The Minotaur (8 page)

When he finished with the in-basket pile he began rooting
through the desk drawers. Unbelievable! Here at the back of the
wide, shallow drawer above his knees was an old memo on army
stationery, dated 1956. Where had they gotten these desks? And
what else was in here? Maybe he would find an announcement
from the War Department that Japan had surrendered.

Alas, nothing so extraordinary. A two-year old date book, most
of the pages blank. Some matchbooks from a restaurant—perhaps
Strong liked to drop in there for a cup of coffee. Three envelopes
addressed to Strong in a feminine hand: empty envelopes with the
stamp canceled, no return address. One broken shoelace, a button
that didn’t look like it came from a uniform, two rubber bands, a
collection of government pens and #2 lead pencils. He tried the
pens on scrap paper. Most of them still worked. Some of the eras-
ers on the pencils were pretty worn.

So Harold Strong had been murdered.

And Admiral Henry had throttled the investigation even before
it started. Or so he said.

He shook his head in annoyance. Those problems were not his
concern. His job was to run this project. With the A-12 still in the
prototype stage, many major decisions remained to be made. Jake
already knew where he would throw his weight, what little he had.
For too long, in his opinion, the military had been stuck with
airplanes designed to accomplish so many disparate missions that
they were unable to do any of them well. If they wanted an attack
plane, then by God he would argue like hell for a capable attack
plane.

Every aircraft design involved inevitable trade-offs: fuel capacity
was traded for strength and maneuverability, weapons-carrying ca-
pacity sacrificed for speed, maneuverability surrendered for stabil-
ity, and so on, because every aircraft had to have all of these
things, yet it needed these things in degrees that varied with its
mission. But with stealth literally everything was being compro-
mised in varying degrees to achieve invisibility, or in the jargon of
the trade, survivabihty.

For two hours this afternoon the commanders and experts had
argued that a plane that could not survive over the modern battle-
field was not worth having. Yet a plane that did survive but could
not fight was equally worthless. Somewhere between these two ex-
tremes was a balance.

The other major consideration that had been tossed around this
affternoon was a conundrum that baffled politicians and generals as
well as aircraft designers. What war do you build your airplane to
fight? World War III nuclear? World War II conventional? Viet-
nam? Anti-terrorist raids against Libya? The answer, Jake be-
Keved, had to be all of them. Yet achieving survivability over the
European battlefield might well mean trading away conventional
iron-bomb-carrying capacity that would be essential in future
brushfire wars, like Vietnam. Megabuck smart missiles were cur-
rently in vogue but the nation could never afford enough of them
to fight any war that lasted longer than two weeks.

This job was not going to be easy, or dull.

“She-it,” Jake Grafton said aloud, drawing the word out slowly.
When you looked at Tyler Henry and listened to him he seemed
okay. But if all you did was listen to the words—well, it sure did
make you wonder. Spies? Murder investigations put on hold? Was
Henry some paranoid wacko, some coconut schizo on the naked
edge who ought to be locked in the bowels of St. Elizabeth’s with-
out his belt and shoelaces?

The first thing I ought to do, Jake told himself, before I go see
the ultimate war machine manufactured by some greedy Gyro
Gearloose in a garage in California, is check out Henry. It would
be nice to know that the big boss has all his marbles. It would be
damn nice to know if he doesn’t. Dunedin wanted Jake to salute
and march.

“A fellow never gets very far marching in the dark. anyhow,”
Jake said aloud. “Too much stuff out there to trip over.”

He used one of the black government pens from Strong’s hoard
to write a note for the senior secretary’s desk. What was her name?
Mrs. Pulliam. There were just two secretaries, both civilians.

The note informed all and sundry he would be in late tomorrow,
after lunch. He had a moment of doubt. There was so much to be
done here. Yet they had gotten along without a project manager for
two months now; they could suffer through another day.

5

Toad Tarkington lowered himself
into a seat against the window on the left side of the airplane,
Boeing 727. Three engines, he noted with satisfaction. Airliners
made him aervous these days. He couldn’t see the guys flying or
monitor the instruments and he had no ejection seat, so he couldn’t
boogy on out if the clowns up front ham-fingered it, which, from
what he read in the newspapers, they had been doing lately with
distressing frequency. Luckily this flight to Seattle was almost
empty, so after the crash there wouldn’t be any unsightly mob
ripping out hair and eyeballs scrambling for the emergency exits.

He glanced across the four empty seats and the aisle at Rita
Moravia sitting against the window on the right side. Now there
was one cold, cold woman. She hadn’t yet smiled in his presence or
given any indication she ever would. The old Tarkington charm
rolled right over her as if it had gone bad in the winter of ‘85.
turned sour and rotten and gave off an evil odor.

The plane began to move. Backwards. They were pushing it out.
Toad glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes late. They were always
late. He tried to get comfortable in his seat. Reluctantly he picked
up the copy of The Washington Post he had purchased at a news
counter and scanned the headlines. Same old crap—it’s absolutely
uncanny how politicians can be relied upon to do or say something
every single day that even Charlie Manson would think bizarre.

He sneaked a glance at Moravia. She was reading a paperback.

He squinted. My God—it’s a Jackie Collins novell How about
that? The ice queen deep into sex among the rich and stupid.
Maybe her hormones are okay after all.

Toad leaned back and closed his eyes. He needed to work out
some kind of approach, a line. First he needed to know more about
her. This was going to take some time, but she looked like she’d be
worth it and Jake Grafton had implied that they were going to be
spending plenty of time together. That Grafton, he didn’t just fall
off a turnip truck. He knew the score.

Toad opened one eye and aimed it her way. Yep, a nice tight
unit reading a romance novel. Who’d have guessed?

When the plane was safely airborne he reclined his seat and
drifted off to sleep wearing a satisfied little smile.

Jake Grafton found a place to park the Chevy right on Main Street
a block from the courthouse intersection, which sported the only
stoplights in town. Actually there were three empty parking places
all in a row and he took one on the end. Romney, West Virginia,
was not a bustling place on a cold, breezy March morning.

The interior of the courthouse was massive and calm. The ceil-
ings were at least fifteen high. Even the interior walls were thick,
substantial, built to last. He examined the signs on the wooden
doors and settled on the circuit clerk’s office. Inside he asked,
“Where do I find the prosecuting attorney?”

“Across the street on the left end of the block. He has an office
above the liquor store. Cookman’s his name.” The lady smiled.

“And the state police?”

”Out of the courthouse, turn right and go three blocks, then
another right and down about a half mile. The barracks is a nice
little brick building. You can’t miss it.”

Standing in front of the courthouse beside the statue of a World
War I doughboy, Jake decided to walk to the state police barracks
first. The first three blocks were along the main drag, by stores and
empty display windows. The decay of the American Main Street
had reached this little community too. When he turned right he
left the commercial district and found himself in a quiet residential
area. As he passed modest houses with trees in the lawns and pick-
ups and motorcycles in the drive, he could hear dogs barking and
occasionally a snatch of talk show from an open door.

The police barracks had American and West Virginia flags flying
on large poles in front, beside an empty parking area festooned
with signs and plastic barriers for driving tests. Inside there wasn’t
a cop in sight. The girl behind the desk looked like she was barely
out of high school.

“Hi, I’d like to get a copy of an accident report from a couple
months ago.”

“Did it happen in the city or out in the county?”

“Outside the city.”

“You’ve come to the right place.” She smiled. “I need the names
of the parties involved, or at least one of them.”

“Harold Strong.”

“Just a moment.” She selected a drawer in a large file cabinet
and began looking. “All we have are copies, of course. The origi-
nals go to DMV in Charleston. We’re not even required to keep
copies but we do because the lawyers and insurance adjusters al-
ways want to see them. Are you a lawyer?”

“Uh, no. I was a friend of Captain Strong’s.”

“Here it is.” She looked at it as she walked toward the counter.
“He was in the navy, wasn’t he.”

Her comment was a statement, not a question, but he responded
anyway. “Yes, he was.”

She laid the report on the counter in front of him. “That’s our
office copy and our copy machine is out of order. There’s one up in
the county clerk’s office, where they keep the deeds and all?” He
nodded. “But you need to leave your driver’s license with me.” She
smiled apologetically. “So many people forget to bring our copy
back.”

He dug out his wallet and extracted his license. She didn’t even
look at it. “Thanks. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Very nicely done, he thought as he walked the half mile back
toward the main street. No doubt before he got out of Romney he
would be talking to a state trooper. He looked at the name on the
report. Trooper Keadle.

There was an unpadded bench in the corridor outside the county
clerk’s office and he settled there. The report consisted of three
pages. The first was a form with blanks to be filled in and a dia-
gram where the investigating officer drew little cars and arrows to
show what he believed happened. The next two pages were merely
handwritten comments of the investigating office. Keadle had a
neat hand—he obviously hadn’t ruined his penmanship with years
of furious note-taking.

The report was straightforward, devoid of bureaucratese. Jake
read it a second time slowly, studying the words. According to
Admiral Henry the prosecuting attorney had had a hand in this
report, which “would not preclude a homicide prosecution.” That
could only mean that none of the critical facts were omitted. A
half-smart defense lawyer would raise holy hell if the prosecutor
asked the trooper to testify about facts that he had “forgotten” to
put in the official report.

What was in the report? Marks on the highway where it ap-
peared tires may have broken their regular grip with the pavement
and spun under power. No skid marks: wet pavement prevented
that. Deep trenches in the gravel, some of which went all the way
to the edge, presumably from skidding tires. Marks in the earth
where the Corolla went over the edge. Wooden guardrails had been
chain-sawed several days before the accident, presumably by van-
dals or parties unknown; see previous report of sheriff’s deputy.
Fire in Corolla passenger compartment very intense, body burned
beyond recognition and identified with help of FBI forensic lab.- No
mention of why or when the FBI was notified. Dents and scrape
marks all over the vehicle. Finally, Corolla still structurally intact
but gutted by fire.

No mention of the Corolla’s fuel tank. But the trooper could
certainly testify that the fuel tank, like the car’s frame, was intact.
No speculation on or estimate of how fast the Corolla would have
had to be going up that mountain to slide all the way across the
overlook area. Did he explain that the Corolla was ascending the
grade? Yes, on page one.

No speculation about the cause of this single-car accident and no
speculation anywhere that another vehicle might be involved.

He took the report into the office beside him and had it copied.
They charged him thirty cents. He was tempted to use the car to
return the original report but decided the exercise would be good
for him. As he approached the police building, a trooper was park-
ing his car in a reserved spot.

“Thanks,” he told the girl at the desk. She handed him his driv-
er’s license, which had been lying on the counter beside the police
radio microphone.

The door behind Jake opened. “Hi, Susie.” Jake turned. The
trooper was clad in a green uniform and wore a short green nylon
jacket. He was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five years of
age, with a tanned, clean-shaven face and short military haircut.
He stood several inches taller than Jake and was built heavier. On
the left breast of his coat was a silver name tag: Keadle. “Hello,”
he said, addressing the greeting to Jake.

“Hi.”

“This is Mr. Jacob L. Grafton of Arlington, Virginia,” the girl
said. “He was a friend of Captain Strong’s.”

“Izzatso?” The trooper’s eyes swept him again, more carefully.
“Why don’tcha step into this other room here for a minute. Susie,
how about getting us both coffee. White or black?” he said to Jake.

“Black.”

“Black it is,” he said, and led the way behind the counter and
through a door into an adjoining office. His big revolver swung
freely below his jacket in a brown holster that hung halfway down
his right leg.

“Captain Strong had a little cabin a few miles east of here for
weekends and all,” the trooper said. “I knew him to speak to.
Helluva nice guy. Too bad about that wreck.”