt wired tight, ready to snap.
Before Weston had a chance to complete his move, Samantha Weston appeared by her husband’s side like a defending Valkyrie from nowhere.
When Weston didn’t back down, his wife placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Tom, darling. It’s time.”
Otto had yet to move so much as an eyelash. She said in her normal voice, “We’ll finish our questions after the service, Colonel.”
Weston didn’t flinch for another full second. Then he shook off his wife’s hand, turned, marched toward the stage, climbed the steps and stood, waiting for Samantha to catch up.
Gaspar and Otto watched in silence until both Westons reached their positions on the stage with the other honorees of the day’s service, and then continued to watch them.
The breeze had whipped up to gusty bursts. Unpredictable. Which would make a sniper’s job harder. Not impossible. Some would consider the wind a worthy challenge. Reacher was probably one of them.
Eyes still forward, Gaspar said, “I’m okay with staying a while. We’ve got a few hours before our flight. But what do you think he’ll say later that he wouldn’t say now?”
“Weston’s the first person we’ve met who is willing to tell us anything at all about Reacher. I’m not leaving until I hear every last word I can wring out of him.” After a full second or so, she asked, “You think the Boss sent us here to see if Weston could actually pin anything on him and Reacher?”
“I gave up trying to guess the Boss’s motives years ago.” Gaspar nodded in the direction of the entrance, where two males dressed in FBI-normal stood to one side. “More importantly, what are you planning to tell those guys when they ask who we are and what the hell we’re doing here?”
“You’ll think of something,” she replied, focused now on the tableau playing out on the stage. “Who is that reporter talking to Weston?”
4
The reporter wore a press pass on a chain around her neck, a video camera slung over her back and a recorder of some sort raised to capture a conversation Gaspar couldn’t hear. Weston and his wife spoke with her briefly before the lawyer stepped in and stopped the inquiry. A short verbal exchange between the reporter and Lane, the lawyer, ended when Lane herded the Westons to their seats.
Gaspar wondered again where he had seen that lawyer before. He couldn’t place her, but he knew her. He was sure of it.
The reporter raised her camera and snapped a few photos of the entire scene before she walked down the four steps from the stage and onto the path directly toward Otto and Gaspar. When she was close enough, he read her press pass.
Jess Kimball, Taboo Magazine.
Odd that Taboo would be covering Weston. Taboo was in the vein of Vanity Fair, its only real competitor. Gaspar had seen both magazines around the house because his wife subscribed. Both covered popular culture, fashion, and current affairs. Taboo was newer, a bit edgier, maybe, but covered the same beat. Retired military officers were neither of the national glossies’ usual subject or audience. Which made Gaspar more curious instead of less.
Gaspar stepped in front of the reporter before she walked past. “Ms. Kimball, a moment of your time?”
Her eyes, when she focused on his, were piercingly blue. Nostrils flared. “Yes?”
“Why is Taboo Magazine interested in Colonel Weston?”
“And you are?” Kimball held the last word in a long, hostile invitation to reply.
“Carlos Gaspar. FBI. This is my partner, Kim Otto.”
Kimball considered something for a moment before she answered. “Sorry to say, I’m no threat to Weston.”
“What’s your interest?” Gaspar asked again.
“My mission is to make sure victims get justice. Especially children.”
“What does that mean?” Otto asked.
“Ever heard of Dominick Dunne?”
“The Vanity Fair reporter who covered all those infamous trials after his daughter was murdered,” Otto replied.
“I covered Weston’s case a while ago when the gunman who killed Weston’s family was executed by the State of Florida. Weston was living in Iraq at the time. No chance to wrap up with him until now without traveling to a war zone.”
Otto asked, “Why did you say ‘the gunman’?”
“He pulled the trigger. But he wasn’t the reason those kids and their mom were murdered. We’ve got Colonel Weston to thank for that,” Kimball said, in the same way she’d have thanked Typhoid Mary for robust health.
“Weston denies involvement,” Otto said, “and
no connection was established.”
The ceremony was opened by a chaplain, who began with an invocation. Those in the audience with the physical ability stood and bowed their heads. Many closed their eyes. Immediate, eerie quiet reigned.
Kimball whispered. “The Army’s cop got it right at the outset.”
“Reacher?”
A woman nearby raised her head and glared toward them. Otto held her remaining questions until the brief invocation concluded and the audience returned as one to their seats.
Normal squirming set a low, baseline volume beneath which Kimball replied. “Weston’s family was murdered because of Weston. He’s got their blood on his hands. Doesn’t matter who pulled the trigger and killed them in their beds.”
“You’re the reason the Westons brought a lawyer here today, huh?” Gaspar asked.
Kimball shook her head with a sour smile. “More likely the divorce Samantha’s lawyer filed yesterday the second they set foot on U.S. soil,” she said. “Either way, the Westons have more than me to be worried about.”
“Why do you say that?” Otto asked.
“You wouldn’t be here without an agenda.” Kimball tilted her head toward the entrance where the two agents waited. “More of your tribe over there. I’m guessing it’s not an FBI picnic. Weston’s about to get his. Finally. You can be sure I’m here to get photos.”
Silence settled over the crowd again, except for a few members who were quietly crying. Occasionally, a brain-injured veteran would speak inappropriately. There were too many brain-injured veterans after the long war. They’d become a part of normal civilian life for military families. Another burden for the stalwart to bear with dignity. Everyone ignored the interruptions.
Still at the side of the stage, Otto, Gaspar, and Kimball were the only people standing. Drawing too much of the wrong attention.
Kimball handed Gaspar her card.
“Call me later. I’ll fill you in,” she whispered and slipped away to join the other reporters seated near the opposite side of the stage. She was well within her equipment’s visual and audio range and beyond the reach of FBI interrogation while the memorial service continued.
5
The audience had expanded while Gaspar had been preoccupied by Weston and then Kimball. Seating was now filled to capacity and additional attendees stood blocking the aisles and the exits. His sightline to the official vehicles behind the stage was obscured, but he could see enough to confirm they remained in place. He couldn’t see whether Weston’s limo and bodyguards were still present, but they probably were.
On the stage, all the chairs were occupied now. Both Westons and the chaplain were seated to the right of the podium. The base commander wasn’t present, but the resident Army Military Intelligence unit was represented by a one-star Brigadier General Gaspar didn’t know seated to the left of the podium with two civilians. Enlarged photos of the individuals—and, in Weston’s case, the family—being remembered today rested on easels blocking Gaspar’s sightline to the area behind the seated dignitaries. No one else on Gaspar’s side of the stage could see back there now, even if they’d been looking.
Which they probably weren’t, because the enlarged photographs magnetized attention like flames drew bugs. The portrait that interested Gaspar declared a near-perfect American family. Five Westons gathered around Dad and Christmas tree, dressed in matching holiday plaids. Meredith Weston perched on the chair’s arm, her husband’s arm around her waist. She looked maybe thirty-five, blonde and tan with typically perfect American teeth suggesting she’d been a well-loved child once. Three children. All resembled their mother. You could tell the teenaged daughter, covered with freckles and hiding braces, would grow into her mother’s beauty. Twin boys sporting fresh haircuts and suits that matched dad’s were already little men. Fortunately, the boys looked like mom, too. Even back then, Colonel Weston wasn’t handsome.
The photos reminded Gaspar of his own family. Four daughters, and his wife very pregnant with his first son. Gaspar loved his family like crazy. He refused to try to imagine life without them.
Weston’s family had ended up dead. How could any father possibly do that? Gaspar had never understood it, even as he knew fathers killed their families every day.
An intent-looking uniformed man was moving toward them along the edge of the audience, his gaze scanning the crowd, but returning to Gaspar and Otto. This would be their contact, an Air Force Office of Special Investigations officer assigned to assist the FBI agents in Weston’s arrest after the memorial service ended. Otto spotted him, too, and the three of them stepped away at a safe enough distance from the crowd to talk while maintaining a clear view of the parade ground, as well as the stage and surrounding elements.
“Agents Otto and Gaspar?”
They nodded.
“Did you get what you came for from Weston? We might manage another few minutes before the arrest if you need it.”
“Actually—” Otto replied, looking for his name plate.
“Call me Danimal. Everybody does.”
“Danimal,” she said.
“That’s right.”
Otto shrugged. “OK, Danimal. I’d like more than just another few minutes with the guy. Two days in a room alone with him, maybe. He knows a lot more than he’s telling.”
“Sorry. Can’t happen,” he said. “Happy to spill whatever I know, though. Not that there’s much to spill. Reacher was a good cop and he did a good job on the case. He had a good close record on his cases, but he couldn’t make it stick against Weston. Everything’s in the file. I’ve read it. We can’t release the file, but my boss promised yours that I could answer your questions.”
“Not a lot of Army here on base back then, right?” Otto asked. “How was this case Reacher’s jurisdiction, anyway?”
“Strictly speaking, it probably wasn’t. Weston was on base for a few months on a special assignment. Reacher came down after the murders.”
Gaspar asked, “So Reacher wasn’t assigned to duty here?”
“No need for Army military police like Reacher. Base security handles everything. In appropriate cases, we coordinate with Tampa P.D. and the local FBI. Sometimes other jurisdictions.”
“Weston was Army. What was his assignment?”
“Classified,” Danimal said, as if no further comment was necessary.
“Weston lived off base. Why was base security involved in the case?”
“All MacDill security teams have good relationships with local law enforcement. We work together when our personnel are involved.”
Otto said, “Reacher disregarded all the standard procedures, I gather.”
He nodded. “Murder of an Army officer’s family is not the sort of thing we’d keep our noses out of just because it happened off base.”
“Weston and Reacher had a history,” Gaspar said. “That have anything to do with Reacher’s interest?”
Danimal shrugged. “Weston had a history with everybody who crossed his path. He’s not an easy guy. You must have noticed.”
Gaspar said, “Wife and three kids shot in the head with a .38 while they slept in their own civilian beds around midnight on a Wednesday. Ballistics on the gunshots?”
“It was the wife’s gun. First responders found it on the bed still loosely gripped in her hand. Army wives learn to shoot for self-protection and she was damn good at it. In this case, looks like she didn’t get the chance to fire.”
“Reacher concluded there’d been no intruder?”
“House was in a good, safe South Tampa neighborhood, but shit happens sometimes.”
“Not in this case?” Otto asked.
“Right.” He nodded. “No forced entry, no identifiable evidence of a break-in. Front door locked and alarm system activated. Family dog asleep in the kitchen.”
“The dog slept through the whole thing?” Gaspar asked.
Danimal nodded. “That’s what it looked like.”
Gaspar had to agree. Dogs don’t sleep thr
ough break-ins. Not unless they’re drugged, or deaf. Or they know the killer. And sometimes, not even then.
“Say Reacher was right. No intruder,” Otto said. “Normal conclusion would be murder suicide. Yet the locals ruled that out and Reacher agreed. Why?”
“No motive, for starters.”
Gaspar nodded. Women usually need a reason to kill, even if it’s a crazy reason.
“By all accounts, she was a wonderful mother, decent wife to a difficult guy. Kids were great, too. Good students. Lots of friends. No substance abuse.”
“All-American family, huh?” Otto asked, glancing again at the photographs on the stage.
Danimal shrugged. “Zero reported difficulties.”
Which was not the same thing as no problems, exactly. Gaspar was forming a clearer picture of Reacher’s analysis of the crimes. “Suspects?”
“No.”
“She have any enemies?”
“None anyone could find.”
“How hard did Reacher look?”
Danimal shrugged again. “Not too hard, probably. He knew Weston. We all did. Guy had plenty of enemies. We didn’t need to spin our wheels looking for hers.”
“Where was Weston at the time of the murders?” Otto asked.
“Alibi was weak from the start,” Danimal said. “He claimed he was drinking with buddies at a local strip joint until the place closed.”
“Devoted family man that he was. Alibi didn’t hold up, though?”
“No confirming surveillance available in those clubs, for obvious reasons. Nobody remembered Weston being there after his buddies left about two a.m.”
Gaspar said, “Meaning Reacher focused on the most obvious suspect.”
“Pretty much,” Danimal said. “Reacher wanted Weston to be guilty, sure. But the rest of us agreed. Reacher wasn’t completely wrong.”
“Roger that,” Gaspar said.
“What happened next?” Otto asked.
Danimal looked uncomfortable for the first time. “That’s a little…vague.”
“Let me guess,” Otto said, sardonically. “Weston was hauled in looking like he’d been run over by a bus, right?”