by Brian Haig
I finally managed to say, “I am terribly sorry. Lisa and I worked together. We became close friends. She was a gifted lawyer and she was a, well, a great person.”
Appropriate words. But to the ears of a father who had burped her, changed her diapers, shared in a lifetime of great triumphs and few failures, they inevitably sounded wooden, empty, and condensed.
He apparently sensed my discomfort and said, “Come in, won’t you?”
He took his daughter’s arm, and I followed them down a hall-way to a study at the rear of the house. The house itself—spacious, high-ceilinged, furnished tastefully with heavy wooden pieces, leather chairs, and oriental carpets—was a masculine home muddied by occasional frilly touches, evidence of four daughters. Pictures were everywhere of four young girls, from infancy through adulthood—graduation shots, a wedding picture, four girls on a boat with Mr. Morrow, hair blown back, all laughing. Above the mantel in the study hung a portrait of a woman beautiful enough to make you gasp; Lisa’s mother, I guessed, blond-haired, green-eyed, looking curiously at the painter through two large orbs that exuded sympathy, a resemblance eerie enough to give me a shock.
The father and daughter fell onto the couch, arms wrapped around each other. I fell into the worn leather chair across from them. I said nothing—the questions would come.
“How?” Mr. Morrow eventually asked.
I replied, “Sir, I am instructed to state that the results and circumstances have yet to be finalized. You’ll be notified as soon as we’re sure.”
He tapped a finger on a knee. “How?”
“She was murdered. Her neck was broken. It was quick, and as painless as these things can be.”
I watched their faces crumple with shock. Death is death, regardless of the cause. Yet car accidents, plane crashes, strokes, and lightning strikes offer enough haphazardness to at least afford a sense that God or the fates simply plucked somebody you loved. Murder is different. So is its aftertaste. No random, supernatural force dealt the hand; some rotten mortal bastard robbed you of something infinitely precious.
“Have they caught the killer?”
“No. Not yet.” His eyes were boring into me, so I added, “Lisa had left the Pentagon and was getting into her car. Her purse was missing, so it may have been a robbery. But I don’t believe the police have yet discovered any evidence leading to a culprit.”
A stunned silence followed as he and his daughter tried to absorb the full ramifications. Mr. Morrow eventually informed his daughter, “I’m going to call Carol and Janet and ask them to come right over.”
He left me with a daughter who was perhaps twenty-three, dark-haired, thin, almost waifish, pretty, and, at the moment, severely distraught. I recalled that we hadn’t been introduced and said, “I’m Sean Drummond. I was a friend of Lisa’s. She spoke about all of you quite often.”
She suppressed a sniffle. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to speak right now.” She fled.
I went over to stare at book titles, the final resort in every unwieldy, distressing situation. Mr. Morrow was a fan of the classics, I noted, and the books on the shelves had their spines heavily creased. Every family has a room and this study had that feel.
The front door opened about twenty minutes later, then murmured voices, a wail of anguish, then crying. The door opened again five minutes later, and the ritual was repeated.
After a while, I heard footsteps, then they all filed through the door into the study. Mr. Morrow’s eyes moved distractedly around the room, and I suspected he was reliving what only an hour before would’ve been a happy memory and was now a painful one, perhaps of Lisa doing homework at his desk or thumbing through Dickens by the fireplace.
He said to me, “Major, I’m . . . I forgot your first name.”
I was starting to open my lips when one of the three daughters prompted, “Sean, Daddy . . . Sean Drummond.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Janet. Uh. . . Sean, these are Lisa’s sisters, Elizabeth, Carol, and Janet.”
I glanced at Janet, who had recalled my name, which was weird, because I was positive we’d never met.
All three sisters were identical in height and . . . and, actually, just height. Elizabeth, whom I’d been left with earlier, was, as I mentioned, black-haired and slender, whereas Carol was brunette, curly-headed, stockier, also pretty, but with that frumpy, sterilized look of the professional academic.
But back to Janet. She was quite attractive, in fact, stunningly attractive, raven-haired and blue-eyed, arched eyebrows, swept-up nose, carved cheekbones, and two dimples that warmed her beauty. She was dressed in a simple business suit that showed a body similar to Lisa’s—slender, curvy in the right places, athletic, alluring.
“Is there anything else?” Mr. Morrow suddenly asked me.
“There is.” I explained, “I’ve also been appointed as your survival assistance officer. This means I’ll handle estate matters.”
Janet immediately said, “No, you won’t. I’ll handle the estate.”
“That’s not advisable. Lisa has military life insurance, and military survivor packages, and . . . look, please consider it. You’ll find it beneficial to have a military attorney wade through those things.” I looked at her father and added, “Mr. Morrow, you’re listed in Lisa’s records as her beneficiary. About her funeral, I assume you’d like her to be interred in Arlington National.”
“I’m afraid . . . I never considered it.”
“Of course. Take your time.”
They all four stared down at the floor, the “funeral” word truly driving home the point that Lisa’s death was for keeps.
I sensed I had outworn my welcome and therefore said, “I’ll leave my phone number and address on the table by the door. If there’s anything . . . please let me know.”
Nobody suggested otherwise, so I showed myself out. In fact, I was at the bottom of the outdoor stoop when the door flew open and Janet stepped out onto the portico. She held out her business card, and I obediently walked back and took it.
She said, “Call me with questions or issues.”
“Right.”
“I don’t want my father bothered.”
“Of course.”
She turned around to go back inside, paused, then spun around and said, “You told my father there were no clues.”
“It was true last night. I don’t know what progress they’ve made since then.”
“Who’s handling the investigation?”
“The Army Criminal Investigation Division.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“It’s in good hands, Miss Morrow. Army CID is very competent.”
This, of course, was the kind of reassurance the Army expects you to offer in these difficult situations. But it’s also true. Army CID has a much higher case closure rate than most civilian police forces. Of course, the artificialities of military life account for much of that success, as CID deals with small, clannish communities, where nearly everybody eats apple pie for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Committing crimes in military communities is akin to farting in church—don’t expect sympathetic witnesses.
What I failed to mention was the unusual nature of this crime from a military perspective. Having occurred in a massive, open parking lot a few miles from one of the world’s most crime-infested cities suspects were not in short supply. Nor that the manner of Lisa’s murder—the absence of a knife, bullet, and so forth—made it a real mess. Possibly Lisa had left a note back in her apartment that said, “In the event of my murder, please arrest (fill in the blank),” but life, and death particularly, never work that way. Finding the perp was going to be a bitch.
Janet stared at me, then said, a bit curtly, “Don’t treat me like a novice, Drummond. This was my sister. Her murderer is going to be found.”
“Right. CID will catch the killer and bring him to justice.”
I had the impression she did not like this response when I heard the door slam.
I studied her business c
ard. The top line read, “Janet Morrow,” and beneath that, “Assistant District Attorney, City of Boston, Mass.”
Oh shit.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I RETURNED TO THE GREED MILL SHORTLY AFTER 4:00 P.M. , WHERE A CURT note from Sally ordered me to see her the moment I arrived. Beneath it was a second note to call Clapper.
I am ordinarily a stickler for that ladies-before-gentlemen thing. Exceptions are made when the lady is a bitch and the gentleman signs my paycheck.
Clapper inquired how it went, and I replied, bluntly, that it sucked and I wished I hadn’t flown up to Boston but was reluctantly glad I did. He said he understood perfectly. There actually are a few fleeting moments when Clapper and I are friendly and even see eye to eye. It feels really good to both of us, I think.
Anyway, I warned him to expect to hear from one of Lisa’s sisters. He said she had already called, and he had politely attempted to coax her to stay out of it. We agreed that she would probably ignore us both, and he then updated me on what CID had learned, which amounted to nothing—no fibers, no fingerprints, and enough tire tracks in what was, after all, a public parking lot, to make it impossible to pinpoint an escape vehicle. I told him I’d work on arranging the funeral. He said fine, make it a good one, and stay in touch.
Sally next, and I was directed to a carrel in a massive cube farm. There was a fairly gaping gap between junior and senior associates at Culper, Hutch, and Westin I had learned. After also learning that junior associates started at $130, 000 a year, my sympathy meter was stuck on don’t give a shit.
I stuck my head in and coughed. In response, she frowned, pointed at her watch, and said, “Drummond, yesterday was bad enough. This . . . well, it’s absurd. Cy and Barry both asked where you were a dozen times. You’re in big trouble.”
“Lisa Morrow was murdered last night. I flew to Boston to notify her family.”
I wasn’t sure she heard me. She continued to stare at her watch. “Murdered?”
“Yes. Somebody broke her neck.”
“Do they know who?”
“No. Not yet. It appeared to be a robbery.”
She briefly contemplated this, and then concluded, “You still should’ve called.”
It struck me I was arranging the wrong funeral.
I informed her, “I’ve also been appointed her family’s survival assistance representative. I’ll need time over the next few days to arrange Lisa’s funeral and handle her affairs.”
She said, “Explain your problems to Barry and Cy.”
“I will.” Bitch.
She went back to studying whatever she was reading and sort of casually asked, “So did you or didn’t you study for your test?”
Okay, here’s the deal. She had all the proper affectations of the model junior attorney—ambitious, hardworking, buttoned-down, dedicated, and so forth. And yet she didn’t strike me as overly bright—not dumb or brainless, just not bright. More obviously, she lacked a few human ingredients, like sympathy, a sense of humor, and compassion.
Anyway, my choices seemed to be continue this line of conversation and end up putting her in a chokehold or change the subject. “So what’s that you’re working on?” I asked.
“What you should be working on.” She pointed at one stack. “That’s the original proposal sent by Morris Networks for the DARPA bid.” She pointed at another. “That’s the protest filed by AT&T, and that’s the one by Sprint.”
“It takes two hundred pages to file a protest?”
“They were probably in a hurry.”
A voice behind me chuckled and said, “It’s an industry standard, thank God. You don’t suspect reputable firms of padding bills?”
I spun around. Cy was smiling, though it was something short of his normal, gregarious smile. He remarked, “Perhaps Sally failed to mention that we like our attorneys to come in before noon.”
“She did mention it. But Lisa Morrow was murdered.”
“Oh. . . ?”
“Apparently a robbery gone wrong.”
He, at least, had the decency not to stare at his watch. In fact, he appeared both stunned and upset. After a moment of hesitation, he said, “I’m, uh . . . I’m sorry, Sean. Were, uh, were you two close?”
“We were.”
Again he appeared uncertain what to say next, a reaction that struck me as uncharacteristic. Silver-tongued types like Cy were never at a loss for the right sentiment, the right words. He finally said, “She was quite a woman. Truly, she was. She had spunk and smarts.”
He saw the confused expression on my face and pulled me aside so Sally and the others couldn’t overhear. “She made quite an impression on us,” he informed me. “We offered to bring her in as a partner.”
I suppose I looked surprised, because he swiftly added, “In fact, she accepted. She asked for a few weeks to put in her resignation and get things cleared up with the Army. We were expecting her to start next month.”
“I don’t believe it.”
He acknowledged this with a nod. “A salary of three hundred and fifty thousand, a cut of the annual take, and the usual assortment of gratuities this firm generously provides its partners. We intended to move Lisa to our Boston office, where she’d be near her family.”
Okay, I believed it. In fact, it did explain his sudden discomfort, and also why Lisa wanted to talk to me about the firm. The Army is where you came to be all you can be, but there comes a time for all of us to get all you can get, and I suppose Lisa had reached that point.
“Have you heard anything about her funeral?” he asked.
“I’m arranging it. I’m also supposed to settle her estate and help get her family through this.”
“Take whatever time you need. She made a lot of friends here, so please be sure to let us know. And Sean . . . anything I can do . . . let me know.”
I heard a grunt of disapproval from Sally. But I said I would, and Cy wandered off to notify the rest of the Washington office that there was still an opening in the Boston office for a new partner.
I returned to my office and immediately called the Fort Myer military police station to inquire if a certain prick named Chief Warrant Spinelli worked there. Indeed he was a prick of thoroughbred proportion, the duty officer confided, but he wouldn’t be in until 5:00 P.M.
I assumed Spinelli had experienced a long night and an even longer morning. The murder of a female JAG officer on military property raises a lot of eyebrows—eyebrows of the wrong variety in the Military District of Washington, a sort of grazing pasture for general officers, some of whom have little better to do than stick their fingers up their posteriors, and their bossy noses into your business.
There was, of course, a television in my office, and I decided to catch the 5:00 P.M. local news. After fifteen minutes of chatter between a pair of overly jocular anchors, the male anchor said, “And in other news, the body of Army captain Lisa Morrow was found dead in a Pentagon parking lot, apparently murdered. The police are investigating.”
Other news? What the . . . ? My phone rang. I picked it up and a female voice said, “Major Drummond?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“This is Janet Morrow. We met this morning.”
“Oh, right . . . what can I do for you?”
“I just checked into the Four Seasons in Georgetown. I was wondering if we could meet for dinner.”
“I, uh—”
“Please. I’d like to go over a few details about Lisa’s funeral and estate. You mentioned you were handling that.”
No—I distinctly recalled her saying she’d handle the funeral and estate. So this was interesting.
However, she sounded perfectly sincere, and possibly she was perfectly sincere. I wasn’t betting on it, of course.
But no wasn’t even an option.
CHAPTER NINE
I RACED HOME AND SLIPPED INTO A BLUE BLAZER AND TAN SLACKS, APPROPRIate attire for 1789, the Georgetown restaurant where Miss Morrow had suggested we meet and eat. Amon
g those in the know, 1789 is a well-regarded D. C. powerplace. Though to be socially correct, it’s an evening powerplace, which I guess is different from a midday powerplace, which I guess means only real schmucks eat breakfast there. As long as nobody made me drink sherry.
When I was a kid, my father did a tour in the Pentagon, which was my initiation to our capital and its weird and idiosyncratic ways. We lived in the suburb of North Arlington, some four miles from the city. Washington, back then, was a government town populated mostly by impoverished blacks, penny-pinching bureaucrats, and a small coterie of political royalty. Even in those days it was an expensive town, but my mother was a wizard with Green Stamps, so we lived like kings. Just kidding—but my father’s commute wasn’t all that long.
More recently, Washington has become a roaring business town, attracting a whole new breed of denizen; entrepreneurs, wealthy executives, bankers, and, with the smell of money, corporate lawyers. Military people these days live in North Carolina and commute. The city never had any pretension of being an egalitarian melting pot, yet the sudden influx of money, and monied classes, has upset whatever precarious balance once existed.
Back to me, however. I returned to the city to attend George-town University undergrad, courtesy of Uncle Sam’s ROTC scholarship program, and, five years later, was hauled, comatose, to the Walter Reed Army Medical Center after I learned the Army lied; I wasn’t really faster than a speeding bullet. I was an infantry officer, the branch that handles the Army’s dirtiest jobs, like killing bad guys in wartime, and painting rocks in peacetime.
A bullet had damaged an organ—a spleen, if you care to know—that needs to function effectively if you walk long distances with great weights on your back, a quality jackasses and infantry officers have in common, among others. I was already a captain, and the Army’s personnel branch checked for shortages in my rank and years of service. The Army, you have to understand, views itself as a big machine, and when a nut can no longer be a nut, it can maybe become a washer, but not a screw or a bolt. Personal talents and desires are obviously secondary. In fact, I recall telling the personnel officer handling my case that as a wounded war hero, the service owed me a debt and should repay it by letting me choose. He thought that was hilarious.
