“He was stationed here the whole time?”
“He was in the Air Force, son. This was his home base.”
“And what were his responsibilities during the past eighteen months?”
“The same thing he was responsible for over the past eighteen years. Serving in the Air Force and serving proudly and well.”
“Can you be more specific, Colonel?”
“Captain Cooke was a member of the 89th Airlift Wing and, as such, he was part of SAM FOX.” When Justin shook his head blankly, Zanesworth went on. His words were in even more of a monotone than seemed usual, as if he’d offered this explanation thousands of times, which Justin realized he probably had. “SAM FOX was originally used as an aircraft tail number; it formed a radio call sign to identify Air Force aircraft that were transporting high-ranking VIPs, usually on a foreign flight. SAM is Special Air Mission, FOX for Foreign.”
“That’s what Cooke was doing? Piloting VIPs?”
“Captain Cooke. And yes. That’s our primary mission at Andrews. We transport the president of the United States and worldwide airlift for the vice president, the president’s cabinet, members of Congress, military leaders, and other dignitaries of the appropriate stature.”
“Do you keep flight logs for all your pilots?”
“Of course.”
“Could I see his? Captain Cooke’s?”
“I’m afraid not. You don’t have the clearance to see that kind of information.”
“And I suppose there’s nothing I could do to get that kind of clearance?”
Zanesworth didn’t bother to respond to that one. He just let his lips spread into the thinnest of smiles.
“Did you know him, Colonel? Captain Cooke?”
Zanesworth waited an appropriate length of time-two or three seconds-before nodding his head and saying, slowly, “Of course I knew him. There’s no one I don’t meet under my command. But I didn’t know him well, unfortunately. We had very little interpersonal contact.”
The man was lying. It was a strange lie to tell and there was no real reason for it. But Zanesworth stumbled over the words and his eyes shifted just slightly when he spoke. Up until now he’d been difficult and obviously resisting any kind of probe. But now he was definitely lying. Of that Justin was certain. He just had to try to figure out why.
“Funny. I’d think you’d make it a point of knowing the people who fly heads of state.”
“Captain Cooke wasn’t flying heads of state. At least our head of state. And there are twenty thousand people living and working at Andrews. I wish I knew them all, but I don’t.”
“So he never flew Air Force One?”
“No.”
“You know that without checking?”
“I know who flies the president. I know everyone who flies the president.”
“Did he ever fly the vice president?”
“It’s possible. I’d have to look at his flight records over the years.”
“Would you mind doing that?”
“Yes, I would. I don’t see the relevance.”
“There probably isn’t any. It’s just that, you know how it is, once you start snooping it’s hard to stop.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know how that is, Mr. Westwood. But unless you can show me the relevance, I won’t be revisiting the records.”
“Okay. Then let’s try this one: When did you hear about Captain Cooke’s death? What day was it?”
“I assume it was the day he died. Possibly the morning after.”
“Really? That soon? Because somebody went to a lot of trouble to hide his identity. I didn’t know who he was the day he died. Or the morning after.”
“It was probably the day after that, now that I think about it. Or at least I assumed it was that close to his death. I certainly could be off by a few days.”
“Who called to tell you?”
“I. . um. . I’m not sure. One of my aides. The police must have called and he took the call.”
“The thing is, Colonel, I’m the police. For some reason, that doesn’t seem to be getting through. But I’m the only one who could have called that soon. And I didn’t.”
“Then maybe it wasn’t the police who called. Maybe it was Captain Cooke’s family. I’ll talk to my aide and see what he says. He’ll have all that information.”
“How about if I ask him?”
“He’s not on base today. I’ll talk to him when he’s back and let you know his response.”
“Can I have his name?”
“I’ll get back to you with all the information.”
Justin cleared his throat and twisted his neck to the right. It was stiff as a board. That was because since he’d set foot on Andrews Air Force Base he felt as if he were carrying around a thousand-pound weight on his shoulders. “How long have you been on the base, Colonel?” he asked.
“What relevance does that have?”
Justin exhaled a deep breath. It wasn’t a happy exhale and he made no attempt to hide his dismay. “Have you ever conducted an investigation, sir?”
“On a small scale.”
“I’m not talking about stealing a quart of strawberries here. I mean something on the level of a multiple-murder investigation.”
“No, of course not.”
“Then let me give you a little lesson, just in case you ever find yourself in my position. You know. . investigating. The first thing you have to keep in mind is that my questions don’t necessarily have any implicit belief or disbelief to them. I’m just trying to get to the particular information I need to solve my problem. So, for instance, if you didn’t know Hutchinson Cooke well, my question doesn’t necessarily mean that I think you’re lying. It could mean that I’m trying to find out if there’s someone else I should be talking to. Your predecessor, for instance, who might have known him better. And had some interpersonal contact.”
“I’ve been base commander here for eleven years.”
“And Captain Cooke was here for. .?”
“Eight years.”
“Huh. Out of those twenty thousand who live and work here, how many are officers who serve under you?”
“We’re here to talk about Captain Cooke, Mr. Westwood. I’m not going to discuss anything about other men and women.”
“Chief.”
“What?”
“Chief Westwood. As long as we’re doing the whole title thing. I’m the chief of police, actually. Of the town where Captain Cooke was murdered.”
“Are there any other questions, Chief Westwood?”
“What was Hutchinson Cooke doing in East End Harbor when his plane crashed? Why was he there?”
“He was on official leave. He had a few days off. I can’t tell you what he did during his private time.”
“Was it his plane?”
“Again, private information. I don’t have any idea whether or not he had his own plane.”
“Not curious?”
“The man’s dead. It doesn’t strike me as relevant whether he was flying his own plane or borrowing someone else’s. The man was a pilot. He preferred being in the air to walking on the ground. As most of us do.”
“Any idea where he was coming from? Or flying to?”
“No.”
“Is there anyone who might, Colonel?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Justin made no attempt to hide his exasperation. “What was he, a hermit? Eight years on this base and he didn’t have any friends he might have talked to?”
“I’ve asked anyone here I thought might be helpful, in anticipation of your arrival. No one had answers to any of the questions you’ve asked.”
“So you already anticipated all my questions?”
“It doesn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes to come up with this list.”
“Would you mind if I asked them myself? To the people who didn’t have any answers when you asked?”
“Yes, I would mind. I’m afraid that won’t be allowed.” Colonel Zanesworth st
ood. A not very subtle sign that the interview was over. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Justin nodded slowly. “Here’s one question I can’t quite figure out the answer to,” he said. “And you probably didn’t anticipate this one because it wasn’t on my list.” The colonel’s expression didn’t change. There was only the slightest flicker in his eyes to reveal his anger. He was better at covering up anger than he was at lying. “One of your men died in a plane crash. An expert pilot, so I was told. And someone who worked for you. . well, that’s not the right term, but you know what I mean. . for eight years. Suddenly, someone comes into your office and tells you this officer didn’t die accidentally, that he might have been murdered. . ”
“So far I haven’t heard a question in all of this.”
“The question is, Colonel: How come you don’t seem to give a shit? How come you’re not saying to me, ‘What makes you think what you’re saying is true and how can I help?’ That’s my question. Well, I guess it’s two questions, if you want to get technical.”
Zanesworth still showed no outward signs of anger or discomfort. He stared at Justin for a long time, as if he were used to winning such staring contests. “I don’t know who you are, Chief Westwood. I’m going to make a point of finding out, however. And when I do, my guess is that this is what I’ll learn. That you’re a smart-ass, small-town cop who’s decided to cause trouble for God knows what reason. It’s not that I don’t give a shit about what happened to my officer, it’s that I don’t give a shit about you. I’m in the Air Force. That’s where my loyalty lies, that’s who I answer to. Not to an arrogant little turd like you. Does that answer your question? Or questions?”
“Not exactly. But I have a feeling that’s as close as I’m going to get.”
“I’ll have Lieutenant Grayson show you to your car.”
Justin stood up. Neither man made any attempt to shake hands. But before Justin moved, he pulled a piece of paper from his wallet, dropped it onto Zanesworth’s desk. “That’s my card, Colonel. If you decide to go for the truth instead of all this bullshit about loyalty, feel free to give me a call.”
“How long have you been a police chief, son?”
“Why?” Justin asked. “Think I need to work on my technique?”
Colonel Eugene T. Zanesworth’s only answer was a quiet snort, followed by, “I think you need to start looking for a whole new line of work.” Then he closed the door firmly behind Justin, who didn’t say a word until he and the lieutenant escorting him reached the Grand Am and the lieutenant was holding the driver’s door open.
“So did you know Captain Hutchinson Cooke?” Justin asked as he was climbing in behind the wheel of the car. “Did you ever meet him?”
“Have a nice trip, sir,” the lieutenant said, closing the car door.
“Thank you. That’s damn polite of you.”
“No,” Lieutenant Grayson said. “Thank you, sir.”
When Justin pulled up to the gate, about to turn out of the complex, he glanced in his rearview mirror. In the reflection he could see the lieutenant, still standing in the same spot, seemingly at attention, unmoving, staring straight ahead. It wasn’t until Justin was a couple of blocks away and picking up speed that he realized he was breathing normally and that his hands had unclenched. He took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and called the station house. He heard Reggie’s voice on the other end of the line say, “East End Police.”
“Hey,” he said.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Great. Couldn’t be better.”
“You sound kind of funny. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I just needed to talk to somebody normal.”
He heard her laugh and then say, “Things must be tough if you’re using me as the standard for normal.”
“You have no idea.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Silver Spring. Outside of D.C.”
“You need me to do anything?”
“I’m just going to go try to charm a woman and see if I can get her to talk to me. I should be able to manage on my own.”
“You sure? I’ve seen you turn on the charm. You probably could use the help.”
“You got anything for me on Lockhardt?” he said.
“Not a thing.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “I’m trying, Jay. But there’s zip on the ballistics and nobody saw anything. The only possible lead that’s come up at all is a car that was parked about a quarter of a mile away from the airport. Looks like it was parked there at the time of the murder and moved sometime not that long after. But the witness didn’t see the driver. Just the car pulled off to the side of the road. And his ID on the car is pretty tenuous.”
“All right. Keep on it.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Tonight. Catch a seven or eight o’clock shuttle, I hope.”
“Well. . if you’re hungry. . or something. . feel like talking. . you can knock on my door. I’m sure I’ll be up.”
“What a good neighbor,” he said.
“You can even borrow a cup of sugar,” she told him.
They hung up and Justin headed for Silver Spring, Maryland, blaring the Lou Reed CD, Magic and Loss, he’d brought with him. It was the perfect music for his mood. Quiet and harsh, and all about love and loss and bewildering, incomprehensible death.
Justin found the house without too much trouble. Sense of direction was not his best thing, so he made several wrong turns, went too far going one way, went too far again coming back, finally stopped and asked directions, made one more wrong turn, then he was there. Not too much trouble compared to his usual treks.
There was a car in the driveway and there seemed to be movement in the house, so he knocked on the front door. It was a decent-sized two-story colonial, and when no one answered, Justin figured it was possible that whoever was home had gone upstairs and hadn’t heard him, so he knocked again, this time louder. He waited one full minute, knocked one more time, then forced himself to wait two more minutes, timing it to the second on his watch. He decided enough was enough, that something was wrong, so he tried turning the doorknob, confirmed that the door was locked, took two steps back, swayed his weight onto his back right foot, lowered his left shoulder, took one very deep breath. . and then the door slowly swung open. Justin didn’t move for what felt like a very long time, long enough for him to feel extremely foolish, hunched over, ready to try to ram the door open. He coughed awkwardly, stood up straight. There didn’t seem to be anyone on the other side of the door so he stepped forward, gently pushed the door a few inches farther open with two fingers. He heard a quiet breath, then another, but didn’t see anything until he lowered his gaze. That’s when he saw them: two large brown eyes at about the level of his waist, peering up at him from behind the door. Justin let a little air seep out of him.
“You’re Hannah, I bet,” he said. When the little girl nodded shyly, Justin asked, “Is your mom home?”
The girl nodded a second time. “She’s in the bathroom.”
“Would you do me a big favor?” he asked.
“What?”
“Would you go tell her that I’m here?”
The little girl pondered the request quite seriously, then nodded again and went scurrying up the stairs. Justin stepped farther into the small foyer, peered into the living room. The house was spotlessly clean. Everything was obsessively dusted, waxed, and shiny and there was the pervasive odor of Lemon Pledge everywhere. Odd for a house with two kids. It was too clean. Seemed like there were very few personal possessions or touches, too. It was all rather barren and antiseptic. Like a movie set meant to parody a suburban, middle-class house.
Justin turned around when he heard footsteps on the stairs. The woman coming toward him was probably in her early fifties, tall and bony, with her dark hair pulled into a tight, severe bun. She looked stern, not particularly attractive, but as she got nearer he saw that she had probab
ly been quite attractive. And she wasn’t nearly as old as he’d thought. She could have been in her mid- to late thirties, but fear or worry or sadness had both aged and hardened her. As he took a few steps in her direction, he saw that she was shaking. Her cheek was twitching and the veins in her neck were taut. Her fingernails were bitten down to the quick, but that didn’t stop her from chewing on her cuticles. As she walked, her fingers were in constant motion, and the only way she seemed to be able to keep them still was to pick and scratch at them. He saw that the areas around her nails were bleeding and that her fingertips were picked red and raw.
“Mrs. Cooke?” he asked. “Theresa Cooke?”
“That’s right.” Her voice was as twitchy as the rest of her. He got the feeling that if she didn’t bite off each word, keep each syllable short and terse, she’d just open her mouth and scream as loud as she could. Scream until she couldn’t make another sound. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Justin said. “I’m a policeman. Police chief. Justin Westwood.”
“The police chief of Silver Spring?”
“No, ma’am. I’m from a town in Long Island, New York. East End Harbor.”
She practically wrapped her arms around her chest, as if she were now physically holding herself together. “That’s the town where my husband was killed.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
She seemed to age several more years right before his very eyes.
“What. . what. .” She had to lick her cracked, dry lips to get the words out. “What is it you want?”
“I’m just looking for some information.”
“What kind of. . of. . information?”
Justin lowered his voice to a near whisper. He looked the woman directly in the eye and did his best to give her a gentle smile. “Is there something you’re afraid of, Theresa?” When she didn’t answer, just stared back at him, he said in the same even tone, “You can tell me. What are you so afraid of?” he asked.
“Afraid of?” she whispered back. And when he nodded, she said, “I’m afraid of everything.”
“Then let me help you.”
A laugh escaped through her lips, but there was no humor in it. It was a harsh, crackling sound.
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