A Deeper Darkness (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Arlington National Cemetery
Dr. Samantha Owens

Fletcher was very unhappy with Sam. She’d apologized about fifty times, but he was still rigidly upset, the lines of his face tight and drawn, his shoulders combatively forward as he towered over her.

“Why didn’t you signal, or call out? My God, Hart was right there.”

“I’m
sorry
. I told you, I didn’t know it was him. He looks different than the photo. He wasn’t wearing sunglasses, to start, and he had a beard and long hair. He wasn’t dressed like the other soldiers. And I wasn’t… I was… Well, hell, Fletcher, I loved Donovan, too. I was saying goodbye to him, not looking for a killer. That’s
your
job.”

That calmed him down. Fletcher ran his hands through his hair. “I know, I know. I understand. Run me through it again. Anything you can think of. What exactly did he look like? What was he wearing? Did he smell like cigarettes?”

She went through it again and again, leaving out only the little bit of information that he’d handed her a card. She was being an idiot. She knew that. But she wanted to see what the numbers meant before she shared with them. Whitfield, if that was him, had approached her for a reason, and as much as she wanted to see Donovan’s killer caught and punished, something told her there was more to Whitfield’s involvement than met the eye. Donovan trusted Xander. His feelings on the man’s character and integrity were clear in the journal. She decided she would honor those thoughts until Whitfield proved himself a villain, beyond a reasonable doubt.

Fletcher stowed his notebook in his back pocket. “All right. You did good. I know you want to get to the reception.”

“Not really,” Sam said. “But I don’t think I have much of a choice. I’ll be at Eleanor’s if you need me.”

“You need a ride?”

Sam looked at the string of cars leaving the cemetery and realized that, yes, she did need a ride. She’d come over with a friend of Susan’s, not wanting to intrude on the family in their limousine, and the woman had obviously forgotten her, or figured she was catching a ride with another, and left.

“Come on,” Fletcher said.

She followed him to the nondescript unmarked. Hart was already leaning against the car, waiting. Fletcher barked instructions as he walked around to the driver’s side.

“We’re going to give Dr. Owens a ride to the reception. Then I’m going to go talk to Taranto. You stick around the reception, see if Whitfield shows his face again, comes back to show his respects to the wife privately. And get someone you trust to watch this grave site overnight.”

“Got it.”

They climbed in, Sam in the back feeling strangely like a fugitive, especially considering her white lie to the detectives. She debated telling them about the card again, then stopped. She was breaking every rule she knew, but something told her to hold off.

Donovan, you’re going to be the death of me.

Fletcher got on the phone to someone named Danny, asked him to track down the real reporter and get Fletcher on his schedule ASAP. He hung up after a few minutes and looked in the rearview mirror.

“So, Doc. We have another piece of the puzzle. Want to hear?”

“Lay it on me,” Sam said.

“Woman who lives across the street from the scene where Hal Croswell was killed? Name’s Margaret Lyons. Goes by Maggie. Three kids. Disappeared off the face of the earth the same day we found Croswell’s body. Hasn’t shown up for work, kids haven’t shown up for school. Turns out she served in the same region in Afghanistan as Donovan’s crew. What do you make of that?”

Sam didn’t hesitate. “There are two possible scenarios that come to mind. Either she’s the killer, and you got too close and she split, or she’s a victim, like the rest of them.”

“Mighty convenient that Croswell was killed in a house that Lyons knew was empty. She was the one who told us the owner travels all the time. She’d be in a position to know.”

“That’s true. But I thought you had Whitfield pegged as the main suspect?”

“We have several leads we’re pursuing right now.” He emphasized the
several,
which made Sam think he still wasn’t sharing everything he knew. Either not sharing, or at a loss and not as good a detective as she needed him to be. She tucked that into her head while he continued.

“It’s possible that Maggie Lyons is in it with Whitfield. Her husband, drunken lout that he is, claims she came back from Afghanistan preggers, and insists the kid isn’t his. He divorced her over it. We got a brief look at her financials last night, and she’s got a steady stream of income that’s unaccountable. Just a little extra each month. It helps keep her afloat.”

“Being paid off?”

“That’s a distinct possibility. Maybe being paid to keep quiet about something? Or her ex is right and the kid isn’t his, and the real father is making some sort of off-the-books child support payment?”

Sam looked out the window. They were driving over the Key Bridge, the Potomac River murky below them. She saw the fine square outline of the Kennedy Center reflected in the waters, the elegant white marble structure perched on the eastern bank of the river, and wished things were easier. She used to spend a lot of time at the Kennedy Center.

“Detective Fletcher, maybe you need to listen to what this Taranto guy has to say. Maybe the key to all of this is an incident that occurred in Afghanistan, and has nothing to do with Donovan and Croswell here in the States. Did you ever speak with that Culpepper man again? His mentor? I didn’t find a lot in Donovan’s journal referencing him, outside of the fact that he was one of his favorite commanders, though I can go back and look some more. I’d need his nickname—that’s the biggest problem. Donovan’s shorthand used the nicknames for his compatriots.”

“You didn’t see Culpepper? He was at the funeral. The tall gray-haired man wearing a chestful of medals who spoke at the end. We’ve talked a couple of times. He’s been…very helpful. Donovan didn’t have a second phone issued by Raptor.”

She watched Fletcher for a moment. “Culpepper is a suspect, too?”

“He was their commander in Afghanistan.”

“But I thought he was out of the country when the murders took place.”

“He was. Doesn’t mean I don’t have my eye on him. He might not have held the gun, but the man does own a firm that employs mercenaries. He certainly knows enough killers to arrange a murder. I’ve already been lied to once by a suspect in this case. Right now, everyone is in play as far as I’m concerned.”

* * *

When Sam returned to Eleanor’s, the post-burial reception was well under way. The house was full of people. Some cried, some gawked, some got quietly drunk in the corner. Eleanor was shell-shocked, too busy keeping everyone in food and drinks to grieve with them, and Susan had stepped out onto the back porch with the girls to have a private moment.

Hart walked Sam around to each guest personally, but unless Whitfield was a master of disguise, he wasn’t there. Finally excusing her from her manhunt duties, he went to the kitchen for some coffee, and Sam took the opportunity to escape upstairs. It was quiet in her room. Blissfully quiet. She shut the door and it seemed the whole world disappeared, leaving her alone for the first time in hours.

She’d been a solitary being for so long that she forgot what it was like to be around people all the time. Work was a different story—there she was focused on the task at hand and the people were fully under her control. She could close the door to her office and be assured no one would bother her, go home and turn off the phone, revel, or wallow, in the silence. Here, in D.C., she was at their mercy, and she was starting to get frachetty. Between Susan and Eleanor and Fletcher, someone was always calling, or wanting to feed her, or ask questions or talk earnestly, and it was wearing her out.

Despite that weariness, Sam realized that something had changed. She hadn’t had the urge to wash her hands at all today. Something in her deep and abiding grief had altered, and she wanted a little time and space to figure out what was happening.

She pulled her laptop from her bag and opened it. It booted quickly, and she went to Google immediately. She typed in “Friendly Fire Edward Donovan Afghanistan.”

There was nothing that stood out. She surfed through to a few sites, but none of the references were about her Donovan.

Then she pulled the card Whitfield had given her out of her wallet and looked at the numbers. Typed them into Google, as well.

A fraction of a second later, up popped a map with the header “Savage River State Park and National Forest.”

Coordinates. The numbers were latitude and longitude. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen that before. Blaming grief for making her senseless, she brought up several more maps and looked through them all. The coordinates seemed to be rather general. The closest thing to them was probably the forest ranger station.

Sam resisted smacking herself on the forehead. Well, of course it was. Donovan was an Airborne Ranger, and so was Whitfield. With a bit of cunning, he was telling her where to look. Where to find him.

“See anything interesting?”

Sam jumped, turning toward the voice. Hart. Standing in her open door, his arms crossed nonchalantly.

“Don’t you knock?” she snapped, hitting the screen saver so the page disappeared.

“When I’m trying to sneak up on someone, generally not. Shoulda locked your door. I saw Whitfield hand you something, and you didn’t tell us. Naughty-naughty. So, give—what was it?”

Busted. Sam didn’t even bother pretending. What was the point now? She had the information she needed. So Fletcher and Hart would, as well. She’d insist on going along, that’s all. She would find a way to talk to Whitfield without their overbearing presence making him disappear. She hoped.

She held out the card. Hart turned it over in his hands.

“Lat and long? For where?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“Savage River State Park. A ranger station.”

“Clever.” Hart pulled out his cell phone, hit a single number. Calling his partner, of course. The tattletale.

“Not answering. I’ll leave him a message. Fletch, we got a little trip to take. Probable location of Alexander Whitfield. Call when you’re done talking to Taranto.” He hung up and looked at Sam disapprovingly. “I thought you of all people knew better. Withholding vital evidence? There is a better than fifty-fifty chance that this man is a killer.”

“I know that.”

“So now you cope with loss by being stupid?”

“Hey,” Sam shot back. “Mind your own business.”

“Sweetheart…” The look on her face must have been terrifying. “Dr. Owens,” he began again. “You know better than this. Three people are dead. One whole family is missing. For all we know, you’ve read something in the journals that Whitfield thinks can tie him to the murders, and this is a well-planned trap to get you off on your own, away from our protection. Out in the wilderness, where no one will know where you’ve gone. It’s pretty easy to hide a body in the woods, you know. Takes a while for us to track it down.”

Sam hadn’t considered that she might be a target. That thought was sobering, to say the least. She hadn’t felt threatened by Whitfield in any way at the funeral. Of course, as Hart pointed out, that was probably the idea. Spider to the fly. Coaxing her into a web of deceit. Sadly, she found herself unafraid. She didn’t have any reservations about putting herself in harm’s way. Not anymore.

“I’m coming with you,” Sam said.

Hart’s phone rang. He opened and listened, then nodded curtly and said, “Yeah. On our way.” He shoved the phone in his pocket and said, “Yes, you are. Pack a bag. We’ll be gone overnight. But first, we need to make a stop. You want to play detective? Now’s your chance.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Washington, D.C.
Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam edged her way into the Old Ebbitt Grill. She stood by the hostess stand for a moment to get her bearings and quickly felt her ears start to ring. It was incredibly loud. Thursday night happy hour, and the place was packed. When she’d lived in D.C., Thursday was the night to go out. It was meant for singles, and new couples, a night to cast inhibitions to the wind and get gloriously, achingly polluted. Thursdays lasted well into Friday, the lines between the two blurring after too many pitchers accompanied by too many shots, and she’d spent more than one Friday morning in class hosting a wicked hangover. It had been well known in D.C. that Friday morning was not the time to schedule important meetings. She assumed that held true even now.

Back then, this bar had been filled to the gills with people both important and wanting to be, and cigar and cigarette smoke hung thick in the air. It was a stone’s throw from the White House and political operatives had graced its hallowed halls for decades. Deals were cut in the red leather booths, leaning onto one of four long bars, on the stairs down to the marble bathrooms. Deals and assignations and every other kind of vice—Old Ebbitt’s was more than a legend. It was a king maker.

And now, the crowd was even larger and infinitely more hip: every third person was staring at their palm, where tiny devices connected them to the world beyond. The Information Age. Sam found it sad. There was no real sense of being anywhere anymore. Whatever world you were in, the world you could reach through your screen was much more enticing. Why bother going out with friends at all if all you wanted to do was talk to the people who were absent?

She’d had a friend like that once. A girl who was only around Sam when there was nothing better to do, no cooler, hipper places to go or people to be with. That’s exactly what this technological phenomenon reminded her of.

Sam miraculously found an empty stool halfway down the front bar and watched the women around her flirt with the men, and they in return, with interest akin to horror. It was lost on her, this sly byplay between a man and a woman: the slitted eyes with heavy-lidded, lingering glances; the engaging half smile, lips pouting so their fullness was accentuated, showing just a little teeth in a brief flash of white; hanging on every word as if it were the most important thing said on earth; the well-timed touch on the shoulder that screamed,
Tell me more, and remember, I’m stunning,
without making it seem too desperate.

She didn’t know how to do that anymore. The idea actually made her skin crawl. Which was sad, considering. She’d always been a sexual creature, at least until Simon died. Now she was shriveled up, completely uninterested in sex. Clinically, she wondered how long that would last. The body was biologically designed for pleasure, for the comforts of intimacy. In denying herself, what was she accomplishing?

No, she wasn’t really denying herself. She’d been in a fog for two years, a fog of grief and loneliness and horrifying emptiness. Sex was about the last thing she wanted, or needed.

But she was a realist. Eventually those urges would come back. Just thinking about it made her ache with longing, and disgust. She couldn’t even imagine being with someone other than Simon. Hadn’t, since he died. But being here, thinking of Donovan, she was increasingly unable to separate the memories of them out of bed from those of them in bed. Eight out of every ten conversations she and Donovan had were horizontal. It was part of the allure.

It had been a long, long time since she’d thought of another man’s body. And now, memories of both of the men she’d loved mingled in her head, each vying for attention. She’d done a psychiatry rotation, she understood what was happening. Acceptance. Accepting the fact that her grief was changing, becoming something less sharp to hold in her hands, to shield her from the world.

Her bed was cold and unforgiving now, but she missed being touched. She missed the soft caresses, the lingering kisses, the warm familiarity of sleeping next to someone.

Feeling lonely was a long way from wanting to flirt. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t even pretend that she was. Yet sitting in the bar at Old Ebbitt’s, she quickly understood that if she were ready, she’d have no shortage of choices. Men from three sides leaned in to see her, and a couple of women did, as well. The knowledge gave her the tiniest bit of comfort, even as she prayed to Simon for forgiveness. These weren’t appropriate thoughts for a widow.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. A short, muscular man, his mustache and eyebrows incredibly full and dark brown, with no hair on his head, was standing next to her, eyes darting around the restaurant. He looked like a miniature G. Gordon Liddy, who she’d seen plenty of times in this establishment back in the day. This must be the real Gino Taranto.

“I got a table over there,” he shouted. He jerked his head toward the back of the restaurant, started walking. Sam got up and followed him. He let her slide into the booth before he joined her on the opposite side. The din was manageable back here, a cicadalike buzz replacing the meat market’s squalling racket.

A server rushed over to greet them. Sam ordered a Lagavulin. Taranto looked impressed and asked for a Yuengling. The waiter dropped some bread on the table and scurried away. Now they were alone.

“So,” Sam said. “Why am I here? Why couldn’t you just meet Detec—”

“Shhhh!” Taranto glanced over his shoulder before leaning across the table. “You hot?”

“Not really. It’s a little stuffy in here, but I’m all right.”

Taranto rolled his eyes. “Lady, I ain’t talking about the temperature. Are you
hot
. Wired.”

It took Sam a second. “Oh. No. I’m not wearing a wire.”

“You’ll forgive me for not believing you. Slide the shirt down a little.”

She looked him straight in his beady little eyes. “I’ll do no such thing. I told you I’m not taping you. Either you believe me, or we’re done.” She started to stand and he grabbed her arm.

“Okay, okay. Just don’t use my name.”

“Why, exactly, can’t you talk to—”

“’Cause I can’t be seen out talking to cops. It ain’t safe. I ain’t safe. I’m meetin’ you against my better judgment. But Mutant said you could be trusted, thought Chevy could, too. Remember that. No names.”

Chevy? Who the hell… Oh, Chevy Chase. Fletch. Chevy was Fletch. Clever. Mutant, she knew, was Alexander Whitfield. She wondered when she was going to get a code name. What would it be? Bones? Legs? More like Ass, hers was getting big enough for its own zip code. She hadn’t been working out a lot. She knew she was too thin, but all her muscle tone was gone. She’d gotten flabby. Things were spreading in all the wrong directions.

Sam, really.

She tried to refocus.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Taranto. Cloak and dagger isn’t exactly my strong suit. I’m a medical examiner, not a spy.”

“
Jesus,
I told you not to use my name. ’Scuse my language. I know you’re a doc. That’s why I’m talking to you, and not them. You have no authority here.” The waiter sidled up with their drinks. They stayed silent, waiting for him to clear out before resuming.

“Okay. You’re a part of this now. So, listen up. I ain’t got all day.”

Sam took a sip of the scotch, let the nose expand. She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them to find Taranto looking at her in scowling amusement.

“Are you ready now?”

“Yes,” she said, then smiled with her lips closed. She knew her dimples showed that way. Flirting practice. It worked. Taranto loosened up a bit, his shoulders dropping an inch.

“All right. Here’s the scoop. Last month, chick comes to me, says she thinks her hubby was KIA by a friendly over in Jal¯al¯ab¯ad. We’ll call him King.”

Sam immediately sat straighter. King was the nickname Susan Donovan had used for Perry Fisher. One of the five men in the photo, the one who died in Afghanistan.

“What made her think that?”

“Apparently, she ran into a
shaky
guy at a mutual friend’s funeral. They had a few drinks, told a few stories. This guy got into his cups and let this bit of news slip. When she questioned him, he clammed up. She pushed and pushed until he said to talk to another guy. We’ll call him Orange. She did. Orange denied everything. Said that was crazy talk, that the shaky guy was a worthless drunk. Now, this lady knew her hubby liked the shaky guy, so she thought maybe there’s something else going on here. She happens to read my words, regular like, comes to me and tells me the story. I go digging. One thing is consistent with the military. The brass don’t like to share when they fuck up. ’Scuse my language. Orange pushed back, and hard. So I back off him, all nice like. But I do what I do, and sure enough, what that shaky dude said rings true. You got me so far?”

He sat back in the booth and took a long sip of his beer.

Sam tried deciphering that load of information in her mind. Karen Fisher had seen William Everett—Billy Shakes—at a funeral. Billy was drunk and said some things he shouldn’t. Karen, concerned that she’d been denied the true story of her husband’s death, followed up, talked with someone named Orange. Sam made a mental note—
find out who Orange is.

Then it hit her. Orange must be this missing Maggie Lyons Fletcher had mentioned. One piece of the puzzle solved.

Regardless, it didn’t seem like news worth killing over. She knew this wouldn’t have been the first time a soldier died by friendly fire, but maybe Sam was being naive.

“All right. I’m following. So according to Shaky, who killed King? And why hide it?”

“Sister, people are getting dead against their will. That’s good enough for me. I got my suspicions, but soon as I dove into it, I got some pretty nasty threats to back off. Normally I don’t listen to that kind of shit—’scuse my language—but the threats weren’t directed at me. They were directed at her.”

Sam thought this through for a minute. “So King’s wife was threatened by Orange to get
you
to back off the story.”

“Exactamundo. If I didn’t back off, she’d bleed. And the kids. Story wasn’t worth getting someone dead for. This time, I backed off for real.”

“But let me guess. She didn’t.”

“No. Didn’t know what was good for her. She starts talking to anyone she can find that might know what went down. Gets a coupla different stories, little details changed here and there. Realizes someone’s gotta be lying. Next thing she knows, people start dropping like flies.”

“Why didn’t she go to the police?”

He drank some more of his beer. “Well, see, that might have been the smart thing to do. But this chick, she’s grieving. And she’s angry. Angry she got lied to, and angry she’s being pushed. You know how bees will leave you alone if you leave them alone, but you start trying to fight them off and they just dive-bomb your head? She’s a real fucking bee. ’Scuse my language.”

“Where is she now?”

“I can’t say.”

Sam sighed deeply and took another sip of the scotch. Let it roll around on her tongue.

“You don’t know? Or you have her hidden?”

“Hidden, for her own damn good. She finally got the message after Jackal bit it.”

Hal Croswell. Apparently Donovan hadn’t been a strong enough message. “And you’re certain she wasn’t the one doing the killing?”

“Hundred percent. No way. This chick is looking for answers, and she knows her questions are what got a bunch of people in trouble. She’s scared to death she’s next.”

“Have you ever heard of a woman named Maggie Lyons?”

Taranto crossed his stubby arms on the table.

“What if I had?”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Nope. Pinky swear. But I know where she’s been.”

“And that would be…?”

“Not that. Who.”

“Who? Oh. Wow, you really have been into this story. You must have spoken to the husband. He claims the child isn’t his. Do you know who the father is?”

“Think so. Which is another reason I need to keep King’s old lady away.”

Sam took a moment to think, finished her scotch. It all started to make sense.

“King is the father.”

Taranto snapped his fingers.

“Mr. Taranto—”

“Again with the names. Jesus, lady, you trying to get me killed?”

“Sorry, you never told me what I should call you.”

“Ralph.”

“Ralph. Of course. Silly of me not to draw that conclusion on my own. So,
Ralph
. You really expect me to believe that you’re not working this story now?”

It was his turn to smile. “Maybe I got a few things cooking. Be crazy not to at least make a few nudges, take some notes. Thing is, something like this, I get the feeling it’s big. Real big. And there’s heroes to think of. Dragging names through the mud, fucking with benefits—’scuse my language—with awards and stars and all that jazz, isn’t my cup of tea. I may hate why they’re there, but I respect the gig.”

Sam didn’t think the two were necessarily mutually exclusive, but now wasn’t the time for a debate.

“Who’s your contact inside?” she asked instead.