Grace drove into a part of the Navy Yard that had been the final assembly area for the battleship guns.
She drove through a guard station to get into the military side of the Navy Yard, drove four blocks down to the Anacostia riverfront, and, since she would probably not be staying, parked in one of the visitor spots in front of the Forge Building. Behind her was a small grass park in which a collection of ship guns were displayed, including a sixteen-inch battleship gun. On the river side of the gun park was moored the USS Barry, a destroyer now part of the naval history museum.
The ship was open to public tours after ten in the morning.
She walked into the main entrance, past the Navy Judge Advocate offices on the ground floor, and up the stairs to the NIS reception lobby.
Showing her pass to the desk guards, she went down a long hallway to Englehardt’s office and sat down to wait. She was scanning the Washington Post in Englehardt’s outer office when he came through the door at just before eight o’clock.
She had come early in hopes of getting more time to talk than the ten minutes he had promised her on her answering machine the night before.
She had been flipping through the pages but not really seeing much of the news, her mind preoccupied with the decision she was close to making.
“Well, good morning, sunshine,” Englehardt said breezily. “Give me a minute to start the coffee machine and then we can talk inside. Brenda doesn’t get in until eight-fifteen. I assume you want to talk about the Har din matter.”
“Yes, I do. And the future of my illustrious government career.”
“The lady wants free advice,” he said cheerily as he rigged the coffee machine and flipped on the lights in his inner office. “I’ve got the world’s supply of that.
Worth what it’ll cost you, too. Okay, we’ll let the evil brew perk up.
Come on in.”
Englehardt’s office was on one corner of the second floor of the Forge Building. The office was a long rectangle, about twenty feet by twelve, with high ceilings, in deference to the old building’s 1850s architecture. A long row of exterior windows gave a Spartan view of the sides of a building called the Quadrangle Building, which was across the street, and of the ten-story-high blank brick walls of the abandoned Turret Lathe Building.
Englehardt’s cluttered desk was positioned so that he could just see a small wedge of the river visible around one corner of the Turret Lathe Building. There was a library table pushed up along the window wall, covered in even more paperwork and notebooks. The back wall was filled with bookcases, a television console built into the middle. There were two armchairs in front of his desk, and a much larger, leather chair nearer the windows. He pointed Grace to the leather chair, quickly leafed through a small stack of yellow phone messages, and then took one of the armchairs for himself.
Grace sat down and arranged her skirts. She was wearing a one-piece dark green calf-length dress and she had taken some care with makeup for a change.
The smell of coffee brewing began to fill the air, and she could hear the sounds of nearby offices coming to life and people walking down the hallways. Englehardt bounced up and checked the coffee one last time, then closed the door to the secretary’s area.
“I believe it’s your nickel,” he said, giving her outfit a quick once-over. “You look terrific, as usual, Miss. Snow.”
“Thank you, Doug. But I don’t feel terrific about this Hardin case. I know … I know that my involvement in the case was meant to be something of a studied insult to the brass right from the beginning. But I am a trained investigator, even if not in criminal work, and this is a nasty business we’ve uncovered.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “We’ve had a fairly good briefing from NISRA Philadelphia, including the bit about this young man probably being buried alive in that ship.
And I know what you’re thinking, Grace. At least I think I do.”
“And what’s that, Doug?”
“That because there’s media interest, we’re going to put this thing on a back burner and let it wither on the vine for a while, if I can mix my metaphors. We’re not going to do that.”
“So who’s going to work it from headquarters?” she asked.
The intercom phone buzzed at that moment, and En glehardt got up to take it. As Grace waited, she could see that the top button on the left of the intercom console was lighted, which meant that the call was from Admiral Keeler’s EA, Captain Rennselaer. Everyone in NIS who had an intercom knew that button. Englehardt mostly listened for a minute, said, “Yes, sir” a few times, and then hung up. He returned to his chair.
“Button zero-zero; have to take those calls,” he said.
“The dreaded EA,” she replied.
“He who must be listened to, at any rate. Now, the Hardin case.
Specifically who will take it hasn’t been decided yet. The DCIC will be in charge, of course, and they haven’t named an action officer yet. But it won’t be you. You do understand that, don’t you?” Somehow she had known that fact without being told, but hearing it was still disappointing. “I suppose so,” she replied. She had been tossing and turning over that little fact for most of the night. “I can’t say that I entirely agree, but I would at least expect to be debriefed.”
“Of course, although we’re supposed to get a summary report out of Opnav today from the investigating officer. I have to tell you that the admiral and the deputy are not unhappy with how this turned out.”
“I can well imagine. What changed the Opnav admirals’ minds; or do we know?”
Before answering, Englehardt got up and checked on the coffeemaker again. Grace was quickly gaining the impression that Englehardt was uncomfortable with this meeting and wishing it was over. She wondered if the EA’s call had anything to do with that. He rattled around in a cabinet out near Brenda’s desk and then returned to the office with two cups of coffee, handing one to Grace before sitting down again. He glanced at his watch and then sipped some coffee.
“You want my opinion or the official reason?”
“Your opinion will be closer to the truth; what did they actually say?”
Englehardt put on an official announcer’s face and voice. “Their lordships said,” he intoned, “that since this matter was now confirmed to be a homicide, and since cooperation with external law-enforcement agencies would probably be required, it had been determined, upon extensive review at the appropriate levels, that the NTS was the logical management focus within the Navy Department for the case, after all.
That’s what their lordships said.”
“And your take on the real reason?”
“They see a bizarre two-year-old homicide case that probably can’t be solved, with media involvement that has a strong tabloid future, with a probable no-win outcome in the public’s eye. So give it to NIS.”
“Wow. It’s too hard, so let someone else fall on his face.”
“Precisely. I mean, it’s not like it was hard to put two and two together—the EA figured it out pretty quick.”
“Which EA was that? I’ve been surrounded by EAs this week,” Grace said.
“Our very own Captain Rennselaer. He who was so exercised when this thing started out in the first place.
He who spun Ames up to go convince the admiral to try to see the Secretary of the Navy even after the vice chief had sunk a fang or six in his side.”
“And NIS will actually work it?”
“We will work it. Of course we’ll work it. Along with all the other unsolved homicides, fratricides, patricides, and any other kind of ‘cides’ presently in our backlog.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah, I know. From your point of view, that’s tanking it. But be practical, Grace. What’s the urgency?
This isn’t about some slavering serial killer who’s working himself into a lather in his basement lair to go out and slaughter another nun. It’s a two-year-old black male homicide on a federal reservation. We have damn near an unlimit
ed supply of aging homicides involving black males.
And white males. And Filipino and Hispanic males. Domestic violence and murder in the armed forces is an equal-opportunity business, and there’s been a lot more of it with all these cutbacks.
Besides, there’s no statute of limitations on federal homicide. We find the perp, he goes to jail. Later rather than sooner, maybe, but he goes to jail. The wheels of justice grind slowly, etcetera.”
Grace nodded and looked out the window, trying to keep the disappointment from showing on her face. It was promising to be a beautiful day outside, but the looming nineteenth-century brick walls of the abandoned Turret Lathe Building across the street cast a pall on her spirits. She had wondered all along if Lieutenant Hardin’s being black might have a bearing on how the case was eventually disposed. Englehardt was looking at his watch again.
“And what was your other question, Grace—the one about career?”
She took a deep breath before answering, but the revelation that they really were going to let the thing subside into the bureaucratic ooze had just crystallized the decision in her mind.
“I’m aware that the powers that he would not be heartbroken if I was to leave NIS,” she said.
Sensing what was coming, he started to mouth a protest, but she put up a hand to silence him.
“They’ve made it pretty obvious without actually saying it,” she continued, “even to the point of making what could be construed in certain politically correct circles as an improper internal reassignment.”
“Now, Grace—”
“No, Doug. Let me finish. I’m saying this to you because you’ve been …
you’ve been very honest throughout my tenure here at NIS. Now I would like to ask you to carry a message.”
“A message. Which is?”
“I have a deal to offer: In return for a temporary transfer back to Investigations Policy, say for sixty days, I will tender my resignation from the civil service for the ostensible purpose of pursuing my Ph. D.
When I leave, it’s with a commendatory final evaluation, and a terminal, nonmonetary award of some kind. In return, I’ll agree to go sweetly into the night, and will further agree not to employ my law degree from Georgetown in pursuit of a sexual-harassment lawsuit or any other drawn-out unpleasantness.”
Englehardt put his coffee cup down and looked at her for a moment.
“Jesus. Whom have you been talking to?” he asked softly.
“You let me loose in the Pentagon,” she said sweetly.
“As you pointed out at the time, they are not unused to political maneuvering in that building.”
“Wow. Okay. And you’d like me to bear these tidings up the chain of command?”
“As your final rabbinical act, yes, I would very much appreciate it. The sixty-day number is key, by the way.
That’s the limit on temporary appointments within an agency without having to notify the Civil Service Commission or the GSA. This is Thursday. I’ve told the director of Career Services that I need to take today and tomorrow as regular annual leave. I’ll be back Monday morning.
I’ll expect a call by close of business tomorrow, Friday, with the director’s decision.”
Englehardt nodded, evidently considering it. He finished his coffee and then got up. “But fundamentally, if we do all this, you will resign?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t see a problem, Grace,” he said. “None at all, actually.”
She realized then that NIS management had probably been waiting for her to initiate some kind of proposal along these lines. She got up, feeling as if a load had been lifted from her shoulders. Dan had been right.
She felt relieved. Even Englehardt looked positively relieved.
“For what it’s worth, Doug, I think upper management here is going to rue the day they dropped the Hardin case into the routine box.”
Englehardt escorted her to the door. “Grace, criminal work is different from the white-collar stuff. There are just too many cases for us to get excited about any one of them. We’ve got finite resources, and we have to apply those to the cases where we stand a chance of getting a conviction. The Hardin case doesn’t qualify.
So, I’ll be in touch on that other business. Speaking personally, I’ll hate to see you leave us, but it’s probably for the best.”
the captain called MALACHi late Thursday afternoon and left a message.
The message had been short, just to inform him that the investigation had been moved to even more controllable channels, with the original investigating team broken up. “Just to keep you advised, Malachi.” A couple more weeks and the Hardin case would simply blow over. Malachi had again saved and replayed the message a few times, but it seemed to be just what it sounded like: an update. He dialed the number, left the coded name, and waited. The captain was back to him in an hour.
“You called.”
“Yes, I did. I want to know a little bit more about how this Hardin thing is going to be buried.”
“Actually, you don’t. Suffice it to say that the less you know, the better off you are. The investigation was originally being run out of Opnav, due to a, um, political misunderstanding within the Navy. That’s been straightened out, and now it’s back where it belonged in the first place, at NIS. And, as you may or may not know, my principal has some influence with NIS.”
“And they can just bury it?”
“Not exactly bury it. But it can be added to an existing caseload, and given a priority commensurate with the likelihood of solution.”
“Which hopefully is slim to none.”
“Exactly. The media is the wild card, as always, but we’ve been proactive on that front, and they seem to be satisfied that the Navy is indeed working it. It’s just going to be really hard to work. But, now that you’ve called, we probably ought to cool our relationship for the time being.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that my principal wants no connections being made between any contractors and himself. Meaning that I don’t call you, and you don’t call here, unless something really urgent comes up, or until we are positive that the Hardin grass fire has died out.”
Malachi laughed. “So I’m being fired?”
“Not exactly, Malachi. You are being unretained—for the moment. You know this is the smart thing to do, for both of us, right? If no current connection exists, there’s less likelihood that someone will stumble over any previous connections.”
Malachi treated the captain to a silence on the line.
“You disagree, Malachi?”
“No. But I do want to know when and if there’s a development in the Hardin case. I want to hear about it from the inside, not from the Post.
Because you don’t want me getting surprised, do you?”
“Absolutely not. But what I’ve been trying to tell you is that there won’t be any developments in the Hardin case. Believe me, I’m in a very strong position to make that guarantee. You simply need to do what you do best: stay low. I’ve got to go. We probably won’t speak again for some time, Malachi. That’s the safe and smart way for us to handle this now. Agreed?”
Malachi said nothing, and after a few seconds, the captain simply hung up. Malachi put the phone down and went out to the kitchen and stood by the sink, looking out the back window.
“Unretained,” the man said. Cut loose. On one hand, the captain was making perfect sense: Malachi was the only connection, and it would be stupid to keep that connection alive, only to have some NIS stumblebum trip over it by accident. But suppose they were setting him up? What’s the first thing they would do? Cut off all contact. Isolate him from what was going on. Lull him into a sense of false security. And then ice his ass.
So what to do? What the smart soldier would do: keep his eyes and ears open. Assume the worst: They were lining somebody up to come after him, maybe even take him off the boards. Okay, run that theory out. What would he do if he did find some guy on his tail,
or some other concrete indication that he was being hunted?
Well, first he would take out the contractor who was on his ass. Then he’d go over to the offensive himself, maybe introduce the good captain to a little terror, or maybe even his sacred principal. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know where to find them. He nodded to himself, then wondered if it was too early for a little pop. He decided it wasn’t.
on thursday evening, Dan walked up the uneven sidewalk of Prince Street from the corner of Union Street, after a better-than-usual dinner at Landini’s, one block over on King. Dinner in one of the King Street restaurants was a weekly extravagance he usually enjoyed at midweek to avoid the touristy crowds of the weekends, and Landini’s took good care of their regulars.
The waiter had recommended the fresh mussels steamed in white wine sauce, and Dan, repeating the experience of the Italian restaurant in Philadelphia, had settled for two appetizers: the mussels and an order of the fried calamari, plus an entire bottle of chilled Lacrima Christi and a basket of their excellent bread.
His leg muscles were aching after his rowing session against the spring currents on the Potomac that afternoon, but the wine had helped, or at least his slightly fuzzy brain thought so. The evening twilight was perfect, a clear, humidity-free April atmosphere gently burnished by the gaslight streetlamps on Prince. There was a slight breeze out of the north, into which the big jets descending on National Airport three miles upriver whooshed as they swept by the 250-year-old waterfront of Alexandria. A large Mercedes descended the cobble stoned segment of Prince Street in a red flare of brake lights and teeth-jarring tire bumping. The driver, a platinum blonde with too much lipstick, gave him a fleeting once-over as they passed in the night.
As he approached his house at number 128, he thought of Grace Snow, she of never too much lipstick.
He fished the antique key out of the geranium pot next to the wrought-iron gate, unlocked the garden gate, went in, relocked it, and slipped the key through a crack in the fence back into its high-security pot. He went down the wobbly brick walk along the side of his house to the garden. Some previous renters had begun an ambitious program of flowering plants and boxwood, to which Dan was totally indifferent. He enjoyed the greenery but did not do anything to maintain it, which in the lush Washington summers had produced a pretty good imitation of a jungle. The resulting riot of flowering plants, shrubs, weeds, and vines greatly distressed the judge’s wife next door, who was something of a fanatic gardener. The doctor’s wife on the other side called her a bush Nazi.
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