Patriot Lies (Jack Widow Book 14)

by Scott Blade

  He reread the same article. Nothing had changed. Eggers burned himself up in his sleep. He was extremely intoxicated and fell asleep with a lit cigarette in his mouth. According to the article, an anonymous source inside the Metropolitan Police Department guessed that was what had happened based on the scene of Eggers’ death.

  Widow paused. That word stuck out at him. Guessed. The source claimed they guessed what had happened.

  Widow stared at the word like it might peel off the page and a different word would be underneath, but it didn’t. It stayed where it was.

  He took a pull of his coffee and scooped the Post up off the bench seat and held it up one-handed. He stared at the article, reading the whole thing again. The whole article was exactly the same as it was when he’d first read it earlier. This time, it was his interpretation that changed. The word guessed changed everything.

  Once upon a time, Widow had been an undercover cop. He worked with cops of all kinds. He knew that whenever the cops guessed, it meant that was what they were going with, and they weren’t looking past it.

  Someone, probably a uniform cop, took a look over the scene and ruled it an accidental death, right there, on the spot. There was no need for an overwhelmed police budget to stretch any further, so they could send out an overworked homicide detective to look over the scene.

  Why open an investigation into the death of a homeless vet that no one cared about?

  Widow’s blood started to boil. That was the way it was for a lot of guys coming out of the service. Not most, but a shameful number ended up on the streets, addicts of all manners of drugs.

  He had no illusion about it.

  That’s what MPD had done. They didn’t give Eggers a second look.

  Widow knew it to be true just by looking at the evidence right there in front of him. Other than the word guessed, one more thing jumped out at him. It wasn’t written about in the article. It was right there in the stock photo. The image was in the background.

  Widow pulled the paper close to his face and stared at it. He double-checked what he thought he saw. And he was right.

  Faint and blurry and small on the page, he saw outside of the park’s perimeter, hanging off a pole, just in line with a traffic light, there was a traffic camera. It pointed at the street recording the passing cars. Presumably, it was all on a closed-circuit system, stored in MPD someplace. Primarily, these CCTV systems were used for getting the tag numbers of cars that broke traffic laws, mostly running red lights, but they could also be used by police to investigate crime scenes. For example, the cameras were often used to identify getaway vehicles from bank robberies.

  Widow knew that the MPD hadn’t even bothered to check the ones around Lincoln Park the night Eggers supposedly burned himself alive.

  The camera was pointed at the street, but he could tell the lens also picked up the main entrance to the park and a large portion of the front of the park.

  If the bench in the stock photo was the same bench that Eggers died on, then that camera had a view of it from a distance. Not close enough to make out a man’s face, but certainly enough range to see if Eggers really did light up on fire with no help from anyone else.

  If it was the wrong bench, the camera would still be useful. A man and bench on fire would be a big enough spectacle for the camera to have seen something.

  Plus, where there’s one CCTV camera, there are bound to be others. Lincoln Park was surrounded by roads. There was probably a half-dozen cameras along that route.

  The police should’ve pulled the footage and taken a look. In all likelihood, they could’ve ruled Eggers’ death a definite accident.

  For Widow, guessing wasn’t good enough. The photograph gave him doubt. Back when he was an investigator with the NCIS, a shred of doubt meant there was a chance something had been missed. A single chance was too much for him. Widow didn’t settle for an answer. He made sure. When he put a guy away for murder, he made damn sure he had the right man.

  Widow memorized the name of the journalist who had written the article, in case he might need it later. Then, he set the Post back down on the bench next to him.

  The bus ticket to Pittsburgh was in his pocket. He knew that if he took it out and flipped it to the back, he would find the word nontransferable.

  He couldn’t keep the ticket and redeem it later. It would be no good later. It was only good for tonight, and only for the one-way trip to Pittsburgh, the Steel City.

  He could get on the bus and keep going. According to the laws of physics, it was possible. He was made of flesh and bone. He could step foot onto the bus and take a seat and sit back, and the bus would deliver him to the Steel City.

  On a personal level, it was impossible.

  Widow was a man who carried nothing. But if he got on that bus and just left without looking into the shred of doubt that ate at him, then he would carry Eggers’ face with him the rest of his life. It would forever haunt him.

  He needed to know for sure.

  Widow wasn’t the kind of guy who let wrong deeds go unpunished. It wasn’t his way. Looking the other way wasn’t in his DNA.

  If there was a wrong deed here, then he needed to know. He needed to hunt for the answer. He needed to make it right.

  Widow stared up at Washington DC’s night sky and spoke to himself—one word.

  “Dammit!”

  Eight

  Widow grabbed a bite to eat at a hole-in-the-wall sports bar. A football game played on TVs, mounted all over the place. They were all different brands from different eras, like a network of Frankenstein TVs, strung up on the walls over the years.

  It was a night game. Penn State was winning. Widow was good with that for no particular reason.

  He sat in a booth, not at the bar. The bar was good and toasty from a heater vent that blasted down on his table from overhead. Before he sat down, he took off his Havelock and draped it over the empty seat next to him. He rolled up his sleeves and then made himself comfortable in the seat. He liked the table because it was high. It wasn’t jammed on top of his knees like other establishments he had been to before.

  The room was dark. He still had the same Washington Post from earlier, folded back to the article about Eggers. He sat at the booth and ate a cheeseburger with fries and drank coffee. The photograph of the bench in Lincoln Park stared back at him.

  At the bar, a touchdown was scored on the TV, and the bar patrons got loud. Some cheered. Others shouted in defeat. After a few seconds, the uproar died back down to low, ambient bar noise.

  Widow glanced at the TV. It went to a commercial. He glanced at the entrance, which began with a heavy, wooden door. Widow saw the door open, and a new patron stepped through.

  The new patron was a lone man, about average height, average size, only all of it was on a muscular, wiry frame.

  He wore cowboy boots and black slacks with a dark coat and dark sweater underneath.

  The guy stepped in with a bit of swagger as if he knew the place. He stepped up to the bar, looked around, apparently trying to spot an empty seat. Then he turned and casually walked in Widow’s direction.

  Widow eyed his copy of the Post again, scanning for something new to read other than the article about Eggers.

  The new guy sat in a booth near Widow, angling himself so he could see the game on one of the TVs over the bar. He slipped off his coat and pushed up the sleeves of his sweater.

  The waitress walked over with a menu and set it in front of the guy. She asked if he wanted a beer. He ordered coffee, black, which got Widow’s attention more than he already had.

  Great minds think alike, Widow thought.

  A moment later, the waitress returned with a hot coffee for the guy. She asked if he wanted any food. He told her to leave the menu, that he would order something later.

  She left him. He sipped his coffee and watched the game.

  Widow went back to studying the paper.

  Several minutes passed, and the waitress came back through on
patrol. She refilled Widow’s coffee. Then she topped off the stranger’s.

  Widow noticed.

  The guy looked at Widow, watched his coffee get refilled, and watched him take a pull from it.

  The guy smiled at Widow and said, “I see you like your coffee, same as me.”

  “I don’t know if anyone likes coffee the same as me. But you get a bronze medal for drinking coffee in a bar.”

  The guy took another pull from his coffee and nodded.

  “A bronze? I already got one of those.”

  “Really?”

  “Got a Silver Star too.”

  Widow nodded, impressed.

  The guy asked, “What about you? You obviously served before.”

  “That obvious?”

  “It is.”

  “I got a few medals.”

  “What’s the highest?”

  Widow paused a beat. He didn’t like to talk about medals. A general rule of thumb for SEALs was not to boast or talk about the specifics of their medals. He couldn’t say the same for enlisted sailors, but that’s how it was for him.

  On the other hand, Widow had been out of the Navy for a long time.

  In his career, Widow had been nominated for the Medal of Honor, never received it, although that might have been because the Navy blocked his nomination. The Medal of Honor is the highest medal awarded to military service members.

  The brass was concerned about exposing him because the Medal of Honor was awarded in a public ceremony, which in and of itself didn’t seem like anyone would find out. The only thing was that the Medal of Honor was bestowed by the sitting president of the United States. That little detail made the whole affair an event with White House reporters. The whole ordeal would have raised too many questions.

  Widow didn’t mention that. The next most prestigious medal down was the Navy Cross, which he was awarded a single time. He didn’t mention that one either. But he decided it wouldn’t hurt to mention a more well-known medal that didn’t give away too much about him.

  He said, “I got a Purple Heart once.”

  “Really? Where?”

  Widow’s Purple Heart and Navy Cross and other military ribbons and other military keepsakes were stuffed in his old locker in the basement that didn’t exist on a blueprint inside of NCIS headquarters in Quantico, Virginia.

  But that’s not what the guy was asking.

  “I got it overseas.”

  “Can’t give away the exact location?” the guy asked. He paused a beat as if for dramatic effect.

  He asked, “You a water ninja?”

  Widow hadn’t heard that one in over a decade. And the last time he heard it was when he was learning SEAL slang. Usually, people said frogman, except elite Marines. They usually called him a frog hog, like they were in competition with SEALs. No one was in competition with SEALs. No one else was even in the same league with SEALs. Not in Widow’s opinion.

  In Widow’s opinion, and the same for every other SEAL he’d ever met, SEALs were in the stratosphere. The most elite Marines didn’t even get off the ground in comparison.

  Of course, all of that might’ve been his personal bias toward the Navy.

  Widow said, “I was a sailor.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Widow didn’t respond to that.

  The guy said, “You look too wet behind the ears to be a land-lover. That’s for sure.”

  “What about you? You a jarhead?”

  The guy’s expression turned to surprise, as if he was shocked that Widow knew.

  “How’d you know that? Have we met before?”

  Without looking at the guy, Widow said, “Your tattoo. Inner, left forearm.”

  The guy turned his arm and stared at his tattoo.

  Widow said, “It says BAM. You must’ve been a Bad Ass Marine way back when. That’s what it stands for, right?”

  The guy cracked a smile.

  “I still am a Bad Ass Marine.”

  “You still in the Corps?”

  “No. It’s more of a once a Marine, always a Marine kind of thing.”

  “That sounds right. Every jarhead I ever knew was that way.”

  The guy pointed at Widow’s rolled-up sleeve, at Widow’s own ink.

  “You got plenty of ink there yourself.”

  “I do.”

  “Any of that Navy inspired?”

  “Some of it.”

  “I like your American flag tattoos. Never saw that done like that before. Those full sleeves?”

  Widow nodded.

  “Must’ve cost a fortune.”

  “It wasn’t cheap.”

  Suddenly, cheers erupted from the bar, along with some disdain. It was equal to the last outburst when one team scored a touchdown; only this time, the eruptions were reversed, and the original cheerleaders became the disdained, and vice versa.

  The guy looked up at the TV. He banged a fist on the tabletop.

  “Damn it!”

  Widow asked, “Your team losing?”

  The guy paused a beat, breathed in and out like he was trying to calm himself down.

  He said, “They just lost.”

  “Game’s not over yet.”

  “It’s a twenty-point spread with two minutes to go.”

  Widow glanced at the TV. He squinted his eyes. He could see the screen. He saw the score was plastered at the top right-hand corner, but he couldn’t read the numbers from that distance. It was too far away.

  He said, “You can see that from there? That’s some good vision.”

  The guy smiled back at him.

  “Yeah. Guess what I did in Camp Lejeune for ten weeks?”

  “You were a Scout Sniper?”

  “That’s right.”

  Widow didn’t blink, didn’t take a gulp, but that’s what the guy was used to. Widow was sure because Marine Scout Snipers were among the deadliest snipers in the world. No question.

  Widow stayed quiet, and the guy gulped down the rest of his coffee. He stood up from his booth and fumbled through his pants pocket. He came out with cash and lifted his empty mug. He trapped the money under the cup.

  He turned to walk away but stopped. He looked back at Widow.

  He did something weird and a little cryptic. He did one of those finger guns with a wink and a noise like a gun shooting in Widow’s direction. It might be a goodbye that a fraternity brother might do to another fraternity brother.

  The guy said, “Nice talking to you. Good night, sailor.”

  Widow said, “Same to you.”

  The guy said nothing else. He turned and walked, weaving between tables and past patrons. He exited back out the same heavy, wooden door where he’d come in, turned, and vanished.

  Widow stuck around a little longer. He finished his food, paid the bill, and left his change as a tip. And he abandoned the Post under his plate and walked to a hotel down the street.

  DC had motels that would’ve been cheaper, but he didn’t want to pay for a taxi out of the area. He wanted to stay close to where Eggers had died. He wanted to be close to the crime scene if it was a crime scene. The tradeoff was paying premium for a hotel.

  He stayed at a hotel chain that everyone knew and got the cheapest room he could get, which was more than double what he was used to paying, but he didn’t argue.

  In the room, he checked all the light switches and the fan in the bathroom and the faucets. He checked for both hot and cold water. He checked the complimentary hotel soaps and shampoo and towels.

  Widow turned down the bed and kicked off his boots. He dumped himself down on the bed, dead center. He picked up a phone on a nightstand next to the bed and checked for a dial tone. Following the instructions a recorded voice gave him, he clicked the nine button to dial out. Then he dug into his pocket and pulled out Aker’s card. He stared at it as if he had forgotten the phone number, which he hadn’t. He dialed the number fast and accurately, which always surprised him because Widow had long, thick fingers like chair legs. Pl
us, he’d once known an English girl who called him a klutz. That was a statement that he never denied.

  Klutz or not, he somehow managed to hit the buttons correctly and in the correct sequence.

  The phone hummed a beat and then dialed and rang. He waited.

  It went to voicemail.

  “This is Jack Widow. From the church. I’ve reconsidered our conversation. I’m still in town. Call me at…”

  Widow glanced at a phone number laminated to the phone’s base and read it out to the voicemail.

  “I’ll be at Lincoln Park first thing in the morning. Probably around oh seven hundred.”

  He said nothing else. He hung up the phone and stood up and took a whiff of his underarm to judge whether he smelled. And he did, not terribly, just like a guy who’d walked outside all day. He needed a shower.

  He took off the rest of his clothes, tossing them over a desk chair. He strung his socks over his boots.

  Widow stretched out tall, allowing his muscles to pull and expand, and his bones to crack. Once he felt everything reset, he adjusted back to the body’s default stance.

  He went into the bathroom and tested to make sure the hot water was indeed hot. And it was. He returned to the main room and scooped up his clothes and took them into the bathroom, everything but the Havelock and the boots.

  He twisted the hot faucet for the sink and used a tiny bar of hand soap to scrub his clothes clean. After all was said and done, he wrung out the flannel, the undershirt, his underwear, blue jeans, and socks. With the jeans and the flannel, he pulled hard on the sleeves to stretch them out. Clothes with sleeves had a bad habit of not being long enough for his limbs.

  In the end, he hung everything up to dry as best he could. Most of it was draped over the sink, toilet, and windowsill.

  Afterward, he took a shower, scrubbing himself from top to bottom, bottom to top, and he hopped back out, killed the water, and toweled off.

  The hotel provided only one set of towels. He supposed he was supposed to request new ones every single new day.

  The bath towel barely tucked and stayed on him. It hung off his hips. Widow had a well-defined waist and what a SEAL buddy of his called the V-cut. It was the ab definition that angled down from Widow’s hips. It was the kind of muscular definition that men and women spent decades in the gym to acquire. Widow had it naturally.