House Divided (7 page)

“What problem?” he said.

Levy sat there flexing his big hands, the expression on his face solemn as it always was. Bradford knew Levy’s family history, but did the man always have to look so grim? Charles Bradford rarely smiled, but even he smiled more than Levy.

“Gilmore called me,” Levy said.

Gilmore was a colonel stationed at Fort Myer in Arlington, Virginia, and he commanded the Third Infantry Regiment. Charles Bradford had personally selected him for the position. Other army personnel were not surprised at the interest Bradford had taken in selecting the regimental commander of the Old Guard because Bradford had once held that position for a short time. People would be very surprised, however, if they knew how Bradford had changed the Old Guard’s mission.

“He said he received a call from a woman,” Levy said, “a Staff Sergeant Marian Kane over at the Pentagon. She was calling about the two men I used on the Russo problem.”

“You mean the men you shipped out?”

“Yes, sir. Sergeants Pierce and Gannon. Anyway, Kane knew that Gannon and Pierce had been reassigned and she said her boss wanted to know who had authorized the transfer. According to Sergeant Kane, her boss was upset because these men were not supposed to be rotated out of Fort Myer for at least a year. Gilmore naturally said he couldn’t help her, that he didn’t get involved every time some low-ranking soldier was reassigned, and then he called over to the Pentagon to see if a Sergeant Kane really works there. He discovered that there is a Sergeant Marion Kane in personnel—but that’s Marion spelled M-a-r-i-o-n, and Sergeant Kane is a male. Whoever called Gilmore screwed up.”

“I don’t understand,” Bradford said. “Why would anyone be asking about those two soldiers?”

“I did some backtracking after Gilmore called me. I discovered that after Sergeant Witherspoon—uh, died, that—”

“Witherspoon?” Bradford asked.

Levy didn’t speak for a moment and Bradford could sense Levy’s disapproval. “Sergeant Witherspoon,” Levy said, “was the soldier driving the ambulance, the man who was—”

“Oh, yes,” Bradford said. “I’m sorry, John,” he added, and he truly was. He was embarrassed he’d forgotten Witherspoon’s name, a man who died in the service of his country.

“I found out that someone claiming to be from the Arlington Police Department took Witherspoon’s fingerprints before his body was taken from the hospital,” Levy said.

“So what?” Bradford said. “He was a John Doe and the police wanted to identify him.”

“That’s possible. But if the cops had taken his fingerprints, they would have drawn a blank. Witherspoon’s fingerprints are not in any criminal database, and if Arlington tried to access military fingerprint files, they still would have come up empty. As you know, Witherspoon’s prints are flagged, I would have been contacted, and his name wouldn’t have been released to the police without my approval.”

“John, I’m confused,” Bradford said. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the only way the Arlington cops could have identified Witherspoon through his fingerprints was if they had contacts at the Pentagon or the ability to hack into a military data base and override the don’t-release tag on Witherspoon’s name. The detective who was assigned to the case before Hopper took it away from him is ex-military, but he was just a grunt in the marines more than twenty years ago. I think it’s highly unlikely, sir, that this detective or anyone associated with him could have identified Witherspoon. So the big question is this: How did they make the leap?”

“The leap?”

“Yes, sir. What caused them to take the next step? What made them start asking questions about the cadre at Fort Myer after they identified Witherspoon?”

“Maybe they were just checking to see if Witherspoon had accomplices. Looking at other men in his unit would be a logical step.”

“I don’t think so,” Levy said. “The ambulance he stole was recovered when it was wrecked, it wasn’t involved in any crime the police know of, and I doubt there’s some big auto-theft ring in the area dealing in stolen ambulances. No, sir. The cops just wouldn’t have dug this hard for one stolen ambulance.

“General, I don’t know what’s going on here. All I know is that Witherspoon and the two men I used for the operation have been identified and someone is asking questions.”

Bradford could feel a bubble of panic began to form in his chest, which he quickly suppressed—he had never panicked in his life—but there was reason for concern. In the past, there had never been a direct connection between him and Levy’s operations—other than Levy himself, of course, and Levy would never talk. But this thing with Russo was different. He couldn’t separate himself from Russo’s death if the reason for his death were to become known. He started to rise from his chair to … to what? To tell Levy what was at stake? He didn’t need to tell John Levy that.

But before he could say anything, Levy said, “I’m pursuing a lead, sir. I think I can find out who took Witherspoon’s fingerprints.”

“Pursue it fast, John,” Bradford said. “Find out what the hell’s going on.”

The lady in charge of the hospice where Paul Russo had worked was a plain-faced middle-aged woman with short gray hair, no makeup, and a prim set to her mouth. She wore a blue skirt with a hem that fell a good two inches below her chunky knees, a short-sleeved white blouse, and she had a small cross on a thin gold chain around her neck. She made DeMarco think of a nun in civilian clothes. Her name was Jane Sealy.

DeMarco explained to Jane that he was trying to find his cousin’s will so he could deal with his estate. At the mention of Paul’s name, Jane crossed herself and then basically told him that Paul had been the saint who walked among us: extremely religious, gave his time and money to charities, loved his fellow man, wouldn’t hurt a fly, and his patients and their families loved him. There was no one better suited, more compassionate, more caring, Jane said, when it came to helping people die.

DeMarco was sure all this was true, but he’d always thought that Paul had been a rather boring, mousy guy. Even as a kid, he hung back, awkward and shy, barely saying a word. DeMarco recalled the one time he had lunch with Paul when Paul first arrived in Washington. His cousin didn’t like sports, nor did he play any. He rarely watched television and didn’t go to many movies. He had no interest in politics whatsoever. So after they had discussed the few relatives they had in common, they had very little to talk about. At one point, Paul told him he was looking for a good congregation to join and asked where DeMarco attended church—and DeMarco lied. He said he didn’t attend any particular church, that on Sunday he just went wherever the mood struck him. The truth was, he only went to church for weddings and funerals. The consequence of all this was that it had been an uncomfortable lunch filled with long periods of silence, and DeMarco was relieved when it was over. But based on everything Paul’s landlord and his boss had said, it sounded as if his cousin had been a good man and DeMarco regretted that he’d never made the effort to know him better.

He asked Jane if he could look through Paul’s desk and his computer to locate a will or the name of Paul’s lawyer, but when he said this Jane told him, quite firmly, that she wouldn’t allow him to do that unless he had some authority, like documentation confirming he was the executor of Paul’s estate. DeMarco pointed out the catch-22: he wouldn’t know if he was the executor of Paul’s estate unless he could find Paul’s will, but he couldn’t find Paul’s will because he couldn’t prove he was the executor of the estate.

“Well, I’m sorry about that,” Jane said, “but you’re a complete stranger to me and I can’t let you go pawing through his desk. And anyway,” she added, “the FBI took his computer.”

“They took his computer?”

“Yes.”

“When was the FBI here?” DeMarco asked.

“A couple of hours ago.”

“An agent named Hopper?”

“Yes. He had a warrant and he looked through Paul’s desk. And he took his computer.”

It looked like all this had happened while DeMarco was at Paul’s place.

“Okay,” DeMarco said, “but would you mind looking through Paul’s desk for me? All I’m trying to do is settle his estate.”

“Yes. I have to clean out his desk and if I come across a will or a reference to one, I’ll let you know. But I can tell you that Paul wasn’t the sort of person who did personal business at work, and I doubt if he kept any of his private correspondence here.”

DeMarco was about to leave but said, “Let me ask you something. Did Paul have access to drugs?”

“Of course,” Jane said, and then she explained.

People under a hospice’s care were not given medications to stop them from dying or to even slow down the pace of whatever was killing them. Nonetheless, they had mini-pharmacies in their homes: drugs to help them sleep, to help move their bowels, to help reduce their pain.

“Things like Valium?” DeMarco asked.

“Why are you asking about this?” Jane said.

“Because the FBI thinks Paul may have been stealing meds from his patients and selling them. Didn’t Hopper tell you that?”

“No, and that’s absurd. Paul would never do something like that. He was the most honest person I’ve ever known.”

“So no one—family members, drugstores, doctors—ever complained of drugs being missing or having to refill prescriptions too often?”

“I just told you, no. It’s offensive that you’d even suggest such a thing.”

“I’m not suggesting anything; the FBI’s the one who’s saying that. But what I can’t figure out is why he was at the Iwo Jima Memorial at one in the morning and got shot. And, as much as I hate to say it, dealing drugs is a possibility.”

“No. It’s. Not.”

“Then why do you think he was there at that time of night? I heard once that the park near the memorial was a gay pickup place. Do you think he could have been—I don’t know—sneaking around, trying to meet a lover there?”

“Paul wasn’t in the closet; he didn’t need to sneak around. He wouldn’t have snuck around.”

“Well, maybe he hooked up with some married gay guy and then decided to tell the guy’s wife, and the married guy whacked him to keep him from telling.”

“I think you should leave.”

“Hey, I was just thinking out loud,” DeMarco said defensively. “And I believe you when you say he was a good guy. So who would want to kill him?”

“I don’t know,” Jane said, “but something was bothering him last week. He was spending a lot of time with one particular patient and when I stopped by to see how things were going, he was … I don’t know. Different. Subdued. Nervous, like he was worried about something. He was always so upbeat I was surprised.”

“Did he tell you what was bothering him?”

“No.”

“Who was this patient he was taking care of?” DeMarco asked.

Claire stood in front of the mirror in the ladies’ room—and shook her head in dismay.

Her mother had an expression, some nonsensical thing she’d probably read in Ann Landers or heard on Oprah: You make the face you get. Silly, irrational saying—but maybe it was true.

Claire had been a pretty young woman: a nice slim body, long blonde hair, a perfect nose, light blue eyes. She once had that healthy All-American girl look you see in leggy models who advertise sportswear for upscale clothing stores. At thirty-eight, she still had the long blonde hair and the slim build—but in the last ten years she’d become downright
gaunt
. Her face had become narrow, almost predatory, her arms muscular yet stringy. She had the look of a person who burned calories standing still.

She was still undeniably feminine—it wasn’t as if she’d become mannish looking—but there wasn’t anything soft about her anymore. That day, the day it happened, the softness just began to fade away—and, along with it, any sense of playfulness she once had. She now looked like … well, like the person she was: driven, relentless, perpetually restless. Her eyes had become cold and lifeless; her lips thin and bloodless; and those lines etched into her cheeks, bracketing her mouth…. Where the hell had those come from?

She couldn’t help but wonder: Would she have this face if he had lived?

Enough, she said. You don’t have time to feel sorry for yourself. Get back to work.

Gilbert was not in his cubicle, so Claire had to walk all around the damn room until she spotted him, talking to Irwin, another one of her techs. As she walked up behind him, she heard Gilbert say, “Jessica Biel, man, she’s way fuckin’ finer than Jessica Simpson.”

That was
just
what she needed to hear.

She cleared her throat and both techs looked at her, deer-in-the-headlights expressions on their faces, embarrassed to have been caught bullshitting instead of working.

“Bring me what you have on Russo and Hopper,” she said to Gilbert, and walked away without waiting for an answer.

As Gilbert stood anxiously in front of her desk, eating his fingernails, she ignored him and read the printouts. Regarding Russo, the guy sounded like some sort of gay angel: hospice worker, didn’t cheat on his taxes, gave to charity like he was Bill Gates. He’d never had a traffic ticket, much less committed a real crime.

“Autopsy report,” she said.

Gilbert handed it to her.

The first thing she noticed was that the autopsy had begun at five
A.M
. the day Russo died and had been completed at six
A.M
. No way. Speedy-friggin’-Gonzales couldn’t have chopped the guy up that fast. But the bell ringer was the cause of death: death by gunshot wound to the head at close range and, based on entry and exit wounds, the weapon had most likely used 9mm ammunition. No bullet had been recovered.

Bullshit. Double bullshit.

The report in the Arlington cop’s computer said there had been
no
exit wound, which there would have been if Russo had been shot at close range with a nine mickey-mike. And she was convinced from the transmission they’d intercepted that Russo had not been shot at close range. He’d been popped from some distance away by a sniper, and if there was no exit wound, the ordnance involved was probably the type the
SWAT
boys used, the kind of ammo that penetrates the skull and then explodes into a jillion little fragments, instantly shutting off all voluntary motor functions. But a 9mm would fit the story that the nurse had been killed in some drug deal gone bad, such a weapon being gangbanger, drug-dealer, street scum preference.