Proof Positive: A Joe Gunther Novel (Joe Gunther Series) (28 page)

“Could be,” said Willy from the doorway.

They both turned toward him.

“You do love that creeping-around shit.” Sammie laughed at him.

“Hey.” He smiled, entering and hanging his coat next to Joe’s. “Old dog, old tricks.”

“Did you mean that?” Joe asked. “About a context?”

“Yeah,” Willy told them. “I been working my little black book, far from here,” he gestured around the office. “And all the taps and wires that’re hangin’ off our phone lines.”

Sam rolled her eyes but made no comment. Willy’s obsessive distrust was at once famous and—nowadays—difficult to dispute.

“And?” Joe asked leadingly.

“I still got feeds comin’ in,” Willy explained. “So this is preliminary. But it is interesting.” He settled in behind his corner desk and placed both feet on its untidy surface. Only here—as if in protest against the confines of an office—did his compulsive neatness abandon him.

“On the day Ben caught his bullet,” he went on, “he was tagging along as part of a two-fireteam squad, or eight guys—including two sergeants—under a lieutenant. Not the standard setup, but they played fast and loose out of habit back then, and Ben being there as an official photographer probably helped. Not only that, but there was a civilian with ’em, too.”

“A civilian?” Joe asked. “That’s the first we’ve heard of that. Who?”

“A writer. Officially a reporter—at least he was attached to some bullshit newspaper from nowhere—but as far as I can figure out, he probably pulled strings to get out there so he could write the great American novel. Everybody I talked to so far says he never filed a single article, but scribbled in a notebook like he was writing
War and Peace.
Anyhow, he made the whole unit eleven men, total—the squad, the looie, Ben, and the writer.”

“What was the writer’s name?” Sam asked.

But Willy shook his head. “That’s the damnedest part. Nobody remembers. We can find out—can’t be that hard. But he obviously didn’t make much of an impression. And,” he added with a telling half smile—the cat with the canary—“he died that day.”

It had the expected reaction. Joe and Sam exchanged glances as Sam said to her boss, “I thought you said there was no hostile fire.”

“I said I thought so,” Joe corrected her.

“And I think he’s right,” Willy added.

“
Two
friendly fire casualties?” she asked him.

“I don’t know how friendly they were,” Willy countered. “From what I know right now—and the reason I counted off how many guys were there that day—is that only six of the original eleven are alive today. Ben and the writer are dead, and three others that I got feelers out for.”

“Is Jack Joyce one of the six survivors?” Joe asked.

“And how,” Willy confirmed. “I don’t blame you for knowing nothing about politicians, since they’re all such assholes, but he’s a hotshot senator, down in D.C.—has been for years. He’s also a millionaire—or whatever they all are. A million’s probably chump change now.”

“So, not counting a follow-up with Bob Morgan—which will definitely be happening,” Joe said quietly, “that leaves five more to interview, including a senator.”

He checked his watch and stood up. “I better get out of here. Rachel wants to keep going on her project and record the last of the excavation of Kendall’s house. I said I’d put her up for as long as that takes, rather than have her driving back and forth.”

“I’d still have her under lock and key,” Willy said bluntly. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Where there’s one hit team, there may be more?” Joe asked before addressing his own question. “I don’t disagree. I ran it by Allard, but he said we don’t have the funding if I can’t articulate a threat. With Niles under arrest, I don’t have that.”

Willy stared at him, incredulous. “You can talk the clothes off a nun.”

“Charming,” Sammie muttered.

“Say what you want,” Joe insisted, “he still wouldn’t play. The way I see it, we’re kind of splitting the difference anyhow. The excavation’s a crime scene, cordoned off and guarded around the clock, and she’ll be in my care the rest of the time. Not to mention that only her mother knows she’s down here.”

“And everybody she texts and Facebooks and tweets and Christ knows what else,” Willy groused.

“I asked her for radio silence,” Joe told him. “She didn’t screw around when we had her in the safe house.”

He walked to the coat rack and paused. “Willy, keep the pressure on about those squad members. As much information as you can get, any way you can get it.”

“Already rollin’,” Willy said.

“And Sam? Dig into the writer. Who he was, what he was doing over there, everything and anything—any way you can think of.”

She’d already returned to her computer keyboard. “Got it, boss.”

*   *   *

Joe met up with Rachel Reiling and Lester Spinney at his home on Green Street, in Brattleboro. Lester had been heading back from Burlington to his family in Springfield, and offered to take Rachel all the way to Brattleboro as a favor—officially ducking Bill Allard’s prohibition on more expenses relating to the young woman’s security.

Rachel seconded Allard’s opinion as she got out of the car. “This really isn’t necessary, you know? I could’ve driven here myself.”

Joe instinctively gave her a hug. “Yes, you could’ve, but thanks for catering anyhow. You have a nice way of making hopelessly old worrywarts feel better.”

She laughed and pushed his arm playfully. “Oh, please.”

Lester handed him a small overnight bag from the back seat, which Joe lifted easily into the air. “This it? Aren’t you staying for more than one night?”

Rachel patted another bag hanging from her shoulder, holding her computer and camera gear. “My mom trained me well. I’m a very practical packer, if you don’t mind seeing me in the same outfit for days on end.”

“I do not,” he reassured her, unlocking the front door to his small house. He ushered her inside, saying, “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right in.”

He turned to Lester after she’d closed the door behind her. “Trip okay?”

Les smiled. “As in, did I see anyone in my rearview mirror? No, Willy’s opinion notwithstanding.” He looked around them. “I’m impressed you don’t have any reporters camped out here.”

Joe sighed. “Either courtesy or ignorance on their part. Don’t know and don’t want to know. Willy’s still hyper about the lurking forces of evil?”

“I see his point,” Lester conceded. “There’s no reason to think someone else won’t come after her. I feel like we should hang a sign around her neck like they stick on car windows in New York:
NO RADIO
. Only, with her, I guess it would have to be:
NO WHATEVER IT IS YOU SORRY ASSHOLES ARE AFTER.
She is a trouper, though—upbeat the whole trip.”

Joe extended his hand in thanks. “You’re no slouch, either, Les. Thanks for tacking on an extra hour to bring her here.”

Lester shrugged and returned to the driver’s seat. “No sweat. Happy to make an end run around Allard.”

Joe leaned in slightly. “Everything okay at home? How’s Dave holding up at the academy?”

Spinney shook his head. “He’s hangin’ in there, I guess. I haven’t been able to talk to him. Anytime he’s at home, he’s sleeping. I still think the academy’s good for him,” he added after a pause. “And so does his mother, more importantly.”

Joe stepped back from the car and waved. “Well, give them my best, and thanks again for making the detour. Sorry I’ve been keeping you away from them for so long.”

Lester started the engine. “All’s good. Part of the job.”

Joe watched him back out of the driveway before following Rachel inside. He found her investigating the contents of the refrigerator.

“Hungry?”

She straightened to look at him. “Can I call you Joe?”

“Of course.”

She grinned. “Well, Joe, I don’t know how you’ve lived this long.” She gestured toward the fridge. “This makes dorm food look organic.”

He returned the smile and reached for the phone. “Pizza—my treat.”

A half hour later, they were sitting across his coffee table from each other, eating a pizza loaded with choices Joe never would have imagined, much less selected.

Rachel seemed as interested in his reaction as in the food itself. “Can you stand it, or are you just being polite?”

“Both,” he admitted. “But it’s much better than just standing it. It’s not bad. Just a little … more complex than I’m used to.”

She laughed. “Mom said you could be diplomatic.”

“Uh-oh,” he said. “That sounds like faint praise.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “From
my
mom? Not hardly. She thinks you’re wonderful that way. She’s like the most undiplomatic person I know, so it’s a good thing in her book.” She paused before adding, “She thinks you’re wonderful in lots of ways.”

He felt his cheeks flush. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah,” Rachel spoke guilelessly. “Anne and I talked about the effect you’ve had on her, and we’re really happy. Not that she ever said it, but we think she was kind of lonely.”

Joe scratched his forehead. “Thanks.”

She tilted her head. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I figured you’d like to know. People start dating, they’re always driving themselves nuts, wondering what the other person’s thinking.”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I appreciate it. I just wasn’t expecting it. Guess I’m kind of old school—less open about personal stuff—which isn’t always so great. No, it’s nice to hear.”

“My dad likes you, too,” she added.

This time, he laughed outright and sat back in his armchair. “Okay.”

“No, really,” she emphasized. “He knows Mom and he weren’t a great match, so he’s happy, too. You’ve done good work, Joe Gunther. The whole family approves.”

He shook his head and gave her a hapless expression. “What can I say? I have ice cream for dessert.”

“You do know how to seal a deal.”

*   *   *

The following morning, he drove her to Dummerston and introduced her to the police officers securing Ben Kendall’s home, making sure to impress how important she was to him. Progress on the house had been steady and fruitful, with well over half the rooms empty and the rest coming along. Part of the problem was that a former scoop-and-dump operation had become a forensic dismantling of painstaking proportions. Everything removed was now subject to scrutiny and cataloging, when relevant. Additionally, a real fear lingered that the booby trap so fatal to Tommy Bajek hadn’t necessarily been the worst of Ben’s surprises.

Along those lines, Joe made sure to stress to the girl how potentially dangerous this was, and how she was absolutely to keep her distance and mind the people in charge. In response, she showed him the telephoto lens that she’d attached to her camera.

Arriving at the office later, bearing a box of doughnuts and some coffee, he found Sammie in the same position he’d left her the night before.

“You go home at all?”

She turned in her seat to accept one of his gooey offerings. “Would I miss the chance to see my baby girl? No way. I left late and came back early—all the better to duck the reporters. Plus, I needed to reload this.” She held up her cell phone.

“Reload it?” he asked, at a loss about most cell phone functions.

She switched it on and displayed a screen saver photograph of her daughter. “I take a new one every day. Helps me feel in touch. How’s Rachel?”

Joe smiled at the picture. “Fine. I just dropped her off at the site. She’s a good kid. Lot of her mother in her—nice combination of hardworking and funny.”

Sam put her phone down and took a bite of doughnut before saying, “Only a man in love could say that Beverly Hillstrom was in any way, shape, or form funny.”

Joe waved that away, embarrassed to have his personal life crop up in office banter. For all that he cared about what happened to his colleagues away from work, he remained a private man. “Anything new on your homework assignment?”

She patted her keyboard. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but the Internet puts all sorts of miracles a keystroke away.”

“Meaning, yes,” he guessed.

“Yup. The writer who died the same day Kendall was shot was named Nathan Sievers. He was from Milwaukee and fancied himself a literary genius. In other words, he was impossible to work with and never got published. He conned an old college roommate, who edited a free weekly paper, to make him their overseas correspondent. With that, he got press creds from the government and paid his own way to Vietnam. What you were told about him was right on the money. He was only there to write the next best thing to
The Naked and the Dead
or
Dispatches.
”

Joe was about to ask her a follow-up question when he was stopped dead by her literary references. “No offense, Sam, but what do you know about
The Naked and the Dead
or
Dispatches
?”

She laughed in reaction. “Busted. I used Google to drill my way down to the editor-slash-roommate and talked to him on the phone last night. He gave me that. I don’t even know what they are.”

“Worth reading,” Joe said, smiling. “What did the editor say about how Sievers died?”

“Nothing. He said the military notified him that his correspondent had been killed by enemy fire during a combat exchange, and that was about it. Sievers had no family that my source ever knew, the weekly paper wasn’t about to pay to have their so-called correspondent shipped home, so Sievers was buried over there. That’s where it ended.”

“
Lonely Are the Brave,
” Joe murmured.

“What?”

“Just another title. This guy didn’t ask about how his friend died?”

Sammie looked rueful. “It wasn’t
The New York Times,
Joe. And despite the favor, I think the editor did what he did to get Sievers out of his hair. From what I heard, old Nathan could be a moralistic, preachy pain in the butt. They weren’t pals.”

“Was he anti-war?” Joe asked.

“Big-time, but being holier-than-thou, he didn’t want to be an armchair critic. He wanted to write from the trenches, like Hemingway.” She smiled. “Again, I’m quoting, but I do know who Hemingway was.”