Lucy felt a burst of irritation, but controlled it. Why in the world would the CIA want to keep a series of murders so quiet? Why wasn't this case a higher priority within the Agency? There were twelve dead people on that list.
“I'll get on the phone to Olsen. I can contact the FBI on this one?”
“Yes but don't --”
“I know, I know,” Lucy interrupted. She got up from the chair. “They don't know about the missile defense homicides, do they? I won't let it slip.”
But as Lucy walked down the hallway to her own office, she made a resolution to herself. She was going to find some answers.
Conference Room, Schriever Air Force Base
Eileen pinched the bridge of her nose, fiercely, the sharp annoying pain bringing her back into focus. She knew she had to quit soon, and leave this place, and get some food.
“Mr. Procell, I want that file, “ she said, and the slump of relief in Procell's shoulders was almost comical. “I will read it. I will look at it. If Terry is one of your murder victims, then hopefully I can hand off this case to whoever is working the other cases. Right now, they are all supposed to be accidents.” She held up her hand as Procell started to speak. “But I will also look at this case as an isolated murder, and I will find that murderer. The best way I can do this is collect your file later. First, I need to find out about you. Is that clear?”
Procell smiled at her peacefully, and relaxed back into his chair. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “All I want is for you to read the stuff.”
“You got it,” Eileen said grimly. She felt a kind of sickness to her stomach. She didn’t want to lose this case to the Air Force bureaucracy that had buried Bernie Ames with such careless insult. She didn’t want this case, but now it was hers and she intended to finish it, no matter how deep the waters got. If there were multiple murders going on at Schriever Air Force Base, then, she was just going to have to solve them all.
She clenched her pen and looked at Procell.
“Now, tell me about you. How long have you been working here?”
“Almost ten years. I worked on another project down in New Mexico before this one.”
“Did you know Terry Guzman?”
“Yes, I did. I -- I don't want you to find this out later, and think that I'm hiding something, so I'll tell you now. Terry and I went to the same college. Nobody else here knows that.”
Eileen didn't hide her surprise. “Why doesn't anyone else know?” It seemed like harmless information.
“Because Terry wanted it that way. She had a bad marriage, I guess, and wanted to leave her past all the way behind her. So when we met again she pretended she didn't know me, and when I asked her later she...well, she asked me not to tell anyone.”
“What was the University?”
“University of Utah, Salt Lake City. We saw each other in a few computer classes, is all, but you know Terry, she's --”
Abruptly, Doug stopped. Eileen saw the fact of her death strike Doug suddenly, as a reality and not a confirmation of his pet theory. The color washed from his face. For a moment Eileen was sure Doug was going to pass out. Doug reached out and gripped the table edge with one of his big hands, holding so hard the hand washed white and bloodless.
“OK?” Eileen asked, as Doug lowered his head.
“Mlright,” Doug slurred. The seconds passed. Doug pulled himself upright. There was sweat on the clear brow but his eyes were focused.
“OK?” Eileen asked again.
“I'm okay,” Doug said, and sat back in his chair. His face was paper white.
“It hits you like that, sometimes,” Eileen said gently. Sometimes the fact of murder took a while to sink into the murderer, too. “Just try to relax. You want some water?”
“How about a pop?” Doug still looked faint. “Takes you fifteen minutes to get one. You want to walk out there and back? The pop machines are all the way in the stairwells.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” Eileen said. “I would like to stretch my legs, actually.”
Doug got shakily to his feet and led the way back through the maze of offices, empty now, and down the corridor to the submarine door.
“Why don't they have pop machines in here by the bathrooms?” Eileen asked. There were spaces next to the restrooms for pop machines, and heavy duty electrical outlets. The restrooms were by the submarine doors. There were no machines in the alcoves.
“That's a breach of security, you see,” Doug said with a wry smile. “I'm the class crazy but even I think it's ridiculous that the Russians or the Chinese or whoever would put listening devices in our pop machines. If they can do that, why can't they just put listening devices in our pops, we carry them right back to our desks? I don't understand.”
Doug spun the heavy door and stepped through with the ease born of long practice. He gestured Eileen to follow, and then spun the door shut with a heavy, final sound.
“What a door,” Eileen said.
“Your tax dollars at work.” The color was coming back into Doug's face. “I don't mind the doors so much, there are some pretty sophisticated listening devices out there. I was at a Hughes Aircraft facility in Los Angeles once and saw a demonstration. Big Chevy van, not really an odd looking antenna, not for L.A., and parked outside the Hughes building. Way far away, I mean more than a city block. And they had screens that were printing out what people were typing into their terminals, inside the building. Scary.”
“The door stops that?”
“Stops everything. No mice, no insects. I've never seen a spider even. Like a big vacuum jar.”
Doug led them to a door marked 'Stairwell #3' and opened it. There were huge candy and pop machines humming next to the stairs.
“I've got extra change, let me,” Doug said. “You learn to carry change around here. It's a long walk back to your desk.”
The pop cans chunked down into the bins below. Eileen opened hers and took a long, grateful swallow.
“This will help,” she said. Doug took a long drink of his own pop, and opened the door back to the corridor. Eileen did not make it obvious, but Procell ended up going through the doorway first. The corridors were very quiet, and very empty.
The conference room seemed even more stifling after the brief walk. Eileen sat down with a sigh. Procell took a chair.
“I feel better.”
“Me, too.” Procell's fingers trembled faintly on the can of pop, but his mouth had lost its gray, pinched look.
“Tell me about the War Game. Start out with your morning, every little detail. From the time you woke up.”
“From the time I woke up?” Procell asked, puzzled. “What does that have to do with your case?”
“I don't know what has to do with this case,” Eileen answered steadily. Procell thought that over for a moment and then nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “I got up at 5:15 and showered...”
Gaming Center, Schriever Air Force Base
It was nearly six thirty when Eileen picked up the conference room phone to dial Major Blaine. Procell had told her every tiny detail of his day, and she had learned absolutely nothing. Eileen wanted to view the Game tapes, but she knew she was too tired. Harben needed a report as well. She’d seen Blaine lock and tape the entrance to the Gaming Center. Blaine set a security guard at the only entrance to the Center. The tapes were as safe as they could be, and Eileen was hungry.
“Security, Major Blaine speaking.”
“This is Eileen Reed, Major Blaine. Can you come guide me out of this place?”
“I certainly can,” Blaine said warmly. “I've been catching up on paperwork waiting for your call. I'll come right over and show you the door on our way out, and you can give me your report.”
Eileen sat for a moment in silence, feeling her heart pound so loudly her hand trembled on the phone.
“I report to Captain Harben,” she said, much more softly than she wished. She was afraid her voice would crack if she spoke any louder. “But I’ll be h
appy to discuss what I’ll need for tomorrow.”
There was a small silence. Eileen bared her teeth in a smile. She knew the way the military world worked. Major Blaine thought of Eileen as Captain Reed, a former Air Force pilot and the Major's subordinate. And a woman subordinate, to boot. Major Blaine wanted to give Eileen orders. She was not – not! -- going to let that happen.
“Oh.” The voice on the other end of the line was annoyed. “Well -- I'll be right there.”
“Thanks.”
Eileen set the phone down gently and took a few deep breaths. Her notes lay in an untidy pile in front of her. Now more than ever, she was bound to solve this case. How long did Harben say she had before the Air Force OSI officer arrived? Three days? Not enough time, usually, to close a case. She would just have to work harder on this one.
She flipped through her pad of notes, making an occasional correction or footnote, waiting for Blaine to arrive. The office outside the conference room was totally deserted now. The office lights were on but the desks were empty. The screen saver patterns that played on the computers gave an eerie kind of motion to the big room, as though right outside of Eileen’s peripheral vision the computers were turning, moving, and whispering to each other.
“Creepy,” Eileen said to herself. The silence and the motion were oppressive. Undoubtedly the murderer was gone from this building, just as the murdered girl was gone, but the murder itself remained. Eileen shared a common belief among police, that the physical location of violence, especially murder sites, retained some kind of malignancy long after the blood and remains were cleaned away. Police liked to live in new houses, although they could seldom afford them.
Eileen felt certain she must have spoken to the murderer today. Despite Procell's file, which lay thick and as yet unread by her elbow, she felt certain that Terry Guzman was murdered by one of the people in the Center. She’d probably been murdered by one of the people she’d interviewed, though she hadn’t the faintest idea who.
She turned to look at the file, bulging with newspaper clippings and paper-clipped reports, and felt an exhausted kind of impatience. She hated this whole military world, had hated it since before Bernie had died so senselessly, and here she was being drawn back into it. Joe Tanner was --
“Well, Detective?” Blaine said from the doorway. “Let's go.”
The last of the day's light was fading behind Pike's Peak as Eileen and Major Blaine stepped outside the building. The air was fresh and warm, and smelled of a recent thundershower. Eileen took a deep breath.
“How can they stand to work there?” she murmured to herself. Blaine shrugged and led the way to the sidewalk that would take them to the retina scanners and Eileen’s car.
“The pay is good, the work is good. How often do you really look outside the window?”
“All day long,” Eileen said.
“You’ll be back tomorrow?” Blaine asked, managing to make it sound like an order. He looked jittery, as though he'd had too much coffee or pop that afternoon. “I spoke to Air Force Special Investigations, the closest time they can have their man out here is in three days.”
“I’ll return tomorrow morning to review the tapes,” Eileen said mildly.
There was silence for a while, as they walked along the flank of the huge building that housed the other space communication's center.
“Remember, there isn't anything out here except a weather station, once you leave the base,” Major Blaine said stiffly, scratching at his arms as though he had old mosquito bites there. Perhaps she was making him nervous. Eileen liked the thought of that.
“I know. I've had clearances before. Didn't like 'em then, and I don't like it now.”
“Tomorrow morning, then. 8 o’clock?” Blaine's light colored hair looked faintly sweaty where it showed under his cap. The little mustache drooped. He looked tired.
“Sure. All I need is access to the room and paper and pencil. I’ll supply the paper and pencil.”
“I'll meet you at the gate, to get you through one more time. Then your badge and number and retinal scan will be enough.”
“And no more problems with my weapons, I assume?” Eileen asked without a smile.
“No problems,” Blaine said.
They came up to the tiny building full of scanners, and Blaine took out his piece of paper again.
“7893,” he reminded Eileen. “You just swipe your badge through the slot, like a credit card, and key in the number. You don't need to scan on the way out, only on the way in.”
Eileen felt the same claustrophobic feeling as before when the glass door clicked and locked behind her. She swiped her badge through and keyed in the numbers. There was a pause, and a click. She pushed the door open and stepped through. Blaine was already through and waiting for her.
“Everything set? Keep the badge. If I think of anything, I'll call the station.” Blaine balanced his briefcase on one knee, opened it, and rummaged around for a moment before pulling out a business card. “I never use these things,” he said. He closed the case and put it under his arm, dug in his pocket for a pen, and wrote a number on the card. “My home phone,” he said, holding out the card to Eileen.
“Thanks.”
“Tomorrow morning, 8 o’clock,” Blaine said, and turned away. Eileen nodded, and dug into her pocket for her own car keys.
There was a phone in the little retina-scan building. She called in to the station and told Harben she would be in after she'd gotten some supper. She asked Harben if he wanted anything, and Harben said no. No one ever saw Harben eat. Peter O'Brien swore that Harben was a vampire and drank only human blood. Since there were never blood-drained bodies found in Colorado Springs, O’Brien had come up with the theory that Harben must have a deal with Memorial Hospital. O’Brien had even passed around a rendition of a blood bank savings account made out in Harben's name. Eileen and O’Brien laughed until they were leaking tears. Harben got a look at it and never cracked a smile, which made O’Brien and Eileen laugh all the harder. A new detective, Stan Jabowski, was too nervous to laugh. He didn't know Harben yet and was afraid that Harben was offended.
“Vampires don't laugh,” O’Brien had said, trying and failing to keep a serious face.
Eileen smiled at the memory, and flicked on her lights as she pulled her Jeep out of the parking slot. Then she felt sad, remembering Stan Jabowski hadn't had much of a chance to get dry behind the ears. He'd been killed on Nevada Avenue less than a month later.
Eileen waved to the guard at the gate, and accelerated into the curve.
Chapter Twelve
Colorado Springs Investigations Bureau
“...So that's the wrap,” Eileen finished comfortably. She wiped her fingers on a napkin and took a big sip of her soda. The scraps from a sub sandwich lay on waxed paper. A few shreds of lettuce had fallen onto Harben's immaculate desk. Behind Harben the blinds were drawn against the dark.
“Use the scanner, get those notes onto your machine,” Harben said. He never referred to a computer as anything but a machine.
“Okay,” Eileen said. She picked up the lettuce shreds and ate them slowly. “I didn't get any feel for who the murderer is. This Procell file worries me, too. I'm going to have to call up the traffic accident reports from those other scientists.”
“The ones who were killed commuting to work?” Harben asked.
“Yeah, Harriet Sullivan, um... John Richmond, I think.”
“Do you know how many people are killed every year on that stretch of highway, Eileen?” Harben asked coldly. “We scrape up bodies every month from that road. I'm sure Procell -- is that his name? -- has some interesting statistics, but if the government hasn't taken an interest, I'm not so sure you should waste your time.”
“The government doesn't always know what they're doing,” Eileen said quietly.
“Bernie crashed in a very expensive plane. There's a greater desire for a cover-up.”
Eileen winced.
“A secret murder ca
mpaign against scientists in the military would be great tabloid material,” Harben continued. “Why wasn't this made public? You said Procell's first notes started years ago.”
“I haven't read the whole file.”
“I suggest you skim the file. Procell's entire intent may be to divert attention from himself or from someone he's trying to protect.”
“Okay,” Eileen said, and stretched. “What a day.”
“Don't make it too late,” Harben said to her. “Oh, and you still have to start on the Pendleton file. I sent Rosen out to do the prelim work but I want you to check it.”
Eileen nodded, and reached out to crumple up the sandwich wrapper and drop it in the trash.
“All right, all right,” she said, and hoisted herself to her feet. “You are no fun sometimes, boss.”
Harben didn't reply. He had already turned, and was keying in the password to his computer.
“It was a good sandwich,” Eileen said to Harben's back. “You shoulda had one.”
Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia
Lucy was deep. She was getting to know George Tabor from a hundred different traces left within the Web. Her office chair squeaked as she stretched, putting her hands to the small of her back. The building was darkened but not quiet. It rustled like a haystack full of mice. Someone had burned a bag of microwave popcorn, and the stench drifted everywhere. Lucy had an open cup of coffee in front of her. For some reason, that killed the burnt popcorn smell. She hated being here at night. She wanted to be home, nestled up to Ted and watching something mindless on the television.
But George Tabor, now. He was an interesting fellow. Lucy saw his face, plain and friendly, as her gopher sent the picture. George made it away, clean. His flight landed on schedule in Paris and from there he could have gone anywhere. Lucy knew his skills would be valuable. Where would he go? Tabor wasn't her problem, now, although she thought their paths might cross sometime. She hoped they would.
Ground Zero Page 11
