One Was a Soldier

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “Anybody not on patrol yet?”

  “Hadley. She got in late.”

  “Good. Have her contact McNabb’s telephone carriers. Landline and cell. I want a record of all incoming calls for the week up to her death. She’s looking for out-of-state numbers, especially ones originating from a Missouri or an Illinois area code.”

  “Roger that.”

  “And Harlene? Do we still have the hard copy of the intake file for Quentan Nichols? It would have been late June.”

  “Probably.”

  “Find it and put it on my desk. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Van Alstyne out.”

  He hung up the mic.

  “You think she and Nichols stole the money together.”

  “If she took it, she didn’t do it alone. Do you know anything about how you draw pay during deployment?”

  “Um … I showed up at the quartermaster’s and signed for it. At the bigger camps, like Liberty or Anaconda, you could use a card at the CX or to get cash.”

  “Where’s the cash come from?”

  She blinked. “I never thought about it.”

  “It’s just like a civilian bank. The army flies it in, shrink-wrapped on pallets. The cash is transferred under guard to a secure location, where it’s locked into a vault and disbursed as necessary.”

  “Huh. So when Seelye said upwards of a million, she meant one million actual dollars?” Clare shook her head. “That’s gotta be a big amount. Physically, I mean.”

  Russ flicked on his signal and turned onto River Road. “Yeah. McNabb was a finance company specialist. That means she only intersected with the cash at the end, when it was in a vault, under tight control. Or maybe not even then. It sounded as if she was in accounts management, not dispersal.”

  “A bookkeeper, not a teller.” Clare scarcely noticed when they crossed the bridge. “She can cover up the loss, but not remove the actual loot from where it’s supposed to be.”

  “That’s right. She would have needed an accomplice who had access to the money earlier. One of the ground crew. Or a truck driver. Or one of the MPs assigned to guard the cash.”

  “Quentan Nichols. Do you think he gave Tally advance warning that the investigators were after her?”

  “That’s why I’m having Knox pull the phone records.”

  She stared out the side window. The sun made the autumn leaves look like they had been lit from inside. Almost too bright to look at against the white clapboard farmhouses and the October blue sky. She turned back toward Russ. “Maybe it wasn’t love that kept him coming back trying to talk with her. Maybe it was one million dollars.”

  “Well, you know what they say. Nothing says ‘I love you’ like a cool million in the bank.” His mouth quirked. “Either Nichols had already gotten his cut, and he called to warn her in order to save his own skin, or she still owed him money, and he called to warn her in order to keep the cash flowing.”

  “Or he showed up in person to collect.” She watched as he swung onto Church Street. The gazebo in the center of the park was still hung with red-white-and-blue bunting. Maybe one more concert this weekend before the town boarded it up for the winter. “Where does her husband fit in?”

  “I’m sure he was happy to accept whatever money she gave him, no questions asked.” He braked to let a handful of shoppers cross the street. “I still want to question him, but unless there’s some evidence of domestic abuse we haven’t turned up yet, he’s dropped down several notches on my list.”

  Clare could think of other reasons Wyler McNabb night have killed his wife. A million of them. Maybe she was going to break it off and take the money with her. Maybe he was going to break it off and he wanted it all for himself. Maybe only she knew where it was hidden, and his attempts to wring the location out of her went south. “Where do you suppose she stashed it?”

  “That’s not my problem, thank God.” He drove past the church, past the boxwood hedge, and turned into her drive.

  “What do you mean? A million in untraceable cash? If that’s not motive for murder, what is?”

  He engaged the parking brake but kept the engine running. He turned, slinging his arm across the seat back. “You’re not seeing the whole picture. The McNabbs spent money like water in the past couple of years, buying cars, a boat, a swimming pool, and God knows how much in useless crap and rounds of drinks at the Dew Drop. Their relationship, by all accounts, was rocky. She was stressed by two tours of duty in Iraq, one of which included grand larceny. One of the guys in her group just tried to kill himself. Then she finds out the CID is about to show up. She’s looking at fifteen years’ hard time in Leavenworth and complete financial ruin from the restitution order.” He laid his hand over Clare’s. His voice gentled. “I know it’s hard to accept—but her .38 must have looked like her only friend in the world at that point.”

  * * *

  Eric McCrea knew that most cases were cleared with systematic, step-by-step investigation, methodical and well analyzed. Still, there was an element of luck to police work, too, and he didn’t know a single cop who’d disagree with him on that score.

  Eric McCrea was about to get lucky.

  He had been working his way down the list of McNabb’s family and friends, trying to find someone who might give the weasel up or at least tell the truth about his relationship with his wife. Eric had spoken to two co-workers already that morning, respectable, solid family guys who lived on quiet streets and kept their lawns mowed. Neither of them had ever socialized with Wyler McNabb, except for the company parties BWI Opperman put on. Neither of them knew much about Tally McNabb other than that the couple had been together since high school. No one recalled Wyler talking about or spending time with another woman.

  “He sucked when he was on construction,” one man said. “Got fired off the resort here. He got rehired as a foreman, though, and he actually did better at that. He wasn’t dumb. Just allergic to hard work.”

  An opportunist, Eric thought. Lives off others.

  “He was kind of an asshole,” the other man said. “Thought he was smarter than he was and wanted you to think so, too.”

  Arrogant, Eric thought. Confident he can get away with murder.

  The next stop on the list was in an entirely different neighborhood—the Meadowbrook Estates Park, a tightly packed collection of rusting, rattling single-wides that had neither a meadow nor a brook to soften the hard-packed dirt between the concrete slabs and hook-ups. This was the home of Morris Slinger Jr. Fetch, as he was known, was one of those guys who managed to live off a combination of disability, small-time dealing, and the generosity of his friends. The most generous of whom was Wyler McNabb.

  Eric was pleased to see Fetch’s Camaro beneath a fabric-topped, PVC-pole car park. He had tried the place yesterday, but his target had been gone. He pulled in, blocking the Camaro, and got out.

  He banged on the door. Behind and around him, he could hear the pop and scrape of aluminum latches on aluminum frames, as Fetch’s neighbors stuck their heads out to watch the show.

  “This is the Millers Kill police,” Eric roared. “Open the door!”

  The door opened. Fetch stood inside, tall, blond, and still gangly, even though his teens were well past him now. “Hey. Sergeant McCrea.” He was trying for some enthusiasm. “What’s up, man?” He plucked at his T-shirt. “I’m clean. You can walk right in and see for yourself. Clean as a whistle.”

  “I’m looking for a buddy of yours. Wyler McNabb.”

  “Wyler.” Fletch’s voice relaxed. He stopped tugging his shirt out of shape. “Yeah, man, I just dropped him off at his house, like, less than an hour ago. What’s up?”

  A flare of excitement shot up Eric’s spine and detonated inside his skull. He kept his face blank and his voice hard. “Where were the two of you?”

  “At the Mohegan Sun. They had this off-season special, Monday night to Friday morning. Our room was, like, dirt cheap and we got free breakfast, too.”

  The Mohegan Sun. The
Connecticut casino was on Kevin’s list of out-of-state locations. Easy to follow up on.

  “You were both there. The whole week.”

  “Yeah.” Fetch mimed pulling a slot machine lever with one long, skinny arm. “It was just for the gambling, man. The casinos, they’re way strict. They even think you’re carrying, next thing you know security’s tossed your ass out the door and you ain’t gettin’ in again.”

  “Why’d you take your car instead of his?”

  Fetch shrugged. “He asked me if I wanted to drive. He paid for the gas and tolls and shit.” His face creased with concern. “You know, for real, Wyler likes a good time, but he don’t party. He don’t use shit, and he don’t move it. If that’s what you’re looking for, you’re going to come up with nothing.”

  Eric thought, for a moment, about calling in the CSI and impounding Fetch’s Camaro. Just because they had spent four glorious nights in some resort didn’t mean they hadn’t snuck back home for a little wet work. In which case, there might be fiber or skin or hair inside that car. He decided against it. If they hadn’t already cleaned and vacuumed after McNabb’s death, he was pretty sure Fetch wasn’t up to the task of sanitizing the environment himself.

  “I want you to stay here.” He jabbed his finger at Fetch, not quite touching him. “You stay here, and the car stays here.”

  Fetch’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Okay. Uh, for how long?”

  “Until I tell you. Got it?”

  Fetch nodded.

  Eric gave him one more look, the one that said, I will mess you up if you cross me, and strode back to his unit. He waited until he had pulled out of the mobile home park to pick up his mic. “Dispatch, this is fifteen-twenty-five.”

  “Fifteen-twenty-five, this is Dispatch, go ahead.”

  “I’ve got a forty on Wyler McNabb. He was dropped off at his house within the last hour. He was supposedly at the Mohegan Sun in Connecticut since Monday afternoon. Can somebody verify that stay for me?”

  “Roger that, fifteen-twenty-five.”

  “I’m proceeding to 16 Musket Way to bring the suspect in for questioning.”

  “Roger that, fifteen-twenty-five. Do you require backup?”

  Did he require backup? Hell no. Not against a limp-dicked woman-killer like McNabb. “Negative on that, Dispatch.” If McNabb did come after him, so much the better. He told Harlene what she would want to hear. “I’ll proceed with caution, Dispatch. If anything looks off, I’ll call for support.”

  He hadn’t thought much of Tally McNabb’s cheating. Sure, it had been common among troops in Iraq, but so were sand fleas—and he sure wouldn’t have taken one of those into his bunk. Even if she had slept with every guy in her unit and then shown pictures of it to her husband, by God she had been one of their own. A brother in arms. He wasn’t going to let her down at the last.

  * * *

  Approaching the house, Eric saw the first sign McNabb was home. The garage doors were open, and McNabb’s ATV had been rolled onto the blacktop. Eric entered through the overcluttered garage and pounded on the kitchen door. “This is the Millers Kill police. Open up!”

  There was a long pause. Finally, a voice said, “Prove it.”

  Oh, for chrissake. “Look out your front window, asshole. You can see my cruiser sitting at the foot of your drive.”

  Another period of silence. Then, “Whaddaya want?”

  “I want you to open up this goddamn door before I kick it in!”

  The door cracked open. Eric slid his boot into the opening, leaned against the edge of the door with his shoulder, and greased right through. “Hey!” McNabb backed away, bunching his hands into fists. “You can’t do that.”

  “We’re like vampires, asshole. You open the door, we get to come in and stay.”

  “What the hell do you want?” McNabb was dressed for the outdoors: ripstop woodlands camo pants and a matching shirt. A blaze-orange vest and bill cap were hooked over a kitchen chair.

  “Going someplace?”

  “I’m meeting some buddies. We’re going riding. No law against that.”

  “Riding where?”

  “We got a course set up behind the resort. Anybody who works for the company can use it. You can check. Nobody’s trespassing.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass whose woods you’re tearing up on that oversized roller skate. I want you to come with me to the station. We need to have a talk with you.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then screw you. I know my rights. I don’t have to talk with you or with anyone.”

  Eric lunged forward. Twisted his fingers in McNabb’s collar and contracted his bicep, jerking the younger man up until he was dangling, boot toes pattering against the kitchen floor. McNabb gurgled. Clawed at Eric’s hand. “You can come with me conscious, or you can come with me unconscious. That’s as far as your rights go.”

  “Uck oo!” McNabb swung wildly, unaimed blows Eric deflected with his forearms.

  “That’s it, asshole, you just assaulted an officer. You’re under—” McNabb’s boot connected solidly to his knee. Eric howled, dropped the perp, staggered back, swearing, sweating, eyes watering. Jesus! It felt like his fucking kneecap was broken.

  He raised his head. McNabb was at the other end of the kitchen. Gasping. Spitting. Receiver in one hand. Dialing with the other. Calling a lawyer. Calling the press. Calling his wife. Tattletale. Fucking little tattletale. He charged McNabb, knocking him into the wall. The receiver clattered to the floor. Eric stomped it, once, twice, until it broke into black shards and green chips.

  “C’mon, asshole,” Eric rasped. “C’mon. Just you and me now. Let’s do it. Let’s do it.”

  * * *

  “Fifteen-seventy, this is Dispatch, do you copy?”

  Hadley unhooked her mic. “Dispatch, this is fifteen-seventy, go ahead.”

  “I’ve just had a nine hundred from the McNabb house. That’s 16 Musket Way.”

  A nine hundred. A 911 call that was broken off before any communication could take place. Most times, it was a four-year-old after a preschool trip to the fire station. Occasionally, a teen who didn’t realize his prank call could be traced. Sometimes, it was bad. Real bad.

  “Eric McCrea reported Wyler McNabb had returned home this morning. Eric was headed there to bring him in. My last contact with him was at oh-nine-forty. He’s not answering my hails.”

  Hadley’s stomach rose and lodged in her esophagus, even as her hand flicked on her light bar and siren and her foot tromped on the gas. “Roger that, Dispatch. I am responding.”

  “I’m sending in whoever else I can raise, so you’ll have backup.” Harlene’s matter-of-fact recitation faltered. “Be careful, Hadley. Remember what the chief says.”

  “Don’t be a hero. Don’t worry. I’m not planning on it.”

  * * *

  Hadley Knox hated suspense movies. Couldn’t watch horror. Any scene involving the hero walking warily into an unknown situation had her holding a pillow over her face and fast-forwarding to the next part.

  So she recognized the irony of her position. She had taken on a job that kept requiring her to do the exact same thing she wouldn’t watch in a DVD. The training helped, and the past two years’ experience helped, and practicing three times weekly at the range helped a lot, as she now felt sure she could hit a target smaller than the side of a barn if necessary. Even so, she still felt as if a swarm of half-frozen ants were crawling up her skin as she pulled her unit in behind Eric’s and got out.

  One glance told her McCrea hadn’t returned to his vehicle, either to call for help or to secure a prisoner. She unsnapped her holster. Drew her Glock 9. Positioned her arm, straight down and slightly outward, the carrying stance that would, her instructors at the Police Basic course had promised, keep her from shooting her own foot off.

  She heard the first noise as she entered the garage. A thud, like a bag of flour being dropped from a height. Then a mangled, indist
inct sound, something that had come out of a human throat, something that made those ants march double-time up the back of her neck.

  The door that led into the kitchen from the garage was ajar. Not far enough to see inside. Another cry, or shout. Then another. No time to weigh the situation. No time. She took a stance at the door, shoulder-on, presenting the smallest target. Took a deep breath. Raised her near foot and kicked the door in, almost bouncing it back in her face because she overestimated its hollow-core weight. Came down hard on the same foot, still shoulder-on, swept the room with her Glock, yelling, “Police! Drop your weapon and get on the ground!”

  She saw McCrea at the same instant, straddling a perp who was already on the floor, and she had a second to think Oh, thank God, he’s okay and then she registered the blood, and saw that McCrea had his service piece in his hand, a big SIG SAUER .45, three pounds of steel, and he raised it up and whack, bludgeoned McNabb in the face with it. Whack! Blood sprayed across the no-wax flooring. Whack! McNabb wasn’t moving, wasn’t resisting, wasn’t making a sound, so Hadley did it for him, let out a screech that would have embarrassed her if she had been able to think about it and launched her whole body forward. She tackled Eric, knocked him to his side, scrabbled for his weapon, all the while screaming, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

  He rolled over her, banging her head so hard against the floor she saw stars. He gripped her wrist and banged it again, harder, then again, until her bruised knuckles released and her gun clunked to the floor. He hit it with his other hand and sent it spinning into an overturned chair. She kicked and bucked beneath him, thinking he’s snapped thinking rape thinking I lost my piece, oh, God and the shame and fear and anger coalesced inside her and she head-butted him, then punched him one-two in the diaphragm as he reared back in pain, and as he turned red and choked for air she twisted, rolling to her stomach beneath him, and pushed onto her hands and knees, throwing him off her.

  She scrambled for her gun. Seized it. Assumed the stance. Pointed it, not at the feebly croaking Wyler McNabb, but at her fellow officer.