Chapter Seven
Denver Animal Shelter
When the animal shelter woman brought Fancy’s collar and leash to him, Tabor almost wept. He could imagine his little darling pacing in confusion, locked in some wretched little concrete box. She could never understand why he had to leave her behind. The shelter woman looked at him with a flat and carefully non-judgmental face that felt as damning as spittle.
“Here’s your collar and leash, sir,” she said.
“Thank you,” Tabor whispered. He had allowed himself to forget this side of the spy business. He’d become settled in, complacent, and now his dog was going to die and he faced an uncertain future.
He did, however, carry his Bahamas account. His savings were safe. And he had one last piece of information to sell, the last document his contact had smuggled out of Schriever. With that, he’d be able to give up the business and have a real life. Open a restaurant in Georgia. He’d always wanted to do that.
But he’d never, ever have another dog, he promised himself. He carried Fancy’s leash and collar to the car. He could hardly see through his tears as he drove out of the parking lot. He turned on the windshield wipers but that didn’t help.
Gaming Center, Schriever
A young man was sitting in the chair opposite Eileen’s, liquid Mexican eyes meeting hers without flinching. Eileen settled herself in her chair and took a sip of her coffee. It was excellent, so far removed from police coffee that Eileen almost choked on the first gulp.
“Joe’s guest coffee mug,” the man said. “He must have decided you were okay. Roberto Espinoza.” He reached out and shook Eileen’s hand firmly.
“Not Lowell,” Eileen said grimly.
“No, he’s still passed out,” Roberto said.
Eileen knew the accent in Roberto's soft voice. The phrasing was definitely Los Angeles barrio. Roberto carried the bones and skin tones of the nearly pure Mexican Indian, a high narrow forehead and chin with the flat, angled cheekbones that made little pouches below the eyes and kept the face ageless. His nose could be called European, but Eileen had taken several anthropology courses in college and knew the Mexican Pyramids carried profiles like Roberto's. The total effect was one of almost overwhelming male beauty. Eileen supposed Roberto had earned the tough uncompromising line of his shoulders in more than a few schoolyard fights.
“You're from Los Angeles?”
“Straight from the barrio, Senorita,” Roberto said, and flashed a set of straight white teeth. “I guess you've been there yourself, if you can tell where I’m from.”
“Yes,” Eileen said, and opened her notebook to a fresh page. Roberto's purely Mexican good looks and the tailored suit made Eileen wonder, for a moment, what the world would have been like if the Aztecs had carried smallpox to the Spanish instead of the other way around. Much was made of the Aztec's brutal human sacrifices atop the tall temples, but little about the culture that attained a level of civilization that allowed such temples to be built. How would the Aztecs have fared against Nazi Germany? Perhaps the trials at Nuremberg would have ended in a different sort of spectacle than hangings.
“I saw 'Stand and Deliver,' can you believe it?” Roberto spoke resignedly and quickly, as though he'd told the story many times. “My elementary school math teacher hauled a TV and a VCR in and made us watch it. I musta beat up a dozen kids that week, 'cause of course I cried. Damn movie. That actor, what's-his-name, teaching a whole class of dumb barrio kids to ace a Calculus class. So, that's what I did, too. And here I am, and that's my story. Inspired by a dumb movie.”
“I saw it, too,” Eileen smiled. “How old are you?”
“Twenty three. This is my first job out of college. I have a Computer Science degree from UCLA.”
“Why did you come here?”
Roberto shrugged his shoulders.
“I was recruited. Government contractors need to fill quotas for minorities, and I had good grades. I had my choice, Miss -- excuse me, I don't know your name?”
“Eileen Reed,” Eileen said. “Call me Eileen.”
“Eileen, then. Well, I got a lot of offers, and this one paid the most and looked like fun.”
“Has it been fun?”
For some reason this struck home. The smooth planes of Roberto's cheeks darkened slightly and the deep black eyes glittered for a moment.
“Until today, yes.”
“Did you know Terry well?” Eileen shifted in her chair and took a sip of coffee. The coffee made her think, distractingly, of Joe Tanner.
“I don't know if I knew her,” Roberto was saying. “We all work here very closely, but she was -- well, she was Terry.” He frowned, his brow crinkling in distress. “I can't believe she's dead,” he said slowly, as if to himself. “I -- “
“Yes?” Eileen asked gently.
“I just can't believe someone would kill her,” Roberto said, and Eileen knew that wasn't what he was going to say.
“We’ve been told she wasn't easy to work with.”
“She wasn't.” Eileen waited, but the black eyes didn't falter and Roberto offered nothing more. Eileen shifted in her chair and took another gulp of coffee.
“All right,” she said finally. “Let's go through the War Game. Everything you did, everything you saw.”
When the door finally closed behind Roberto, Eileen flipped to a fresh page of her notebook. She didn’t feel particularly bad, though. These Gamers were bright, educated, and totally rattled by the murder. She was getting a lot of good information. It would fall into a picture, eventually, and the murderer would appear from the puzzle pieces.
The person Roberto sent in was a rather short, freckled man with thinning wheat-blonde hair and a friendly face.
“Art Bailey, ma’am,” the man said, and held out a firm square hand.
“The Truth Team Commander,” Eileen said, shaking the hand and gesturing to a chair. “Still no Lowell.”
“Nope, he’s still out of it,” Art said, and sat in the chair abruptly. Eileen looked at the droop of the shoulders and the cast of the eyes and realized Art was more than distressed -- he was completely exhausted. The man should have ruddy skin tones with all those freckles, but he was a shade closer to gray.
“Tell me about the Game, Art. I want to find out who killed Terry, and the best way to do it is to find out what happened.”
Art nodded. Eileen had thought with the blonde hair that Art would have blue eyes; instead, they were a deep and opaque brown. The color gave a somber expression to the otherwise round and cheerful face.
“All right, where shall I start?”
“Tell me everything that happened today. Just start when you got up and go through everything,” Eileen asked. Art shrugged his shoulders and nodded his head. He put a hand to his lips and pinched the lower one. Major Blaine was a lip biter. Art Bailey was a pincher.
“My day started at 4:15, I got up and showered and fixed the coffee for Meg and me. She gets up at 5:00 to get the kids off to day care at 6:30, so I always get the coffee made and feed the dogs before I leave at 4:30.”
“You do all that in fifteen minutes?” Eileen asked.
“I'm a time and motion kind of person, Miss --”
“Reed. Call me Eileen.”
“Eileen. I read this book when I was a kid, its called Cheaper by the Dozen, you ever hear of it?”
“I think I saw the movie,” Eileen said, amused.
“Yeah, there was a movie too. Anyway, the Dad and Mom were time-and-motion study experts. And the Dad would experiment with how quickly he could get dressed in the morning -- buttoning up his vest from bottom to top, for instance, because it was faster. I do the same thing -- that's one of the reason's I'm in this job.”
“Okay.”
“So I have everything ready to go, I'm out the door in fifteen minutes flat, the only thing I slow down for is a kiss for Meg. And I'm in here thirty two minutes later -- that includes the drive, parking, going through the retinal scanner, badge check, capsule d
oors...”
“I know, I know,” Eileen said, and Art chuckled rustily.
“An amazing amount of work to get in here, isn't it? I hardly notice it anymore, actually.”
“So I have to open up the Gaming Center, which means I go through a checklist to see that all doors are closed and locked, all the terminals are shut down, all the printers are empty --”
“You check all the doors?” Eileen asked sharply.
“Yes, there are three. And I sign a document on each door along with the time, to verify that I've checked it. The lists are changed when the sheet of paper gets full -- I know where you're going with this,” Art said, holding up a hand as Eileen opened her mouth to speak. “There should be lists going back to the time the doors were hung on this Center.”
Eileen nodded, and wrote in her notebook. Art waited politely for her to finish.
“I also check the safes where classified information is stored, and sign off those too. Then I log onto the master terminal, and if it's an ordinary day I do whatever needs to be done -- test new software, get new machines set up or old ones upgraded. This morning is a Game Day, so Joe and I --”
“When did Joe come in?”
“Oh, I'm sorry, that's right. He got there at 5:30, so he helped me check the rooms in the center.”
“Check them for what?”
“Pop cans, mostly,” Art said. “We do our testing in here and it becomes pretty frantic before a game. So before we have a Game, we have to clean up house. The janitors vacuum and carry out the trash, but they never touch papers on the desks. One of the rules. We know exactly what is going to happen in the Game, and the Observers who come here don't.”
“Observers?”
“The audience members, sorry. So Joe makes sure there are no tell-tale notes, like 'Don't forget to release ground weapons when the German sub launches off Bermuda'.” Art's smile died as he remembered that the weapons were not released, and why. His eyes reddened and he blinked rapidly.
“So Joe got here at 5:30 and checked the rooms with you?”
“Yes.” Art frowned and pinched his lip. “Miss Reed, I just don't know how anyone could be in there this morning. Joe checked the rooms, and later, so did I. Nelson always checks them too. Then I make a run on the computer systems. I usually choose some scenario that will really wring out the system --”
“Scenario?”
“Yes, um, like a story? I play the Enemy Commander and I launch from four subs, then I play the Blue Commander and I launch back, then I try to shoot down everything in the air, I like doing that one.”
“You shoot down our missiles?” Eileen asked in astonishment. She had never heard of such a thing.
“Well, only in my Games, Miss -- Eileen. I play the President so I get to say that it's all been a big mistake, and Missile Defense shoots down everything that's flying. It's a lot of work for the computers, and so I know that everything is up and running smoothly for the Game.”
“That's what you did this morning?”
“Well, no, actually Joe and I played a different one this morning. He was Enemy and I was Blue and the rules were, the launches had to match size for size. And they had to target the same places the other launch fired from -- am I making sense to you?”
“No.”
“Like that old game, Battleship, we guessed where the other person had their ships. Except we guess where the other person is going to launch their missiles.”
“I think I see. So after that?”
“After that, we sit around and talk until the donuts and the coffee arrive.”
“Who brings that over?”
“Oh, one of the cafeteria people -- oh.” Art's face showed sudden dismayed understanding.
“Who was it today?”
“Clarice. I don't know her last name. She rolled the cart in and unloaded the donuts and the coffee urns, and then she left. I know she left because Joe and I always get the best donuts and the first cups of coffee -- it's one of our little perks.”
Eileen made a note.
“Clarice wouldn't --” Art began, and stopped. He looked at Eileen with confused and sorrowful eyes. “Somebody did, eh?”
“Yes.”
“We got our donuts and poured our coffee and then Nelson came over. He got one too, and we three talked over the schedule for the day.”
“Is there a planned schedule?”
“Sure, always. It's in the safe; I could get one for you but it's classified.”
“I'll talk to Major Blaine,” Eileen said, and wrote 'schedule.'
“I think Lowell Guzman came over next, and then, oh, I'm not sure, really, the commanders started arriving, and the audience, and Joe and I had to get the simulation started. I couldn't tell you when people came in what order.”
“That's quite all right,” Eileen said. “You've been very helpful. Tell me about Terry. Do you remember her coming in?”
“I don't, really,” Art said, puzzled.
“I've gotten the impression Terry was kind of unpopular,” Eileen said mildly, and watched for Art's reaction. Art shifted in his chair uneasily for a moment.
“I didn’t have any problems with her,” he said finally. “I got along with Terry just fine, but I never did cater to her either. A lot of the other Gamers did, because of Lowell's position, but I don't report to anyone but Nelson, and I've been here longer than him. If Nelson tried to fire me he would be right behind me in the job line.”
“I see,” Eileen said. Art was obviously discomfited by this self-promotion, another endearing trait that made Eileen believe Art was everything he did not boast about being: The most valuable member of a very specialized team.
“When did you realize she'd been murdered?”
“When everyone else did, when Nelson opened the door. I couldn't believe it. I still can't.”
“I just have one other question, Art,” Eileen said, and leaned forward over the polished veneer of the table.
“Yes?”
“How did the murderer get in that room?”
There was silence, and a tiny squeak as Art's chair shifted on the oiled castors.
“I don't know. I really don't know,” Art said helplessly, and shrugged once more. “As far as I know, it couldn't have been done.”
Eileen leaned back in her own chair and sighed, ignoring the interior voice that kept saying out of your depth, out of your depth.
“I may be speaking to you later.”
“All right, then. I'll get Jeff, he will probably want to take you for some lunch.”
Eileen glanced at her watch and noticed with some surprise that it was already noon.
“Cafeteria closes at one, and there aren't any Taco John's out this way,” Art said wryly, and heaved his body out of the chair. “I'll get Jeff for you.”
Eileen sat in the silent room, and it was only when Major Blaine opened the door that she realized who Art was talking about. Eileen couldn’t imagine anyone calling the stiff Major Blaine something so personal as “Jeff.”
“Want some lunch? And what are you laughing at?” Blaine asked, annoyed.
Chapter Eight
Schriever Air Force Base
Eileen and Major Blaine worked their way out of the first two sets of locking doors, passed through the submarine airlock entrances, and down a long flight of stairs. There were others in the stairwell, and the smell of food wafted pleasantly from covered Styrofoam dishes held in the hands of some of the people heading up.
“Lots of people eat at their desks,” Blaine explained. “I discourage it in my office, we spend enough time inside as it is.”
As if to underline his point, the door they were approaching opened and two young women in running clothes walked quickly through and headed down the stairs. Their clothes were damp with sweat and they were gasping.
“Locker room in the basement,” Blaine explained, his eyes following the trim figures as they disappeared down the stairs.
“Did Terry ever go running?”
Eileen nodded. Blaine opened the door and they left the stairwell, entering a glass walled corridor and an amazing flood of sunlight. The end of the corridor connected to another building, this one a more typical office complex with large expanses of glass.
“It's great, isn't it?” Blaine said, and lifted his head to the bright sky. “That building is like a damn prison.”
Eileen was surprised at the intensity of the relief she felt to see the sun again.
“Cafeteria is on the right,” Blaine said. They walked into a lovely large dining room with huge windows. The blinds were pulled all the way back, flooding the room with light. The selection of food was sturdy and unimaginative, but looked well prepared. Eileen realized she was quite hungry.
“Have some of the soup,” Blaine murmured. “We've got a frustrated chef out here who makes some incredible soups.”
They filled their trays -- the soup was mushroom, Eileen wasn't too interested but got some out of politeness -- and found a seat near the windows. Most of the seats in the sunshine were filled. Hidden speakers played soft country music.
“I got the word before we came down. The ME should be here within about a half hour,” Blaine said, and crunched into a salad. Eileen nodded, and dug in.
The soup turned out to be as good as advertised, hot and smoky and thick with fresh mushrooms.
“Very good,” Eileen said with a sigh. “I hope I won't be having too many more lunches out here, but this almost makes me change my mind.”
“You think you'll close the case that quickly?” Blaine asked, surprised.
“No, I think the Air Force OSI will be here to take this off my hands in a couple of days.” Eileen grimaced, thinking of the distant and bureaucratic OSI.
Ground Zero Page 7
