This Enemy Town (16 page)

There was an awkward silence. “I'm sorry for your loss,” I said.

She stared at me, no trace of emotion on her face. “Thank you.”

“I know you're very much involved with the Servicemembers Legal Defense Network,” I said, pinching off a bit of cookie for myself. Then I took a giant leap. “Was Jennifer involved in the group, too?”

One platinum eyebrow shot up. “Yes, but not actively. It
wouldn't have been particularly career-enhancing, would it?” Chris smiled grimly. “But Jennifer referred midshipmen to us from time to time.”

“I know. That's how I really got your name, from one of the mids we were sponsoring.” Another fib. I was turning into a career criminal.

We drank our coffee silently for a few moments. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, Chris?”

Chris shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“Why did you get out of the Navy?”

“I think that's obvious, don't you?”

“You're gay?”

“Right.”

I leaned across the table and followed that admission to its logical conclusion. “So, you and Jennifer were lovers,” I whispered. “Weren't you?”

Chris lowered her cup from her lips and nodded. “Until very recently. I issued an ultimatum.” She smiled miserably. “Never do that unless you're sure you can live with the outcome.”

“An ultimatum? Do you mind telling me what it was?”

“Two of them, really. First, I wanted her to get out and come out. Jen had put in the five years she owed the Navy for her Academy education, so she could have resigned her commission at any time. But she told me she was committed to her Navy career and didn't want to give it up, not even for me.” She buried her head in her hands, and I thought she might be crying, but when she looked up again, her eyes were dry. “If it weren't for that ludicrous Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy, Jen and I could have made a life together. It was either me or the Navy. She made her choice.”

“You said two reasons. What was the other one?”

“As I said, I didn't approve of what Jennifer was doing vis-à-vis the admiral.” Chris spread her fingers and swiped them through her hair. “Jen told me she'd uncovered evidence that the admiral's been running his office
like a supermarket for weapons manufacturers, soaking up bribes, divvying up multibillion-dollar contracts and diverting work to firms he secretly controls with his partners. Before I left the Navy, I used to work up in WAM, but that was long before Hart took over. I've got enough experience with it, though, to see how easily that sort of thing can happen.”

I stared at her for a few moments, collecting my thoughts. If what Chris was saying were true, the situation was far worse than anything Jack Turley had suggested might be going on, hypothetically or otherwise.

“But how is Hart getting away with it? Isn't there oversight of government contracts anymore?” I remembered my days working at Whitworth and Sullivan, where we kept an archive of all the “blue cover” reports published by the United States Government Accountability Office, the government agency chartered by Congress to track down instances of waste, fraud, and abuse within the government. Congress commissioned some fifteen hundred GAO reports a year, holding up for ridicule such government expenses as $1,118 spent on plastic caps for stool legs or $2,548 for a pair of duckbill pliers. “GAO even looks into things like standards for bottled water,” I ranted. “Surely they must have some idea of what's going on with the Raytheons and Halliburtons of the world.”

“You would think,” Chris said. “But when the U.S. is at war, all bets are off.”

“But if Jennifer knew about it and
you
know about it, surely someone else does, too?”

“Jennifer talked big,” Chris explained, “but she never shared any of her evidence with me.”

“What about watchdog groups and FOIA?” I continued. “Surely contractors are required to respond to Freedom of Information Act requests.”

“They are and they aren't,” she said. “Contractors can claim that specific financial data falls under the heading
of a trade secret and that making it public would give their competitors unfair advantage. There's often months and months of legal wrangling before a report finally arrives, and when it does, the cost figures have often been redacted.”

“Good grief.”

“Jen hinted that Hart had always been very clever about keeping his activities under the radar, but she claimed she finally had the goods on the guy and was going to blow the whistle. After separating him from a chunk of his money first, I'm afraid. Seeing all those unaccounted-for millions pass over her desk every day, the temptation must have been enormous.”

“But I still don't understand. Knowing all this, how come
you
didn't turn Admiral Hart in?”

“I loved her.”

Three simple, one-syllable words that explained everything.

“I hated her methods,” Chris continued after a moment of silence, “but I couldn't stop loving her. I thought I'd talked her around at last. Forget the money, I told her, turn the son of a bitch in.”

“But now that Jennifer's gone?”

“You must think I'm some sort of monster, sitting on information like this, but I'm not. I don't have a speck of proof, and working in Personnel, there's really no way I'd have access to it. But just so you don't think I'm totally beyond redemption, I can tell you that I made a few phone calls to Arianna Huffington's office, and to the Center for Public Integrity. They have much better connections than I do.”

“I wouldn't trust Hart any farther than I could throw him,” I snorted, “which, considering his size, isn't very far!”

Chris started. “How do
you
know Hart?”

“His son is a midshipman. The kid has a role in the
Glee Club musical, and I was working with his wife helping to build sets. Hart came to the Academy several times, to see his son perform in
Sweeney Todd
, or so I thought. But Jennifer always seemed to be hanging around at the time. Eventually I put two and two together.”

“I see.” Chris sighed. “Do they still do the musicals in Mahan Hall?”

“Yup.”

“I remember Mahan,” she commented wistfully. “Lots of nooks and crannies where a mid can hide out, far from the prying eyes of Mother B.”

Mother B—Mother Bancroft—was the midshipman equivalent of Big Brother.

“Or two mids,” I amended.

She grinned. “That, too.”

“That's probably why Jennifer arranged to meet Hart there. Anyplace else, even in downtown Annapolis, they were very likely to be noticed.” I paused, staring at the reflection of the overhead light shimmering on the surface of my coffee.

“Did Jen actually get money from the admiral?” I asked. “Do you know?”

“No.” A look of absolute misery stole across her face. “Hart found out about us, you see.”

“I see.” Jennifer and the admiral had reached a stalemate.

Chris twirled her empty coffee cup around on the tabletop. “Jen enjoyed playing with fire, but this was the first time she got burned.”

As I watched the cup go round and round, for the first time in weeks I thought I could see light at the end of the tunnel. “Chris, will you tell my lawyer what you just told me?”

To my surprise, she smiled mischievously. “I've not been quite honest with you, either, Hannah. Your lawyer came to see me late last week. Everything you know, he knows.”

Even though I wanted to snatch him bald-headed for not sharing this bit of critical information with me, my rating of Murray went up several notches. “But how did he find you?”

Chris shrugged. “Maybe he learned that I'd already been contacted by NCIS and the Navy I.G.?”

“Oh.” What a blockhead I was! Here I thought I'd been on the bleeding edge, but the foot soldiers for both the prosecution and the defense had gone charging ahead, leaving me to wander in the darkened woods, picking up bread crumbs.

Chris stood and lifted her coat off the back of the chair. “I've got to go, but if it means anything, I want you to know that I don't hold you responsible for Jennifer's death.”

“Thank you. It means a lot.”

“Call me again, any time.” She slipped a business card out of her wallet and handed the card to me. “Good luck, Mrs. Ives. I'll be praying for you.”

I watched through the window as the back of
Chris's dark blue coat disappeared west down Ninth Street. I fumed a bit, too, wondering why Murray hadn't mentioned Chris Donovan yesterday, why he pretended that all the information Jack Turley told us about Chris was news to him. And if he'd interviewed the woman, he had to know that
he
was a
she
. Murray, I decided, was sometimes a class-A jerk.

As I mined for foam at the bottom of my cup with a plastic spoon, I amused myself by dreaming up punishments for an attorney who withheld critical information from a client, information that could have prevented her from making a proper fool of herself by pretending to be her own daughter. A
New Yorker
cartoon came to mind, a dominatrix, with a lawyer groveling at her feet:

—So, worm, shall I tie you up in litigation?

—Yes, please, and make it lengthy and expensive.

I smiled. Maybe I should listen to Paul and let the professionals handle this.

I decided a brisk walk might clear my head, so before heading back to the Metro, I called Paul on my cell phone, leaving a message that I'd be home around six and that if he didn't want to wait for supper, there was leftover Chinese food in the fridge.

Just the mention of the Chinese food made my stomach
rumble. Except for the coffee and crumbs of chocolate chip cookie I'd shared with Chris, I hadn't had anything to eat since dinner the night before. I needed a snack to fortify me for the long ride home, but one that wasn't fifty percent sugar. I was already so wired, another cookie might send me into orbit. I tossed my paper cup into the trash and went out the door to forage.

Perched on a doughnut-shaped planter in front of the coffee shop, the concrete chilling my buns, I looked around me and decided that the Virginia Square/GMU Metro stop was a misnomer. As far as I could tell, no square existed, and the GMU of the title turned out to be only a small branch of George Mason University in Fairfax, farther to the west. I hadn't remembered seeing any restaurants in the vicinity, so I bopped back into Starbucks to quiz the barista who was cleaning off the milk foamer with a damp rag.

“Are there any places to eat around here?”

“There's Pica Deli, just across from the Giant.” She checked her watch. “But you better hurry, because they close at three on Sundays.”

I followed the directions she gave me—north on Monroe and right on Washington Boulevard—looking for the “building with the cool murals.” It would have been impossible to miss. Pica Deli was a box-shaped, two-story building with a wide-eyed marmalade cat, a slice of Italian bread, and a fruit bowl painted hundreds of times larger than life on one side of the building, covering the siding all the way from roof to foundation. But the muralist hadn't contented himself with that. I entered the restaurant through double glass doors to the left of a giant strawberry pie.

Pica Deli was the perfect spot for grazing. I strolled past gleaming glass and chrome cases containing salads and pasta, meats and cheeses. Pegs of chips, wooden bins of wine, and shelf after shelf of gourmet items filled the shop almost to overflowing. A seven-seat wine bar pro
vided a place for those who preferred their snacks in liquid form.

At the deli case, I ordered a Velveteen Rabbit—cucumber, tomato, red onion, dill havarti, and sprouts on thick farm bread—grabbed a lemonade from the cold case and sat down at a table.

So, Chris and Jennifer had been an item. I chewed thoughtfully, wondering if Admiral Hart had figured that out, how many other people had, too. But so what? Would somebody have murdered Jennifer simply for being gay?

Yes, I decided. Such things had happened before. PFC Barry Winchell had been beaten to death with a baseball bat at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Allen Schindler was stomped to death on shipboard near Japan. Jennifer had died violently, too. A hate crime could not be entirely discounted.

When the sandwich was gone and I'd cleaned every last crumb from the plate, I decided I'd better get on home. I was eager to log onto the Internet to see if
I
could find any evidence that Hart had been diddling with the government contracts under his jurisdiction.

I left Pica Deli, looked both ways to orient myself, then headed off in the direction of the Ballston Metro, which, according to the little advertising map I'd picked up in the store, seemed to be the closest station to the restaurant. As I walked, the sun began to set in a lavender sky and darkness was just beginning to steal over Washington Street, a tree-lined avenue that ran through a residential neighborhood of family homes punctuated by small businesses like bakeries, thrift shops, and dry cleaners.

At Nelson, I crossed Washington to stroll along the boundary of Quincy Park, with its playgrounds, playing fields, and picnic tables. As I skirted the park, I counted off the names of people who probably weren't crying into their pillows now that Jennifer Goodall was gone.

Me because of Paul.

Paul because Jennifer had tried to ruin him.

Dorothy because she thought Ted was screwing Jennifer.

Ted because Jennifer was going to spill the beans.

Emma, to keep from being outed.

Chris, for being jilted.

Maybe even Kevin, but I couldn't think why. With every step I took, the list grew longer and longer.

To my left, leaves rustled. I glanced over my shoulder, but nobody was there. The park, in fact, was practically deserted. It was late on Sunday; Arlington residents were all in their homes, and the city workers wouldn't arrive until morning. And yet, as I continued to walk, more quickly now, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being followed. I began to regret taking so much time for my meal. It would have been much wiser to start home before dark.

As I turned south on Quincy Street, I heard footsteps again, echoing hollowly off the concrete walls of the Montessori House. I spun around to took. Nothing. Maybe I was losing my mind. Nevertheless, I hustled in the direction of a lighted parking lot, hoping to reach it before the bogeyman got me.

A twig snapped, and this time when I turned, I caught sight of a shadowy figure among the trees. Heart pounding, I bolted toward the lights, instantly regretting the high-heeled shoes I'd chosen to wear that morning. They looked smashing with my outfit, but pinched unmercifully and were completely unsuitable for jogging. Ten steps, twenty, my feet pounded the pavement, each jarring step driving my leg bones painfully into my hip sockets.

Chest heaving, I clattered up the steps and into the welcoming arms of the Arlington Public Library. I burst through the door, leaned against the lobby wall for a moment, panting. After several minutes, when no homicidal maniac had crashed into the lobby to rape me, my heart rate returned to a reasonable facsimile of normal. I de
cided that my imagination (or the caffeine) was definitely working overtime. Yet, overactive imagination or not, I was reluctant to go back outside, into the dark unfamiliar streets, particularly not while the staff and resources of the Arlington Public Library System were waiting inside to welcome me. I called Paul and told him to definitely eat the leftover mushi pork and steamed dumplings. I was at the library and there was something I needed to do.

Arlington Library, bless 'em, had a Cyber Center, open until 9:00
P.M
. on Sundays. Claiming that I was staying with a sister in the area, I produced my Naval Academy library card and used it to apply for one of Arlington's own cards. Using the new card, I went to the automated sign-in station to request a terminal. Fortunately, one was available almost right away.

First, I checked my e-mail. Paul sent a silly animated card from BlueMountain, saying he hoped it would cheer me up. It did.

Moving on to Google, I was still smiling when I typed in
fast tracking
and learned that there was something called the Iraq Reconstruction Office, which processed thousands of fast-tracking contracts worth billions by holding what the website described as “hold-onto-your-hats” job fairs for prospective contractors in Washington, D.C. and London. What fun for them.

The General Services Administration had a “get it right” plan that purported to secure the best value for federal agencies and American taxpayers through an efficient and effective acquisition process, while ensuring full and open competition, and instilling integrity and transparency in the use of GSA contracting vehicles—blah blah blah—but that was for federal agencies, not Department of Defense.

Several clicks later I landed at http://www.defenselink.mil/contracts, where Army, Air Force, Navy, and Coast Guard contracts—if it was military, they had
it—valued at five million dollars or more were announced each business day.

Now that was more like it.

A button to the right invited me to do a DOD Search, so I obliged. I typed in the largest company I could think of,
Megatron Industries,
and learned that the corporation had been awarded more than one thousand contracts with DOD, most of them in billions, not millions, of dollars. If I had been a slot machine, my eyeballs would have been spinning, eventually turning—
ka-ching, ka-ching
—into double dollar signs.

Hart's office—Navy Weapons Acquisitions and Management—was not mentioned in the database specifically, but I could determine what was being done and for what price, where the work would be performed and by whom, the projected completion date and whether or not the contract was competitively procured. Many of the contracts, I noticed, were not. The list of projects went on and on: parachute deployment sequences, diesel engine noise suppression, midair collision avoidance systems. Who knew how many of the “contracting activities” might actually be divisions that reported to the admiral? It would take someone more knowledgeable than I, holding a copy of DICNAVAC, to sort through all the acronyms and figure it out.

I could have spent hours playing with the sophisticated DOD search engine, experimenting with various combinations of search terms—how many contracts were awarded to the Megatron subdivision in Providence, Rhode Island, in 2001, for example—but people were waiting in line to use the terminals, and Paul was waiting patiently for me at home. I jotted down the URL of the DOD website and signed off.

It wasn't until I reached the front door that the heebie-jeebies returned. Was my stalker still out there? I loitered by the front entrance, casually reading the community no
tices, until a young couple joined at the hip breezed past.

I fell into step behind them and followed them onto the sidewalk. “Nice evening,” I said, thinking just the opposite.

“Yeah.”

“You students at GMU?”

They quickened their pace. “No.”

I had to hustle to keep up. “Going to the Metro?”

“No.”

Even though I was fairly well dressed, they probably thought I was one of those creepy bag ladies who seem to be drawn to public libraries the way my sister Ruth is drawn to garage sales. I dogged their tail until, with a quick glance at me chugging along behind them, they turned into the park, the guy's arm looped around his girlfriend's waist, guiding her along with a thumb hooked through a belt loop on her jeans. I watched until they disappeared into the shadows. No way
I
was going into that park, or back down the deserted street to the Virginia Square Metro station, either.

I pulled the little map out of my purse, checked it, then reversed direction and headed south. With one ear cocked for the sound of anyone on my tail, I made my way to the corner of Fairfax and Quincy, where someone, I swear, had built the next building just to creep me out: the Arlington funeral home, a two-story brick mansion with a pillared entrance and an American flag flapping away under a spotlight. I veered away from it, heading right on Fairfax, and hustled straight to the Ballston Metro Center and the welcoming lights of the Hilton Hotel.

I couldn't get down the escalator fast enough.

Then the turnstile rejected my fare card. I swore softly and trotted back to the solemn rank of fare card machines, where I slipped it into the “Trade in Used Fare Card” slot. The card's value—a buck twenty-five—flashed up on a tiny screen. It was off-peak hours, so I'd
need to add a dollar ten before I could get me and my aching feet back to New Carollton. Still standing in front of the machine, I rummaged in my purse, but only managed to come up with two quarters, a nickel, and a Canadian dime. Why hadn't I saved my cash by paying for my sandwich with a credit card? I was such a moron!

I rode the escalator up to street level and made my way to the Hilton, looking around for an ATM. I found one tucked away in a corner of the lobby, but it kept spitting out my ATM card. “Something wrong with this machine?” I asked a passing bellman.

“Out of order, ma'am.”

“Damnit!” I looked around until I found the tiny surveillance camera mounted in the ATM, faced it bravely and mouthed, “Why don't you fix your damn machine?”

I turned back to the bellman. “Know of any other ATMs around here?”

He squinted up at the ceiling as if the answer was written there. “Over to Ballston Mall.”

“Thanks.”

Following, his directions, I made my way to the glass-covered pedestrian bridge that spanned Ninth Street, wound through the atrium of the National Science Foundation building at treetop level, and trotted across another bridge with colored glass insets that would have caught the sunlight in the daytime but now reflected the headlights from cars driving on Wilson Boulevard some thirty feet below.

At the mall, I found an ATM that accepted my card, whirred for a moment considering it, decided I wasn't a deadbeat, and spit out two crisp twenty dollar bills. “Thank you!” I kissed the bills, tucked them into my purse, and headed back in the direction of the Metro.

I had almost forgotten about being followed until I heard the footsteps again, directly behind me. I stopped. The footsteps stopped.