The Trojan Sea (16 page)

“Exactly what am I supposed to do?” Stuart asked.

“When all else fails, select guns,” Shanker answered.

Stuart eyed his father sadly. “One of your truisms?”

“It worked when I was flying fighters.”

“Sorry,” Jane said, “I don’t understand.” She was back in her four-word-or-less mode of communication.

Shanker studied her for a moment. “In combat the cannon on a fighter, which we call ‘guns,’ is used for close-in fighting. It’s a fearsome weapon and gets their undivided attention. With a little luck you hose ’em out of the sky or your wingman nails ’em.” He didn’t wait for her to reply and slammed the hood of the car down. “I’ll get Chalky and we’ll work on this piece of shit. You all go eat lunch.”

“I’ll help you,” Jane said.

“Can I help, too?” Eric asked.

“You bet,” Shanker said, glad that at least part of his family had their priorities in the right place.

“You can all work on it after lunch,” Martha said, taking charge.

“Sounds like a plan,” Shanker grunted, deferring to higher authority.

After dinner Martha herded her family and two guests into the family room to light the first fire of the season in the fireplace. Jane sat next to Wing Commander Robin Seagrave while Shanker taught Eric how to start a fire. “Why the name Chalky?” Jane asked.

“Didn’t have much choice in the matter,” Seagrave told her. “Hair turned gray in my twenties. If you’re in the RAF and have white hair, your name is Chalky. Full stop.”

“Full stop?” Eric asked. “What does that mean?”

“It means period,” Stuart said. “Like at the end of a sentence.” He smiled at his son. “Which you’re getting better at.”

“Actually,” Shanker said, ragging on the Englishman, “Chalky has a fear of flying. That’s why the gray hair.”

“Listen to the man,” Seagrave said, enjoying the good-natured rivalry. “This from the only bloke I know who had a fear-factor gauge installed in his aircraft.”

Satisfied that the fire was going well, Eric disappeared. He was back a few minutes later carrying a guitar, still dusty from being in the attic. “That’s Maggot’s,” Shanker said. “Haven’t seen it in years.”

“About the last time you saw a runway,” Seagrave added.

“At least it didn’t have any crackpots sitting on it.”

“Boys,” Martha called, signaling a truce.

Eric handed the guitar to Jane and sat down on the floor beside her. Martha went into the kitchen to get a dust cloth, while Jane tuned the instrument. She took the cloth from Martha and lovingly polished the guitar, making it glow in the firelight. She strummed a few cords and retuned two strings. “I like sea chanteys,” she said, starting to sing.

What shall we do with a drunken sailor?

What shall we do with a drunken sailor?

What shall we do with a drunken sailor?

Ur-lie in the morning.

 

When she had them all singing the chorus, she made up a verse.

Put him in a jet plane, make him a pilot

Put him in a jet plane, make him a pilot

Put him in a jet plane, make him a pilot

Ur-lie in the morning.

 

The room rocked with laughter. Then she sang “The Sloop John B.,” and they heard a soft lament in her voice. Eric asked her to play the chorus again, and in a few moments they were singing. When they finished, she tuned another string, looking into the fire. The golden light framed her face.

“You’re beautiful,” Eric whispered.

She gave him a sweet smile and started to play an old ballad. Her voice changed, turning soft and pure, and magic captured the room.

The water is wide, I cannot cross o’er,

Nor do I have the wings to fly.

Get me a boat that will carry two,

And both will row, my true love and I.

 

The phone rang, breaking the spell. Martha answered and handed it to Stuart. Then she sat beside her husband. “Did you see that?” she said in a low voice.

“See what?” Shanker muttered.

“She was singing to Mike.” She looked directly at Stuart as he talked on the phone.

“Don’t be stupid, woman, she’s got too much sense for that.”

Stuart dropped the phone and looked at them. “That was the Virginia state police. Jenny’s been in an accident.” He held out a hand to Eric.

Eric stared at his father, his words barely audible. “Is she…” Martha stood and took a step toward her grandson. But Eric turned and found refuge in Jane’s waiting arms.

Stuart cursed himself for handling it all wrong. “She’s hurt, but she’ll be okay,” he said. “She’s in the hospital.”

The White House

A young man wearing a dark suit was waiting when the black Cadillac pulled to a stop at the entrance to the West Wing of the White House. He opened the rear door and extended a hand to help L.J. emerge. He immediately caught his breath as every camera and eye focused on her. “Ms. Ellis, this way please.” He motioned her into the West Wing as he walked beside her. Tim Roxford climbed out of the Cadillac and trailed along in their wake, completely overshadowed by L.J.

She was wearing a bright red business suit with matching snakeskin pumps. The hemline to her skirt was short, but not too short. The coat snared in at her narrow waist and molded to her body, yet neither the skirt nor coat could be said to be too tight. The way her gold scarf crossed and hid her cleavage hinted that she was not wearing a blouse underneath. In short, the suit had been designed to showcase her figure, leave reporters searching their vocabularies for superlatives, women envious, and men gasping for breath.

A woman reporter who had once been considered for the “Ten Best-Dressed Women in the Capitol” wrote, “Her bright red ensemble is a throwback to the days of Nancy Reagan and best described as the new business chic, part Hollywood, part Paris, and all Texas.”

Another veteran White House reporter saw it differently when he said, “Not since the Kennedys has glamour burst on the White House in such abundance.”

In his corner office in the West Wing, Patrick Flannery Shaw watched L.J.’s arrival on the security monitor. Officially Shaw was listed as a special assistant to the president, although no one knew exactly what he did. Unofficially he was part mentor, part strategist, part political adviser, all pit bull, and the implacable enemy of anyone who opposed the president. He heaved his bulk out of his chair and shambled down the hall, heading for the Oval Office. He arrived in time for the introductions. He crossed his arms and leaned against a back wall, watching every move L.J. made as she talked to Maddy. Only one thing puzzled him: Why had L.J. brought the pilot along? He worked that problem as the two women chatted amiably. He finally decided Tim Roxford was there as a counterpoint to draw the attention of women away from L.J. and the president.
Very clever,
he thought.

Like the president, the four men in the room were wearing dark, very conservative suits. As a result L.J. glittered like a bright jewel, the only point of light against a dark background.
I know what you’re doing,
Shaw told himself. He listened carefully as the two women talked.

“My staff,” the president said, “tells me you’re active in a variety of causes.”

“It amazes me,” L.J. said, “how I get drawn in. Sometimes I seem to be working against myself.”

“How so?” Maddy Turner asked, sipping at her tea.

“Well, I’m active in the women’s movement and support certain environmental issues.” She gave Turner a knowing look. “Of course, some are a total anathema to my business, so I avoid those. But I do try to explain our position.”

“I take it,” Turner said, “that you’ve heard about my Task Force on the Environment.”

“A good friend, Ann Silton, mentioned it to me.”

Turner looked surprised. “You know Ann?”

“I met her when she organized the Front Uni convention in Dallas. We hit it off immediately.”

“Surely you don’t agree with everything she believes.” L.J. sipped her tea, carefully considering her reply. “Of course not.

But I do trust her.”

Shaw’s eyes narrowed.
So you want Silton to head up the task force. Why?
He made a mental note to follow up on it.

There was a slight break as the photographers came in for the photo opportunity and to memorialize the visit. Shaw listened as two women reporters picked L.J. apart. “Look at that spider brooch on her left lapel. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Is it a Paloma Picasso?” the other reporter asked.

“I don’t think so. But it’s exquisite.”

Shaw studied the brooch in question. It was a golden spider with long legs. Two diamonds made up its small hourglass body, and the way it perched on her red jacket made it seem almost real.
She’s sending a message,
Shaw told himself.

“She’s upstaging Maddy,” the first woman said.

“No one can upstage her,” the second replied.

Wanna bet?
Shaw thought. He mentally moved L.J. onto his enemies list.

Shaw waited patiently while Maddy presented presidential plaques for heroism to L.J. and Roxford. Then he followed them back down the hall to the entrance. The black Cadillac was waiting, and the same aide who had met L.J. held the door for her and Roxford. Shaw ambled back to the Oval Office, looking like a bear wearing a rumpled suit. He went right in, not waiting to be announced.

“Well, Patrick,” the president asked, “why the sudden interest?”

“The woman’s dangerous,” he said. “Watch your backside.”

The president laughed. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“The way she was dressed, Madam President.” He felt the need to repeat the warning. “The way she was dressed.”

“Don’t be silly, Patrick. You just don’t understand women.”

“I understand this one.”

The Pentagon

The summons came just after 10:00
A.M.
on Wednesday, November 13. At first Stuart was puzzled why the OSI, the Air Force’s Office of Special Investigations, would want to talk to him. Later the time and date would be etched in his memory. He told Peggy Redman he had to go to Andrews Air Force Base for the interview and hurried to catch the shuttle bus that ran between the Pentagon and the base.

At Andrews, Special Agent Antonia “Toni” Moreno-Mather was waiting for him. She was a petite, very pretty Mexican-American in her late twenties. She was also pregnant. “Colonel Stuart? I’m Special Agent Toni Mather. Thank you for coming.” She led him into a small interview room, where two men were waiting. “This is Sergeant Ledbetter and Sergeant Smatter from the Arlington Police. They want to talk to you.” She sat down next to the door and opened her notebook.

Ledbetter was a big African-American who reminded Stuart of a professional football linesman, and Stuart half expected to see a Super Bowl ring on one of his massive fingers. Instead he wore a wedding ring on one hand and a West Point class ring on the other. “Colonel Stuart,” he began, “we’re investigating the accident involving Jennifer May Wilson Stuart and Grant Woodstock DeLorenzo.” His voice was deep and gentle. “We do hope your wife will fully recover.”

“Former wife,” Stuart said. “Jenny and I are divorced.” The three investigators scribbled in their notebooks.

“There is some very bad news,” Ledbetter continued. “Mr. DeLorenzo died early this morning from complications stemming from the accident.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Stuart said, surprised that he was sorry. “He and Jenny seemed very happy together.” A strange look crossed Agent Mather’s face.

“Well,” Ledbetter said, becoming more businesslike, “I’m sure you understand that our investigation has changed now, and we do have to ask you some questions. All routine. What exactly is your relationship with Mrs. Stuart?”

Stuart tried to explain in as few words as possible how they had separated and divorced. “Then you were not experiencing any special problems?” Ledbetter asked.

“None that I would call special,” Stuart answered.

“Yeah, right,” Smatter said. Stuart focused on the other sergeant. He was an older, very wiry, small man who reminded Stuart of a weasel. “We’ve talked to Mrs. Wilson,” Smatter said with the hint of a snarl. “Your ex-mother-in-law. Remember her?” Stuart gave a very audible sigh and tried to explain. It was a mistake. “Now, let me see if I got this one right,” Smatter replied. “You’ve got a rich mother-in-law who only wants to help you, give your kid the best education possible, and you don’t like it?”

“The price of her help is too high,” Stuart said.

“Yeah, right.”

“Colonel Stuart,” Ledbetter said, his voice offering protection from the caustic Smatter, “when we examined the mishap vehicle, we found some unusual damage to the brakes that we can’t explain. We were hoping you could help us.”

“Sure,” Stuart replied. Anything to get Smatter off his back.

“Can you provide us with all the maintenance records for the vehicle?”

“No problem. I had it serviced just before I turned it over to them.”

“Turned it over?” Smatter muttered. “Let me get this straight. You turned your Explorer over to the guy who was boinking your wife so they could go to Colorado and screw their brains out?”

“They were going to start a business,” Stuart protested.

“Yeah, right.” Smatter made a show of opening his notebook and flipping through the pages. The sound rippled like gunshots in the quiet of the room. “I want to be sure I got this one straight. On Friday, twenty September, at Dover Air Force Base, your father, who goes by the alias Shanker, threatened to hit Barbara Raye Wilson. Is that correct?”

“It didn’t happen that way,” Stuart said.

“How did it happen?” Ledbetter asked.

“She had a lawyer and was trying to take my son without my permission. She physically pushed my father out of the way, and he said something like he didn’t approve of hitting women but if she touched my son, he’d make an exception. Then he got into a big argument with the lawyer.”

Smatter snorted. “And your father threatened him also, right?” There was no answer. “Sounds like you come from a pretty violent family.”

“That’s not true,” Stuart said.

“With a name like Shanker? Gimme a break.”

Stuart wanted to be reasonable and tried to explain. “It’s his nickname from when he was in the Air Force. His buddies, other pilots, gave him the name.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“That’s the way it works,” Toni Mather said. She gave Stuart a look that clearly said he was talking too much.

Ledbetter also got the message. “Well, just a few more items and we’ll let you get back to work. We need to know where you were, who you saw, talked to, and what you were doing from, say, a week before the accident up through the day after. Why don’t you write it all down and give it to Special Agent Mather here? She can send it to us.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” Smatter said.

Stuart’s head was reeling. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, right. Keep Agent Mather informed of your whereabouts at all times, and don’t even think about taking any long trips.”

“Well,” Ledbetter said, no longer sounding so friendly, “that’s all we have. For now.” He heaved himself to his feet and opened the door. Smatter popped to his feet and followed him out.

Stuart shook his head. “What was that all about?”

Toni Mather studied him for a moment before making a decision. Her investigative experience was different from Ledbetter’s and Smatter’s, because the vast majority of personnel in the Air Force were not criminals, only people who did stupid things or got involved with the wrong element. “I think it’s obvious,” she said. “You’re under investigation for the murder of your ex-wife’s boyfriend.”