One Was a Soldier (39 page)

Russ twisted the temperature control to hot and turned the blower on. “What about the investigation?”

“Well, that’s the real interesting part. I asked a JAG who’s prosecuted several fraud cases to talk to her contact in FINCOM. As far as she could tell, no one in that office has seen a major theft investigation come across the transom. Now, Seelye is high enough up there to take a case without having to run it by her colleagues, but regs state everything must be logged and a file started, both hard copy and electronic.”

“Let me guess. There’s no record of the missing million or Tally McNabb.”

“You got it. No log, no file, no nothing.”

Quentan Nichols had told Clare that he was the one who had started the investigation, and when he went looking for more help from FINCOM, Colonel Seelye had shown up and taken the case away from him.

“Tony, did you get a sense of what Seelye was doing in Iraq? Could she have been part of the plot to steal the cash from the start?”

“She was doing loss prevention in Camp Anaconda, according to my contact. Reviewing contracts, running spot accounting checks, the sort of thing a bank’s financial control officer does—and don’t forget, we’re running the biggest bank in the country. I have to say, though, you’re not talking about a high level of sophistication here. This is basically a couple guys shifting a box out of a warehouse. It doesn’t take any special knowledge.”

“Except knowing that the box had a million inside.”

“Right. My guess—and you can take it for what it’s worth—is that she spotted something that tipped her off to the missing money. It was her job to pass on all accounts coming in and out of Anaconda. For whatever reason, she decided she could use that money more than the army could. I bet if you dug into her personal life, you’d find a major weak spot. Husband’s business failed, or they lost all the kids’ college money.”

Russ smiled. “Good to know you can still think like a cop, counselor.”

“Hey. I learned from the best.”

“Thanks—and thanks for getting me the info. I owe you a big one.”

“You can pay it off by sending us a picture of your wedding. I want proof you’re not getting hitched to some gap-toothed second cousin. I know how you northern rednecks roll.”

Russ was still laughing when he said good-bye. His smile faded as he thought about Seelye, and the money, and about Nichols and McNabb. McNabb and Seelye were out of his reach. Nichols, on the other hand …

He glanced at the instrument panel clock. Five thirty. He made another call, to the same Fort Gillem MP station that had sent him a copy of Nichols’s transfer orders. “This is Chief of Police Russ Van Alstyne from Millers Kill, New York,” he said when he had gotten hold of the officer of the day. “Chief Nichols was consulting with me about a veteran’s suicide we had here.” That wasn’t stretching the truth
too
much. “I need to follow up with him.”

“Sorry, sir, but Chief Nichols is off base at this time.”

“Can I reach him later?”

“No, sir, he’s been temporarily detached to Fort Drum to assist in an investigation. I can look the number up for you if you want to contact their MP station.”

“Thanks, no. I’ll try them later.” Russ hung up. Fort Drum. Four hours away by car.
That
was quite a coincidence. He wondered who Nichols knew in their MP post. Obviously, Seelye wasn’t the only officer who could pull a string and get someone reassigned.

Russ tried on the idea that Nichols had been telling Clare the God’s honest truth. He wasn’t prepared to credit the man with no interest in getting the monies for himself, but it was sure looking more and more likely that he had been right when he said Seelye was on the take.

He needed to talk to Clare. He shifted the truck into gear and pulled out of the station parking lot. Traffic at this hour was as heavy as it ever got out of tourist season. Brake lights bloomed and faded in the twilight as cars and SUVs stopped and started their way up Main toward Church Street. Which is why Russ was able to spot Clare, in jeans and a jacket, coming out of the Rexall.

He jerked his truck out of traffic and pulled into a no-parking tow zone. He unrolled the passenger-side window and leaned over. “Hey!”

She looked up, surprised.

“Didja walk?”

“Of course.”

“Get in.”

She hopped into the cab, stuffing the small paper pharmacy bag into her coat pocket. “When you said you wanted to take care of me, I didn’t think it would involve driving around town looking for a chance to pick me up.”

“I was on my way to talk to you. Were you getting a prescription filled?”

“Mmm. I know things are cheaper at the Super Kmart in Fort Henry, but shop local and all that. What did you need me for?”

He saw a break in the traffic and took it. “What? Oh. Quentan Nichols.”

“You’ve found him?”

“Nope. Although I found out how he’s been able to do his little appearing acts here. He’s still posted to Fort Gillem, but he’s TDY to Fort Drum.”

“Ah.”

He swung into the wide curve of Church Street. The single spot on the flagpole was the only light in the park now; the bandstand was a pale outline in the shadow of the maples. “Tell me what he said about Seelye.”

“I already told you everything I heard. He applied to her office for the original shipping manifests, and she showed up in person a couple weeks later and took him off the case.”

He turned onto Elm. They passed the stone bulk of St. Alban’s. “How did he seem when he was talking about her? Emotionally?”

“A little frustrated, maybe.”

“Did he seem angry? Make any threats against Seelye?”

She turned to him as he rolled his truck up her drive and put it into park. “Oh, my God. You don’t think she disappeared because he killed her, do you?” She frowned. “No, that couldn’t be it. Ron Handler at the inn saw her check out.”

“I’m just trying to sort out the possibilities. Could she be after the million for herself? Or is she just an ambitious officer who doesn’t want to share the limelight when she gets it back? Is Nichols trying to stop Seelye, or is he trying to screw her out of the money?”

“One doesn’t preclude the other.”

“No.” He unbuckled and slung his arm over the back of the seat. It was familiar, talking to her like this, sitting in the cab of his truck in her driveway. There was a time—a long time—when it was the only safe and private place for them. “I want to find that cash.”

“Get to the back of the line.”

“We should be able to figure it out. There has to be some evidence of what happened stateside in her house, or her mother’s house or her bank. If we had Nichols to tell us what went down at Balad Air Base, we could do it. It’s an equation. Millers Kill plus Iraq equals one million dollars. Which means he ought to be somewhere around here, looking for that evidence.” His chain of thought unlinked at the sight of her smile. “What?”

“Just you. I like watching your mind work. It’s sexy.”

“It is, is it?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She smiled again.

He mentally tossed the missing million aside. “You know, I just happen to have a box full of quilts in the back. Feel like taking a ride?”

She laughed. “When I suggested the truck bed, it was a sunny afternoon. Not nighttime, thirty-eight degrees and falling.”

“Chicken. What happened to army tough?”

“You’re the one who always knows when the snowbirds have flown. Don’t you have some friend or acquaintance with an empty house and a working furnace?”

The answer hit him hard enough to snap him upright in his seat.

“What?” Clare sounded alarmed.

“I know where Nichols is.”

“You do?”

He buckled up and threw the truck into reverse. “He has a friend with an empty house and a working furnace.”

Clare looked up from fastening her own seat belt. “Tally McNabb’s place.” Russ nodded. He threaded through the Friday evening traffic, surprising her when he turned off onto the Cossayuharie Road and began the twisting drive through the hilly farmland. He pulled into the driveway of a large, well-lit home and disappeared inside, returning five minutes later with a key and an expression of grim satisfaction. He dropped the key into her hand. “We have Evonne Walters’s permission to enter her daughter’s residence.”

“Oh. Does this mean you can legally search the place?”

“Hell, no.” He peeled out of the drive. “Anything I found would be tossed out before it reached trial. I don’t want to search the house tonight. I want Nichols.”

“Are you going to arrest him?”

“No. I want his cooperation.” The truck jounced down the road. “Which is why you’re coming along. He trusted you enough to talk to you. I want you to get him to trust me.”

“He might not believe me. I’m a little biased.”

“You? Darlin’, if you thought he was right and I was wrong, you’d not only refuse to give him up, you’d hand over half your paycheck and drive him up to Canada personally.”

She laughed.

“Which is why, if you say he can trust me, he’ll believe it.”

They left the truck on Saber Drive. Russ retrieved his Glock from the truck’s gun locker and slipped it into a flat holster he hung from the back of his belt. She frowned at it. “Just in case I’ve misjudged him,” Russ said.

They walked through the neighbor’s yard silently. Past the tangle of brush between the properties it became much harder to stay quiet; no one had raked in a long time, and the ground was littered with dead leaves. “Don’t walk. Shuffle,” Russ whispered. He demonstrated. It looked like he was ice-skating beneath the leaves, and all she could hear was a rustle, as if the wind were passing by. Her attempts were less successful. She swish-crunch, swish-crunched past the pool fence to the far side of the garage, where Russ was waiting.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” he said in her ear. “He probably thought you were a three-legged dog.”

She stifled a snort of laughter.

“You got the key?”

She handed it to him.

“I’m going to turn the lights on as soon as we go in. Be ready. You do the talking, but stay behind me.”

She nodded again. Followed him along the garage wall to the door. He unlocked it and swung it open without a sound. Clare tensed as his footsteps creaked on the wooden steps leading to the kitchen door. He slipped the key into the lock. Opened the door.

The lights coming on blinded her. She kept her eyes fixed on Russ’s back as he strode through the kitchen, into the living room, turning on the overheads. “Quentan,” she called. “Quentan Nichols! It’s me, Clare Fergusson. We spoke in my church.” She heard a faint thump overhead. Her heart thumped hard in response. He was here. A part of her hadn’t believed it. Russ snapped on the stair light and mounted the steps. She kept close to his heels. He had his sidearm out.
In case I’ve misjudged him.
“Quentan, Chief Van Alstyne is with me. He knows you were right about Colonel Seelye. He knows she’s after the stolen money. He needs your help to stop her.”

The bathroom was at the top of the stairs. Russ flicked that light switch, too, and silently pointed at the razor and toothbrush by the sink, the damp towel on the floor.

Two bedrooms. Left and right. “Quentan. Please.” She cast about for the right words. Was he thinking like a lover? A guilty man? A cop? “You can’t break this case yourself. The Millers Kill police can’t break this case by themselves. We have to work together.” God, that sounded trite.

Russ pushed her against the wall on the far side of one door. “Stay here until I clear the room.” He positioned himself on the other side and shoved the door open. Nothing happened. He reached around the jamb blindly until he hit the light switch. He turned the lights on in the same instant he stepped into the doorway, crouched low, his gun tracking left-right-left. He stood up. “Okay.”

Clare peeked around him.
Guest bedroom,
she thought, furnished with mismatched chairs and a few framed posters. The queen-sized bed was brass, high off the floor, offering a clear view of a few see-through sweater boxes underneath. Unless he was hiding beneath the mound of coats and dresses tossed on the bed, he wasn’t here.

Russ pointed toward the other room. He turned, and Clare turned with him, and then she caught his arm and looked at the bed again. The pillows were missing, and the clothes all had hangers in them, as if they’d been lifted bodily off the rack. Maybe Mrs. Walters had started sorting Tally’s things already.

Clare looked at the closet door. Maybe someone else needed the space.

Russ nodded. Gestured for her to get against the wall next to the closet. He opened the door, stepping out of the line of fire as he did so.

Quentan Nichols was sitting cross-legged on the floor. He slowly lowered the book he was holding and butted it against the .45 lying in front of him. He gave the book a shove, and the gun slid across the floor. Russ bent down and picked it up.

*   *   *

“Inside the damn closet was the only place I could turn a light on and be sure it wouldn’t be seen.” Nichols was scrambling up a huge skillet of eggs. He had announced that if his hideout was busted, he might as well enjoy a hot meal before they carted him off. “I can live without the Internet, and I don’t mind missing a few games on TV, but damn, if a man can’t read…” Clare glanced at the book, now resting on the mauve-and-gray-speckled counter.
At the City’s Edge.
It had a silhouette of Chicago’s skyline along the spine. She suppressed a smile. She supposed a big-city boy might get a little homesick, stuck in the closet in Millers Kill.

Nichols shoveled the scrambled eggs onto three plates and laid them out on the table. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bag of grated cheese and a bottle of hot sauce.

“I notice McNabb left in such a hurry he still had a full carton of eggs,” Russ said.

“And a gallon of milk.” Nichols smiled ruefully as he sat down. “Dig in.” He paused for a second, his hand over his fork. “Unless you want to say a blessing, Reverend.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Not particularly. My grandparents raised me up strict Baptist, but I’ve slid some since then.” He shoveled a bite in. Clare did, too, suddenly ravenously hungry. Nothing like a hunt through a darkened house for an armed man to stimulate the appetite.