“No. Different people, but the same.”
I was starting to feel confused. I hoped that English being a second language for Varvara was where the confusion lay, rather than in deliberate obfuscation.
“Abraham gave me the gun. He said they would try to kill him and that they might come for me.”
They.
“Abraham was a good man. I loved him as a father,” she said, picking up the Trib, looking at the photo of the smiling but now very dead Abraham Scott, and then dropping it back on the table. “Will you kill them?” she asked.
“I don’t know who they are, Ms. Kadyrov. We were hoping you could help us out on that,” I said.
“The establishment killed him—the same people also killed his son.”
“But he was killed in Baghdad,” Masters said.
“Yes. That’s where they killed him.”
They, again. I asked once more. “Who are they, Ms. Kadyrov?”
Varvara shook her head. “I told you, the establishment.”
The establishment. The ubiquitous they. The them to our us.
“Did General Scott talk to you about his son’s death?” Masters asked.
“Yes. He was very sad, and then, when he found out, he was very angry.”
“Found out what?” I asked, playing good cop–dumb-ass cop. No prizes for guessing which one I was.
“That they had him killed. I can’t tell you more. You should ask Abraham’s wife. Harmony.”
This raised Masters’s eyebrows. “What does Harmony know?”
“She knows everything. Abraham was in Riga when his wife phoned him with the news. He was very upset. He loved his son very much. He flew home immediately. I saw him again a week later. He was a very different man. Angry, and so very sad.”
“Was Abraham a regular visitor to Riga?”
“He came several times.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Varvara said, draining the glass.
Looking at Ms. Kadyrov, I had a pretty good idea why. It was obvious we were spinning our wheels here. I wondered whether it was worth attaching a security detail to the Latvian. Were her fears for her safety just a little paranoia, or did these people, whoever they were, want her dead? And why would anyone want to kill her? Unless she knew more than she was prepared to divulge, I couldn’t see that she’d be a threat to anyone, with the possible exception of Harmony Scott, who, it seemed, knew exactly in whose sauce her husband was dipping his salami. I didn’t buy the whole “we were just friends” routine Varvara Kadyrov put on about her relationship with Scott. It was pretty obvious Abraham was bumping uglies with this Russian doll whenever the opportunity arose, so to speak. Christ, who wouldn’t? The woman was about as drop-dead as they came, and, with an accent that made her sound like a Bond girl, she was fantasy on a stick. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Kadyrov,” I said. “Oh, and I’ll be keeping this.” I pulled the big silver Colt out of my pocket, flashing it. “But we’ll assign security to guard your apartment.”
“Yes, thank you. I do not feel safe,” she said.
I put a card from the Pensione Freedom on the table and wrote both Masters’s cell number and mine on the reverse side. “If you think of anything that might help this investigation, please call either of us,” I said, gesturing at Masters with a tilt of my head. “Also, we might have some more questions at a later time so we’d appreciate it if you’d let us know if you’re going somewhere.”
“Yes, of course,” Varvara said. “I’m sorry about your finger. Is it okay?”
“I’ll live,” I said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the general’s cell. It had my prints all over it and wouldn’t be much use as evidence. More important were the calls he made on it, and we could get a record of those from the phone company. “You might as well have this,” I said, handing the cell to her. General Scott certainly had no more use for it.
“Thank you. Good-bye,” said Varvara Kadyrov as the door clicked shut. Masters and I walked down the hall to a Muzak version of a Ricky Martin tune, which, come to think of it, didn’t make it any worse.
“We should have arrested her,” said Masters as we waited for the elevator.
“Why?” I asked. “What for?”
“Assault with a deadly weapon, for one thing. I don’t appreciate being threatened with a loaded gun.”
“She was terrified,” I said. “And I’d say Abraham Scott was the only friend she had in this country. As for the gun, from the way she held it, I don’t think she’s ever fired one.” And it wasn’t you she was pointing it at. “Also, I think there’s more she can tell us. We just need to reassure her we’re the good guys, rather than on the side of Doctor No.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.” My tooth was aching and the cell in my pocket was buzzing. I answered it, listened for a handful of seconds, and then dropped it back in my pocket.
“Who was that?” inquired Masters.
“Bishop. I think it’s quite possible people would have noticed Captain Veitch dissecting Peyton Scott,” I said.
“Because…?”
“It’s not often you see a dead guy performing an autopsy on another dead guy. Something like that would probably draw an audience.”
“What?”
“Bishop just told me Captain Homer Veitch had been dead almost a month before he supposedly performed the autopsy on Peyton Scott. He was killed in a car-bomb incident in Fallujah.”
FIFTEEN
We set a course to the OSI building. I drove. I was now doubting the breakthrough we really needed on this case would be found at Ramstein. All the roads seemed to lead back to Peyton. The news about Veitch was just more confirmation. Varvara, Fischer, Aleveldt, even Harmony in her way, had said Scott went off the rails when his son was killed.
I checked the time. It was getting late. What was left of General Scott was by now on a plane heading back home for the funeral in a leakproof container. The air force was giving him the big send-off, buried with full military honors. I guessed Harmony Scott would probably be with her husband’s remains, accompanying them home. The other feeling I had was that, with the possible exceptions of Varvara and Gruyere, there wasn’t a lot of overt enthusiasm to find out what had happened to General Scott, and why. Maybe that was my imagination. I was surprised that his widow and his second-in-command weren’t a little more persistent about uncovering the whys and wherefores surrounding the man’s death. I could see, though, that Harmony at least had a good reason for happily saying farewell to her husband without shedding a tear: one Varvara Kadyrov. And as for von Koeppen, according to his PA, Sergeant Fischer, he couldn’t see much past a mirror, especially if his face was in it. Having an impressive individual like Scott sitting in the corner office would have put a serious damper on his id. But were these respective issues for each party motive enough for murder? And what of Varvara’s mysterious “people”?
Masters and I were both mulling events over in our minds, which cut the conversation down to zero. I turned onto the freeway and activated the cruise control.
Masters was the first to break the silence. “So let’s go through what we know, putting it in some sort of chronological order.”
“Brains before beauty, Special Agent,” I said, giving her the floor.
Masters pushed on. “Okay, so General Scott notes some odd flights to Riga and decides to check them out. We don’t know what he finds there. Shortly thereafter, Peyton is killed in Iraq. For some reason—another unknown—Scott doesn’t believe the autopsy report. He checks his son’s body bag and finds that the kid’s head is missing, which doesn’t match up with the fine print on the official death certificate. He souvenirs the son’s toe tag and gets a second opinion from a Captain Philippe—”
“Who’s immediately transferred so that he can arrive home in time to be barbequed along with the rest of his family in a house fire,” I added.
Masters nodded. “And then Scott disappears for a few weeks. He turns up
in Riga at the end of that period to see Varvara, who he then brings back to Ramstein. A few months after that, the photo of the body bags on the Ramstein apron finds its way into the papers under the byline of a journalist who subsequently turns up dead. Somewhere along the way, Harmony Scott finds out about Varvara—”
“So, full of jealousy, she sneaks onto the base and tampers with her womanizing husband’s glider to make its wings fall off,” I said as we pulled up at a Ramstein Air Base security post.
I gave the French corporal our CAC cards to scan. He passed them through the machine, handed them back, and then waved us on. “And everyone lives happily ever after, unless you have pretty much anything to do with Peyton, in which case you seem to die in an unfortunate accident.” Our hypothesis had more holes in it than a roadside speed sign in Alabama. “Okay, I’d like to chase down several things,” I said. “One: What did Scott uncover in Riga, apart from Varvara? Two: Where did he disappear to in the weeks after Peyton was killed? Three: Why didn’t Scott believe the autopsy report that accompanied his son’s body back from Iraq? Four: How is the U.S. Army managing to get dead guys to perform autopsies? And five: Why are those police putting Scott’s records in the back of that Humvee?”
“What?” said Masters, followed by, “Shit!” when she saw that the general’s records—the ones we’d secured for our investigation—were indeed being carted out of the OSI offices. I pulled up behind the Humvee in question and we both jumped out. “Airman! Stop there!” Masters snarled at one of the NCMPs coming out the door with a cardboard box in his arms. She positioned herself to block his path. I had to admit, my partner was growing on me. She knew what was going on and stood up to anyone. Even me.
“Keep it moving,” said General von Koeppen, striding through the door, herding another airman carrying boxes before him.
Masters stood aside and let von Koeppen and the MP pass. Okay, so she stood up to almost everyone.
“Excuse me, General, but these records have been secured as part of the OSI investigation—over which you have no jurisdiction—into the murder of General Scott.” I sounded righteous even to me.
“But it seems there was no murder, Special Agent.” Von Koeppen pushed past carrying the laptop I recognized as belonging to Scott.
“What?” I said, the best question I could manage in the confusion.
“A suicide note has been found. It seems Mrs. Scott was correct. General Scott killed himself. I have taken it upon myself to ensure that his personal effects are returned to his grieving widow forthwith. I expect your new orders will come through soon enough. In fact, I believe there’s a C-5 heading back to Washington, D.C., in a couple of hours. Perhaps it might suit you to be on it.”
Von Koeppen seemed keen for me to get lost. I thought he was going to offer to drive me out to the plane then and there. But instead he climbed into the front seat of one of the Humvees and slammed the door.
I admit that this unexpected turn had caused me a mental meltdown. If there were flies about, my mouth would probably have been wide enough to catch them. What goddamn suicide note? Where had it come from? Why were we, the investigating team, apparently the last to know about it? And why would a lieutenant general, a three-star, get so involved with the details of this case that he would actually come down here to supervise the removal of potential evidence? And as for the suicide note? Suicide notes are usually only left behind in movies. In the real world, most people who decide to take their own lives do so because they believe their lives are worthless, or that existence is futile. Either way, they are usually of the view that no one will give a shit if they turn off the lights themselves. Leaving a “good-bye, cruel world” note usually doesn’t fit with this state of mind.
“They just marched in and told us to stop work, sir,” said a British voice beside me as I watched the Humvees roll away. It was Peter Bishop. “Just like when you’re taking an exam and your time’s up. Only these people made their point with M-16s.”
“Do we have a copy of this so-called suicide note?” I asked.
“Actually, we have the original,” replied Bishop as he handed me a plastic evidence bag containing an envelope and a single sheet of white unlined paper. Several neat lines were handwritten on it, the sort of writing you’d expect a general to have—careful, controlled.
“Do you mind if I have a look?” asked Masters. I passed it to her and she read it aloud.
“5/17
Harmony,
I don’t want to do this anymore. Things are so complicated on the one hand, but so simple on the other. Where did we go wrong? It wasn’t just Peyton. I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you, will cause you with my selfishness.
Abe”
Short and sweet, with the whiff of vaudeville about it. And if it was genuine, which I doubted, after what, a quarter-century of marriage, it wasn’t exactly a fond farewell. But then, I’d met the addressee.
“General von Koeppen told us Mrs. Scott found it beside his bed, tucked into one of the books he was reading,” said Bishop. “She was picking up some things and it fell out.”
Suicide. We’d discounted it, and yet here was a note supposedly written in the general’s own hand, heavily implying he intended to leave Planet Earth permanently. My cell rang. “Hello,” I snapped, annoyed, distracted.
“General Gruyere.”
“General,” I said, surprised, sounding like she’d just jumped out from behind a door and given me a scare.
“A sad business. Suicide.”
“Only just heard about it myself, General.” News was sure traveling damn fast between Germany and the U.S. these days.
“You’re Johnny-on-the-spot, Special Agent,” she said. “What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t mind running some tests on the note allegedly left by General Scott, ma’am.”
“Allegedly? Didn’t his wife find it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The wife he’d been married to for twenty-four years.”
“The same, ma’am.”
“Don’t you think she’d be able to recognize her own husband’s handwriting by now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So why the hesitation?”
Good question. Why was I quibbling? We had no evidence at all that contradicted the note in my hand—that Scott had taken his own life. It was unlikely, but he could have tampered with his own glider. The business with Peyton, the affair with Varvara…Was all that enough to make Scott take a high-altitude dive into the earth? I couldn’t answer those questions with any satisfaction. And so, packing up and heading home just didn’t feel right.
“Special Agent Cooper?”
“I’m not sure, General.”
“Do you suspect foul play?”
Well, did I? “Can I speak honestly, ma’am?”
“You may,” said Gruyere.
“There’s a lot going on here with this case and we, Special Agent Masters and I, we don’t know where it’s going. I have to tell you, ma’am, before this note turned up, several things were looking pretty iffy.”
“Like what?”
I laid it out for her—the autopsy, Peyton, the circle of death that seemed to be closing around General Scott, Captain Veitch, Riga. I also told her about Varvara. When I’d finished, I felt like reminding her that I’d only been on the job here a couple of days. That’s because, in the telling, I knew that what we had was thin.
“Well, Vincent,” she said, unconvinced, using the name only my mother called me by, “you can leave Special Agent Masters to tie up any loose ends. I think it’s fair to say this has stopped being a murder investigation.”
I could sense the relief in Gruyere’s voice. With the exception of the question of the anomalous autopsy and the mysterious Captain Veitch, Masters and I had turned up little. As she saw it, General Scott had ceased to be a critical cog in the well-oiled and highly lethal U.S. war machine. She believed that he had become—for reasons that had the whiff of sex and betrayal
about them—a fallible and frightened man. And he had killed himself. No need for a homicide cop to hang around when no homicide had been committed.
In short, she wanted me home.
“No need to hurry,” she added. “Take the evening off and we’ll see you back Stateside tomorrow.”
Gee, thanks. “Well, that’s all, folks,” I said to Masters after the call was terminated. She’d been close by, frowning, listening to my side of the conversation, not needing the blanks filled in. She could guess. Flight Lieutenant Bishop, though, had been standing out of earshot. He wandered over when he saw that I was no longer speaking into my coat sleeve. “Thanks for all your help, Peter,” I said, putting out my hand.
“So, we’re done, sir?” he said as we shook.
“And dusted,” I replied.
We saluted, and that was the end of my investigation into the death of General Abraham Scott. The Brit wandered back inside the OSI building. Masters would see through the remaining details, just as Gruyere had said.
“Can I give you a lift back to K-town, Vin?” Masters was getting all chummy now that it seemed she’d be getting rid of me.
“Thanks, but no thanks. Have to return the rental, anyway.”
“Look, I know we started out rough,” she said, “but I think I misjudged you.”
“I doubt it,” I said.
She smiled, and I don’t think I ever wanted to kiss a woman as much as I wanted to kiss Anna Masters at that moment, take her in my arms and go into liplock until we both needed a Chap Stick. Perhaps it was the sudden change in my status at Ramstein.
“So, do you believe he killed himself?” she asked.
“Not a chance,” I said.
SIXTEEN
It was still light when I arrived at the Pensione Freedom. I’d returned the rental, eaten at a local restaurant that served something vaguely reminiscent of macaroni and cheese, and, by the time I’d finished, I was ready to put the day in the past tense. My tooth was playing up again, probably because there was nothing to distract it, and the codeine-and-clove combo was running out of steam.
The Death Trust Page 12
