A Long Day for Dying

by Patrick A. Davis

  No one said anything. We were wondering if we’d stumbled onto the motive.

  I said, “Timing fits. A damning story on Garber is scheduled to break tomorrow, so someone conveniently kills him today.”

  “The president and Churchfield,” Amanda added. “They must have known about the story. That’s why they’re pushing so hard to have the case wrapped up by tonight. And if they knew about it, Senator Garber must have, too.”

  Her eyes went to Simon, waiting for him to acknowledge that this had to be the reason Senator Garber was so convinced his son had been murdered.

  Simon turned away from her and looked out the window. For a moment, I thought he was playing that annoying game of his where he pretends not to hear something he wants to avoid discussing. When I followed his eyes to the restored facade of the Pentagon’s once blackened and crumbled western wall, I realized I was mistaken. Simon was staring at it because he couldn’t help himself. Frankly, neither could Amanda and I.

  The limo slowed and took the exit.

  As we rolled down the ramp, our eyes never left the wall. Its five-story sandstone surface looked enormous and impregnable, but of course we all knew that wasn’t the case. One by one we shook our heads, reacting not so much to the memories of the attack as to the inner turmoil those memories created. Once again we were reminded that we each had to make a decision. The same one we’d been wrestling with since we’d started this case.

  Do we pursue General Markel’s killer and risk undermining the military, or do we let the clock run out on the investigation and walk away?

  By the time we arrived at the Pentagon, I don’t think any of us was any closer to an answer.

  Iwasn’t.

  27

  MIDDAY

  To describe the security at the Pentagon as heightened was an understatement. Armed soldiers and members of the Defense Protective Service—the Pentagon’s police force—routinely patrolled the perimeter, and only big-time DoD heavy hitters were allowed to park anywhere near the building. To gain access into the Pentagon, most of the worker bees—anyone from a full colonel on down qualified—had to pass through two checkpoints. Those without an entry badge, even military members with a valid ID, were patted down and their belongings searched, then cleared inside only in the company of an escort.

  As we looped past the Pentagon’s cavernous South Parking, I rolled down the front partition and told the driver to pull up to the pedestrian bridge leading into the Corridor Two entrance. The limo rolled to a stop, and I checked my watch. Twenty-five minutes early. Murder suspects or not, you didn’t show up late to a meeting with the Joint Chiefs.

  “I disagree,” Simon said, answering the question Amanda had just posed. “If Senator Garber knew about the article, he would have told me. He didn’t.”

  “Come off it, Simon. He must have known.”

  “Not necessarily. The article is being kept very quiet. Do you think the paper would want the senator to know they were about to publish something damning about his son?”

  She passed on a response. This was logic she couldn’t refute. The driver came around and opened the door. Amanda grabbed the file containing the passenger information and started to crawl out.

  “Take this,” Simon said, tapping my arm.

  Looking back, I saw he was holding out a card with the name of a luxury car rental agency. He explained, “I might be busy for a some time. When you’re ready to leave, call, and they’ll send a car.”

  I frowned, pocketing the card. “We’ll be here for a couple hours. Your meeting with the reporter going to take that long?”

  “I’ve made appointments with other contacts. I’ll call when I’m finished.”

  “All right.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Amanda looking down on us from the sidewalk, her face puzzled. She quickly turned away and began chatting with the driver. Simon said, “Be forceful during the interview, Martin. Particularly when dealing with General Markel. Anything less, and you’re wasting your time.”

  I nodded.

  He gave me a long look. “It would help to appear angry. Can you do that?”

  “I think so.”

  “Does he intimidate you?”

  “What do you think?”

  He smiled. “Good. That will keep you on your toes. Good luck.”

  As I turned to leave, he said, “Oh, one more thing. When will you tell her?”

  It took me a second before I realized what he was asking. “I’ll probably tell her in the next few days.”

  “Do it by tonight. When we finish the case.”

  “Simon, I’d rather—”

  “No more delays. She has a right to know. Either you tell her, or I will.”

  I sighed. Simon the Godfather. “Fine. I’ll tell her tonight.”

  As I grabbed the briefcase and emerged from the car, I guessed I had roughly eight hours to figure out how.

  I’d taken a couple steps toward the pedestrian bridge when I realized Amanda wasn’t with me. I turned, saw her watching Simon’s limo as it drove away. As it disappeared from view, she came over to me, her face troubled. “Want to tell me about it?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “The driver’s a nice guy. His name is Bennie. He says he figures he’ll be let go in a week. Two, tops.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She studied me. “You probably won’t believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  But as we went up the steps of the bridge, she made a couple of false starts as if to speak. Once we alighted at the top, she said, “I don’t get it.”

  The first checkpoint was located midway down the bridge and was manned by soldiers with M-16s slung over their shoulders. As we walked toward them, I said, “Don’t get what?”

  “Simon. Why he’s lying to us.”

  My head snapped around to her.

  “It’s true,” she said. “He told you he had appointments with other contacts. I was listening to his conversations. He made no appointments except with the reporter.”

  “You could have missed hearing him—”

  “I didn’t,” she said flatly.

  I shrugged. “So he probably made the appointments earlier this morning.”

  “Without telling us until the last minute?”

  I still didn’t think this was a big deal, and I told her so. Hell, we both knew Simon always kept a few cards in every hand to himself.

  “But he lied to us.”

  “Technically, it’s only a white lie.”

  She shot me an exasperated look. “It really doesn’t bother you, huh?”

  “Why should it? I trust him.”

  We were approaching the queue by checkpoint. Most people flashed their badges and were waved through. Two nervous-appearing young army captains were methodically being searched. Amanda and I dug out our badges, which said “NCR” in big black letters. National Capitol Region badges allowed us entry into any government facility.

  Once we passed through the checkpoint, Amanda said, “I also think Simon lied about his conversation with Sergeant Keele.”

  I didn’t react. I just kept walking.

  “You hear what I said?”

  “Yeah. You’re mistaken.”

  “Am I? You’ve worked with Sergeant Keele. You know the guy’s a straight shooter. You honestly believe he’d accuse someone on the forensics team of taking the evidence without proof? And even if he’d said that to Simon, why the hell would Keele turn around and deny making the accusation to you?”

  We continued off the bridge onto a short sidewalk leading to the Corridor Two entrance. I gave her a look of annoyance. “What the hell have you got against Simon?”

  “Listen, just because he’syour hero—”

  “Give it a rest, Amanda.”

  “It’s the truth. Everyone knows that he’s got you in his—” She looked away.

  “Hip pocket?” I finished.

  No reply.

  I said, “So we’re close
? So what? That doesn’t mean—”

  She made a loud kissing sound.

  I chewed on my tongue to keep from saying something I would regret. She had a knack for pushing my buttons. We passed through a set of wooden doors into a large open area where the second checkpoint, complete with an x-ray machine and metal detector, was located. A female Pentagon cop who had to weigh three hundred pounds was motioning people through with the flair of a drill sergeant.

  Amanda and I stopped to dig out our OSI credentials. I said, “You’re making accusations without proof. First, you thought Andy might be dirty. Now you’re calling Simon a liar and implying—”

  “Implying nothing. Helied. ”

  “Dammit, Amanda—”

  My phone rang. I ignored Amanda’s glare as I fished it from my jacket. It was Andy, calling to say he’d found out who had taken the evidence.

  “Fifty bucks, he’s the same bastard who sold me out. But I’ll be damned if I can figure out why. Shit, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, Marty. If it were me, I’d jack the son of a bitch up and—”

  “Just tell me the name, Andy,” I said irritably.

  When he did, my knees almost buckled. “That’s impossible.”

  I was in a daze as I ended the call. I tried to come up with an explanation, any explanation, but I couldn’t. I made my way over to a nearby wall and leaned against it, setting the briefcase down. From somewhere I heard Amanda’s voice, asking me what was wrong. Looking up, I saw the worry in her eyes.

  I said, “You were right. Paul Carter saw him. That’s why Paul was so nervous earlier. He didn’t know who to trust.”

  She frowned. “Saw who? Who are you talking about?”

  “Simon. Paul Carter saw Simon take the evidence.”

  Why?

  That’s what Amanda and I had to know. Why had Simon removed the evidence, and why hadn’t he confided in us? Keeping his suspicions to himself was one thing. Butthis …

  The first part, we could guess at. Simon probably suspected that someone on the team might tamper with the evidence and had simply removed the items as a preemptive measure. But if so, he should have at least told us. Hell, we were all in this together.

  In the end, this is what really bothered me. That Simon hadn’t trusted us enough to let us know what he was up to.

  Amanda suggested I wait, confront him in person. But I wanted to know now.

  So I moved over to the far corner of the entryway and made the call. Simon picked up immediately.

  “You son of a bitch,” I said.

  There was a long silence. When Simon responded, he sounded completely calm and unaffected. “So you know about the evidence.”

  It was a statement more than a question. “Damn right. Paul Carter saw you take the items. You’re getting sloppy.”

  “Martin, I was going to tell you…”

  “Oh, right.”

  “It’s true. But I thought it would be easier on you and Amanda, not knowing. That way you wouldn’t be faced with making a difficult decision.”

  “You mean on whether we should pursue the case?”

  “Yes.”

  It dawned on me what he was driving at. “Jesus, you lied to me again.”

  “Martin, please—”

  “Admit it. The line about how you were after the truth was a lie. You’re going after the killer. You didn’t confide in us because of what we said in the limo. You knew you couldn’t count on us to make an arrest, so you decided to cut us out.”

  I was speaking in low tones, so the people filing into the building couldn’t overhear what I was saying. Even so, a few glanced over curiously. Amanda ran interference and glowered at them until they looked away.

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then Simon said, “You have every right to be angry—”

  “Noshit .”

  “—but I didn’t lie to you. Not at first.”

  “Simon—”

  “Initially, Ihad promised the senator I’d only seek the truth. I made no assurances that I would succeed. During his visit to the hangar, he asked me if I believed his son was murdered. I couldn’t bring myself to lie to him. Not after seeing his grief.”

  I waited for him to explain the rest of it. When he didn’t, I said, “So he asked you to find the killer?”

  “Yes.”

  “And bring him to justice?”

  “I’m to provide him the name, and he will take it from there.”

  I wanted to stay angry at him, but I couldn’t keep it up. Simon didn’t make promises lightly. Once he did, nothing else mattered. He’d made a commitment; it was as simple as that. I now understood his look of regret in the car. “This must have been difficult for you.”

  “I reacted emotionally. It was a mistake.” His voice became quiet. “I need you, Martin. But in the end, this is my obligation, not yours. If you decided to quit, I would understand.”

  And he would. In some respects, knowing this made it harder to say no. I asked him what else he was keeping from us.

  “I have a few theories, but they’re rather implausible. I am concerned about Andy. I’m not sure we can rely upon him.”

  “Why?”

  “His defense of Colonel Weller bothers me.”

  “Oh, that. I can explain—”

  “Then there’s the button. The one Sergeant Keele discovered under the couch cushion. I was surprised it had been found there, because Andy never said anything to us. Yet he must have known it was there all along.”

  “And you concluded that because—”

  “Think back to the compartment, Martin. Do you recall Andy’s response when I asked him if the couch folded into a bed?”

  “Yeah. He said it did. So what?”

  “Do you remember what he did next? Exactly?”

  I thought. “Yeah. He reached down to check if the bed was made, and—Aw, hell.”

  Amanda squinted at me. She’d been listening with interest since the mention of Andy’s name.

  To Simon, I said, “A cushion. Andy picked up a cushion.”

  “Theright cushion,” Simon corrected. “The one the button was discovered under.”

  I shook my head, my mind drifting back to my conversation with Andy. When he’d begged me to keep him on the case. I could still hear the desperation in his voice:Dammit, this is important to me. My ass is going to be in a sling over this. I have to be in on getting the fucking killer.

  Like Simon, I’d also given into my emotions. I’d believed Andy because I wanted to. Still…

  “Simon,” I said. “This doesn’t prove anything. Andy didn’t look under the cushion long. He could have missed the button. I’m sure that’s what happened. He just missed it.”

  Amanda’s head gave a little jerk. She’d finally grasped the import of what we were discussing and stepped close, placing her ear next to the phone.

  “Even if he did, Martin, there is another possibility we have to accept. Maintenance told you there was no hidden way to enter the compartment. That leaves us with only one logical explanation for how the doors were locked.”

  I said, “The doors?”

  Amanda’s eyes popped wide. I made the connection an instant later.

  “My God,” she said. “It could be Andy. He was guarding the compartment. He could have locked the doors at any time.”

  28

  Amanda was silent as we stepped back in line. I kept waiting for the shoe to drop. When it didn’t, I said wearily, “Get it over with, huh? Tell me I screwed up keeping Andy on board.”

  She shrugged. “Why? For once, I can’t really fault the guy. If I’d been in his shoes, I might have done the same thing.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Don’t be too sure, Marty. That’s what’s so crazy about this case. I can’t tell who’s in the right. Us or them?”

  “So the ends justify the means?”

  “In this situation, maybe.” She brushed a few strands of hair off her forehead. “Anyway, this just proves
what we suspected from the beginning.”

  “What’s that?”

  She eyed me. “We can’t afford to trust anyone.”

  “Next,” the female cop said.

  The Pentagon resembled a medieval fortress for the good reason that it had been loosely modeled after one. The most dramatic departure from tradition, other than perhaps an absence of towers or moats, was the thematic adherence to the number five; five sides, five stories, five concentric rings that expanded outwardly from a central courtyard. These rings were labeled A to E, and intersected ten numbered corridors. The architects had settled on this hub-and-spoke design for two primary reasons. First, it was an extremely efficient layout, which allowed someone to easily walk from one end of the building to the other within minutes; second, it created an enormous structural footprint that greatly enhanced the building’s survivability against a cataclysmic event, a fact chillingly validated on 9-11.

  I was familiar with the Pentagon because I’d spent a couple years there as a major, working OSI budget issues and avoiding generals. Back then, the hallways and offices could best be described as depressing. The lighting was bad, a permanent layer of grime seemed to cover the walls, and everywhere you looked you saw the same dingy yellows or puke greens. Now, with the billion-dollar renovation project that had been under way even before the attack, the atmosphere was considerably brighter, almost pleasant. The walls were a spotless white, the tile floors gleamed under bright lights, and the corridors had been spruced up with pretty paintings.

  The female cop studied our OSI credentials and our entry badges, had us push back our jackets to verify we were armed, then motioned us around the metal detectors. Other than casually inquiring if I was okay, she displayed little interest in Amanda and me. But as we strolled down the hallway, I looked back and saw her reach for a phone.

  Amanda and I entered the A, or innermost, ring, followed it to Corridor Nine, and hung a left toward the secured Joint Chiefs area. A frizzy-haired female army colonel was standing next to the Plexiglas security booth, which was occupied by a portly Pentagon cop, wearing either a furry red beret or the world’s ugliest toupee.