“How about we get some coffee and take a break and then we finish up talking about the Game? Sound good?”
Eileen found the coffee machine. She needed time to think, too, to digest the image of the slack dead girl that was forming in her mind. Terry’s shadow was beginning to take on the outline of a monster. That was disturbing. She had worked a couple of cases where the victim was an evil person, but both times the murderer was standing ready for the handcuffs when the police arrived. Once, a woman who killed her husband, another a man who killed his sister's boyfriend. Both abuse cases, both straightforward. Terry was different. Instead of a murder of passion, Terry’s was more of an execution.
Eileen nearly spilled coffee from Joe’s mug. This was confusing, and she was beginning to be tired. There was still much to do, and again there was the whisper in the back of her mind that she was out of her depth, out of her depth. She sipped the hot fragrant coffee and reminded herself firmly that her abilities had nothing to do with Jim Erickson, that they were within herself and dependent upon no one. This was her case. This was her time. No matter how exotic the surroundings, the blood and the death were just the same as any other.
“Just the same,” she murmured to herself, squared her shoulders, and headed back to the conference room.
Chapter Ten
Gaming Center, Schriever Air Force Base
Sharon was waiting for Eileen when she returned with coffee, hands folded in that Madonna quiet pose.
“Where were we?” Eileen said briskly. “No coffee for you? No? I think we left off where you and 'Berto were talking to Joe about those rock things.”
“Brilliant Pebbles,” Sharon corrected, smiling faintly.
“Tell me about Terry. Tell me when you found out.”
“I was in my room. I had my communications gear on, and I played the game. That's all I remember until the ground interceptors didn't go off, and then I heard screams.” Sharon shuddered suddenly and intensely, goose flesh rising on the smooth brown of her arms.
“Did you see anything odd afterwards? Anything different, anything not quite right?”
“I know what you're asking for,” Sharon replied, “but everything was odd. Everyone was out of their seats and standing around and all the doors were open to the rooms. I could see that Terry was dead. I looked over at Joe and he was standing by Art, they were both just as white as sheets, and they were frozen, just frozen. Art’s hands were still held over the keyboard like he was going to start typing again.”
“And then I saw Lowell, he was looking completely confused, embarrassed really, he couldn't see the room and he must have been upset that Terry had messed up again. Then he saw the faces, and I think he started to realize that it was worse than he thought. 'Berto came up next to him and put his hand on his arm, and when Lowell tried to start forward he held on to him. I saw 'Berto might need my help and I went to Lowell too. We actually pulled him into his room and shut the door, he was trying to break free of 'Berto and go to Terry, but 'Berto, you know --” Sharon made an arm gesture like a weight lifter, and Eileen nodded. “I held him too, until the first shock was over and he started crying. Then the paramedics came, they gave him some tranquilizers. “
“It's funny, really, I think it was 'Berto and I because we've seen death before, we're both from the ghetto. Well, the barrio, in his case. I lost two cousins to the gangs. A girlfriend of mine got killed by a stray bullet. 'Berto, he saw friends go down too. We know death. So we were there for Lowell while people like Joe and Doug were just standing still.”
“I'm glad you were there for him,” Eileen said quietly. “Is there anything else? Anything you can think of?”
“I don't think so.”
“You've been very helpful,” Eileen said. “I appreciate it. I might need to speak with you again, but I'll be here tomorrow. I probably won't need to contact you at home. If you think of anything, at all, could you call this number?” She flipped out her badge and dug behind it for her business cards. She held one out to Sharon and the other woman took it in her sturdy fingers.
“Thank you,” Eileen said.
“You are welcome,” Sharon replied, and got to her feet. “I think you are a good cop, Miss Reed. I've seen bad and I've seen good,” she smiled wryly. “And you seem pretty good.”
Eileen stood and shook Sharon’s hand, feeling absolutely confident that this woman was no murderer. Eileen usually felt this way after an interview. Perhaps that was part of her success as an interviewer. She listened, she believed, she was sympathetic. Sharon could be the murderer.
“I'll get Lowell for you, is that OK? He really needs to go home pretty soon. Nelson called his family in Denver and Lowell's got a brother coming down to stay with him tonight.”
“Lowell would be fine,” Eileen said. “Thanks.”
Eileen glanced at her watch. 4:15 in the afternoon. She felt as though it could be midnight. The lack of windows was stifling. She sipped at her good strong coffee and looked through her pages of terrible notes, and wondered if she could talk Bob, the station office manager, into using the page scanner. Then she would have pages of good clean type, with only errors to correct where the scanner couldn't tell what she had written. She’d be at Schriever until late. Perhaps she'd drop by the station after hours. Bob was a notorious tightwad, and didn't like Eileen. He kept asking her to type her own stuff, get her own supplies, in general to do all the work Bob was supposed to do for the detectives. Eileen ignored his complaints and made him work for her, which didn't help Bob's temper or his opinion of Eileen Reed.
Lowell Guzman entered the room with another man -- it had to be Doug Procell, the only other Gamer Eileen hadn't interviewed. Lowell was shiny pale and sweaty, with blurred and dilated eyes. Sedatives. Doug, the other Gamer, a slender nondescript type in a gray suit, helped Lowell find a seat and vanished with an embarrassed mumble Eileen didn't catch.
Eileen didn't care about Doug Procell at that moment. Her interest was focused on Lowell Guzman, new widow, husband of a murdered woman. Guzman was rather short and gently rounded all over, from pudgy face to square feet in loafers with the seams giving out along the sides. He was not precisely fat, there was no beer belly or rolls around the neck, he was just big. A teddy bear type, a friend of Eileen’s had called those kind of men. Huggable.
“I don't want to keep you long,” Eileen said gently. “I just need to ask a few questions.”
“Okay,” Guzman said with an effort, eyes focusing on Eileen for a moment and then sliding away, blurring again. “I--” He said for a moment struggling to speak, and Eileen noted the strong brown hair, curled like wires on Guzman's head, the healthy tone of the skin under the grayness of shock and medication. Guzman had bushy eyebrows and a firm jaw under a soft padding of fat.
“I -- okay,” Guzman tried again, then sighed. His eyes teared up. “Okay. Sorry.”
“I understand. Just relax for a bit. How old are you?”
“I -- oh. Thirty seven.” The voice was rusty but there.
“How old was Terry?”
“Thirty five.” A hoarse whisper.
“How long were you married?”
“Three years.”
“Any children?”
“No. I mean, yes. I have two girls from a previous marriage. They visit.”
“Okay. How long have you worked here?”
“Four years.”
Eileen took him through the standard questions slowly, evenly, without the variations she had thrown the other Gamers. There would be time for that later, when the sedatives and the shock were gone. Terry had come to Gaming barely four months after her marriage. With Eileen’s mental sketch of Terry already forming, she found herself wondering if the marriage hadn't been a response to her imminent lay-off from Digital Equipment Corporation. Then she frowned at herself. Marriage, to avoid unemployment? Not likely.
“Was Terry married before this?” she asked.
“Yes. She was divorced two years before she met me,�
�� Lowell said tiredly.
“Name?”
“Vance somebody. Something real plain. Oh, yes. James. Vance James. Why?”
“We just need to find out everything we can,” Eileen said gently. “Where was she born?”
“I don't know.”
“Well then, where was she from?”
“I -- I don't know that either,” Lowell said wonderingly. “I asked once, but she didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Family? Does she have family?”
“No. She said her mother and father died years ago, when she was in college. No brothers or sisters either, I think.”
“You don't know?”
“She didn't like to talk about her past!” Lowell burst out. Fresh tears ran down his swollen and raw-looking skin. “She didn't talk about it. You can find that out by looking at her security paperwork. I never looked at it, she didn't want me to. If there was anything wrong with her past, they would have found it. Okay?”
“Okay,” Eileen said evenly. “These are just questions, Mr. Guzman. I'm not trying to accuse you or her of anything.”
“Okay,” Lowell said with an effort, looking confused and angry, and bewildered. Eileen knew the look. There would be all the stages to go through, the denial and the rage and the bargaining, and the final acceptance. Eileen was often long out of the picture when the last peaceful stage was reached, unless the person appeared at the trial.
“Sharon said that someone would be with you tonight, is that right?” Eileen asked.
“Yes, my brother Jeff.”
“OK, then. Please lock up tonight. I don't mean to alarm you, but whoever it was might threaten you too, Mr. Guzman. And please don't touch any of Terry's things. I'll be by some time tomorrow to look through them.”
“Why would you look through her things?” Lowell asked. He looked exhausted and upset, like a bear being teased in a cage.
“Just a normal part of police procedure, Mr. Guzman. I'll ask you some more questions tomorrow when you're feeling a little better, all right? And if you think of anything, here's my card.”
“That's all?” Lowell asked, confused. His fingers trembled on the tiny slip of paper.
“That's all for now. All right, then?”
“All right,” Lowell said in relief.
“How about fetching Doug Procell for me.”
“All right.” He left, and Eileen sighed and worked her shoulders back and forth in her jacket.
“What a day,” she murmured. She rose to her feet when Doug Procell entered, the nondescript type in the gray suit, the last of the Gamers. Eileen glanced down at her list, seeing the check marks by every name; Nelson, Joe, 'Berto, and Arthur Bailey before lunch, Sharon and Lowell after lunch. The last check mark was the gray suited man now extending a hand to her.
“Doug Procell.”
“Eileen Reed. Please sit down.” Doug sat down and as he did Eileen took a good look at him, reaching past the expensive suit and the regular features that would make him invisible in any business crowd. Here was actually quite a handsome man, with direct hazel eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, thick black hair and a strong chin. His hands and feet were large. There was a good breadth to the shoulders but no real depth, unlike 'Berto. Doug Procell had more of a runner's frame than a weight lifter's. He looked healthy.
“When did you learn about Terry's death?” Eileen asked.
“When Nelson found her, same as everyone else,” Doug said. “But I wasn't surprised that she was murdered.”
“You weren't?” Eileen asked sharply. “Why?”
“Because I was expecting another murder.”
“Another murder?”
“I don't believe Sully -- Harriet Sullivan -- drove off the road. I think she was driven off that road,” Procell said. “I think it was murder. Sully --”
“I know about Sully,” Eileen said. “Sharon told me. But she didn't think it was murder.”
“I know. No one thinks these deaths are murders. But I do. There have been three deaths here at Schriever in the past four years. Three of them! Two of them were late at night, no witnesses, just the car run off the road and the person inside dead. The third, a person you don't know, John Richmond, he smashed into a garbage truck going sixty plus in the midst of early morning traffic. No evidence of foul play.”
“You think there was?”
“I'm sure of it,” Procell said grimly. “Look, I can get you my file.”
“Your file?” Eileen felt completely stunned.
“My file. I've been keeping notes on the murders within the missile defense program since 1987. There were six people killed in Great Britain that year. Their deaths were all strange. All completely mysterious. Why would a young man kill himself by driving his car, loaded with gasoline cans, into an abandoned cafe in London? That's a death no one wants to die, being burned alive. I don't think he wanted to die.”
“Wait, wait,” Eileen held up her hand. “Let me get this straight. You think Terry Guzman is one of a number of murder victims? All people who worked on the missile defense program?”
“Yes, I think so,” Doug Procell said. His earnest hazel eyes held Eileen’s. “I guess I shouldn't be happy about this. But I've been collecting this information for years, and no one believed me, and now they have to believe me. Terry Guzman wasn't killed. She was executed.”
Chapter Eleven
Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia
“I'm here,” Lucy said at the doorway to Mill's office. “What's up?”
He looked up from his desk and glared at her. He was a thin man with fading blonde hair, and if Lucy felt obligated to him in the slightest, she would have hated him as a boss. As it was, she could get a job in the civilian world as a computer engineer within twenty four hours and therefore Mills had very little power over her.
Mills knew it, too. Lucy knew he was offended by her. She knew he was offended by her dark Italian beauty, by her intelligence, by her casual attitude towards himself as a boss and her job in general. The worst offense of all to Mills was Lucy’s work, which was incredibly good. Mills couldn’t stand that.
Mills wanted a WASP worker from the 1950's, Lucy often thought, a shrinking white man in a white pressed shirt whose future depended upon the good graces of his boss, namely Steven Mills. Mills wore the fifty’s uniform, perhaps unconsciously. His pants were polyester and his shirts white and he wore a pocket protector with no sense of irony. His hair was combed back and slightly dusty and his teeth, though white, were hid behind lips that were always chapped and raw looking. Lucy thought perhaps he had an ulcer, because sometimes she caught a whiff of his breath and it was chalky and desperate smelling. She hated when she could smell his breath. She walked into his office and dropped into a comfortable chair without being asked. She smiled at him and rubbed her slightly rounded stomach.
“The baby needed the chow, Steve. So what's up?”
“We had a development in a related case,” Mills said.
“The missile defense homicides?”
Mills nodded and rubbed his forehead with his small manicured hands. He looked tired.
“The FBI has had a suspect under surveillance for almost two years. The FBI contacted us today. He skipped town. Boarded a plane to Paris at noon and is just clean gone.”
Lucy leaned back in her chair. The CIA didn't engage in surveillance in their own country; that was the duty of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI did the investigation and got the glory in the U.S., although the CIA was often the controlling organization. American spies were handled in the press with great fanfare. Foreign spies sometimes made the back page news as they were deported. It wasn't fair, but that was the way the business worked.
“What kind of suspect?”
“Espionage. NORAD, Peterson, Fort Carson, and Schriever. He posed as a corporate headhunter for engineers. Made quite a living at it too. His name was George Tabor, and we had positive ID. We almost had him cold. He sold to everybody; the
new Russian Republic, the Baltic States, Japan. The only countries he didn't sell to were the Moslem countries in the Middle East, and China. He didn't seem to have any contacts in the Middle East, and he hated the Chinese.”
“Schriever,” Lucy said. “He was spooked by the murder? Wait a minute. He left at lunch? He must have been tipped off by someone at Schriever.”
“Right,” Mills said, irritated. Lucy had come to the same conclusion he had, only it took her about three seconds and it had taken him hours.
“So if he was tipped off, that must mean the murdered woman was involved. Maybe she was his contact. Or she smuggled information to someone who gave it to Tabor. What did she do?”
“She was a computer engineer. Software. In the Gaming division. Her name was Terry Guzman and she'd worked there for almost two years.”
“Gaming. She could get a lot of good stuff out the door,” Lucy said angrily. Espionage offended her. She hated it. It was vile and disloyal, like cheating a member of your own family.
“Very good stuff,” Mills said. “The latest algorithms for the battle managers. The whole missile defense program is mostly old technology, you know. Brilliant Pebbles are just fancy rocks. It's the computer programs that make the system happen. She's got -- or she had, anyway -- connection with all the latest.”
“Could she have been killed because she wanted to stop?”
“I don't know. Right now her case is being handled by Detective Eileen Reed, Colorado Springs Police. She's probably still at Schriever. You can speak with her if you want, we can set you up as an employee of the DIA.”
“That might be helpful,” Lucy said slowly. The DIA was the Defense Intelligence Agency, the organization that handled security clearances. “But first I need to speak to Colonel Olsen. Is he aware of the missile defense homicides?”
“He’s aware of the need for secrecy,” Mills said carefully. “The only military official we brief on this project is the Missile Defense Commander-in-Chief. That's Admiral Kane. You'll have to keep this one sealed up. Don't even mention Tabor to Olsen.”
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