by Tim Stevens
Venn looked from one to the other. “You know this for sure?”
Craddock met his eyes. “Like I said, sir. Dale was a loner. Sure, he hung out with us, but he lacked confidence. If he had a girlfriend, he kept her quiet. Which is not the normal thing to do, when you spend a lot of your time living and working with a bunch of guys.”
Venn noted the reactions of the other two on the periphery of his vision. They appeared tense, as if waiting to hear what Craddock was going to say. As if he was about to reveal something awkward.
Teller placed his hands on the table. “You’ve been helpful, guys. Thanks.”
“You back on duty now?” said Venn.
“Yes, sir. We cut our leave short when... when we heard,” said Nilsson.
“We probably won’t need to talk to you again,” Venn said, before Teller could interject. “Thanks.”
When the three soldiers had filed out, Teller stared at the door for a long moment.
“What was that about?” he said.
Venn wasn’t sure what he was referring to. It could be one of a number of things.
Teller said, “That last remark of yours. ‘We probably won’t need to talk to you again’. What the hell?”
“Psychology,” said Venn.
He glanced round the room again.
No reason it should be wired for sound. Even so...
He stood up. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go talk out in the car.”
*
“They’re hiding something,” said Venn.
They sat in Teller’s Lexus in the parking lot. Teller hadn’t started the engine yet, and the raw cold outside was beginning to seep into the vehicle’s interior.
Teller said, “Yeah. I got that, too. You think they followed Fincher? Or that maybe he told them where he was going, and they’re lying because they feel guilty now that they didn’t go find him sooner?”
Venn gazed through the windshield, where dribbles of sleet were forming on the glass. The heavy snow wasn’t far off, he thought. Maybe a day or two away. A week, tops.
“I don’t think so,” he murmured. “My gut tells me they’re telling the truth about what happened in the bar, and subsequently. They were more relaxed when they were talking about that. But you notice how uncomfortable they got whenever we asked a question about Fincher himself? About his personality, his relationships?”
“Mmm.” Teller frowned, considering. “What does it mean?”
“I need to talk to them again. That’s why I told them we were done with them. To lull them into dropping their guard. If I show up again unexpectedly, it’ll rattle them.”
“You’re talking about ‘I’,” said Teller. “Don’t you mean ‘we’?”
Venn shook his head. “No offense, Mort. I don’t doubt your skills. But you’re not military. I am. It’ll be more effective if I go one on one with them, one soldier to another. It’s psychology, once again. They’ll be scared of me and respect me at the same time.”
To Venn’s surprise, Teller hesitated for only the briefest second before he said: “Okay.” He peered at Venn curiously. “What do you have in mind?”
Venn told him.
Chapter 8
Venn sat behind the wheel of the Jeep and waited, hoping he hadn’t misjudged the timing.
It was six p.m., and darkness had fallen almost two hours earlier. The sleet had continued throughout the day, always threatening to thicken but never quite doing so. Overhead, the cloud cover was thin, not the pregnant bulge of incipient snow.
A couple of days yet, at least, he thought.
He watched the gates swing open again and two cars pull out into the glare of the arc lights before turning onto the road and passing him by.
Neither was the one he wanted.
Venn had carried out more stakeouts in his career than he could recall. Ordinarily, this would have been a straightforward one. But it was different this time. Staking out the entrance to a military base was problematic. A car parked outside for any length of time would arouse suspicion before very long.
Which was why he hadn’t arrived early, drawing up instead at just five minutes to eight. Even so, he expected to have to wait a while, and every minute he sat there increased the chances that the closed-circuit cameras he knew were covering the gate would flag him up as a potential threat, a terrorist or a spy or something. If he got busted, he’d be able to get out of the situation without too much difficulty. But it would take a long time, perhaps hours, and he’d lose his advantage.
On the drive back to Manhattan, he and Teller had worked out the details. Teller would use his FBI clout to obtain a detailed roster of the duties of the three corporals, Craddock, Austin and Nilssen. He’d do so on the quite plausible pretext of wanting to confirm that the three men had in fact been on leave when they said they were.
Teller said, “No problem,” and put a call through to the office on the East River. When a female voice answered, he said: “Meredith. It’s Mort. I need you to do something for me.”
He told her to call Colonel Masterson and ask for the rosters. If the colonel stonewalled her, she was to call Teller. Venn didn’t think Masterson would have any problem with the request. He’d given the impression of a man eager to cooperate, and to be seen to cooperate. After all, one of the men under his command had been murdered.
Twenty minutes later Teller’s iPad, which was propped in a holder on the dashboard, pinged. Teller nodded.
“Check it out.”
Venn picked up the tablet and saw a new email had arrived. Attached was a spreadsheet detailing the duties of the three corporals. It covered the entire week from Wednesday to Tuesday, including today and the two days after.
Nilssen was on guard duty at the base tonight. Austin and Craddock, on the other hand, had shifts that ended at six in the evening, and were listed as off-duty afterward, until eight tomorrow morning.
“Okay,” said Venn. “The next part might be a little tricky. Can you find out where these guys live? Are they resident at the base, or do they go home when they’re off?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Teller, punching the office number into the phone once more.
“Also, can you get their car registrations? Particularly Craddock and Austin.”
“That’s an easy one.”
Venn kept the iPad on his lap. The delay was a little longer this time, forty minutes, and the skyline of the city loomed ahead by the time the second message came through.
Austin had an apartment in Manhattan, just as he’d said. But he was quartered at the base most of the time. Craddock, on the other hand, rented a house with a couple of other soldiers, in Fallsburg.
“He’s the one,” said Venn. “Craddock.”
“Going to need a lot of luck,” said Teller drily. “You’re assuming he’ll head straight home. Even if he leaves the base after his day’s over, which is another assumption.”
“He doesn’t need to go home,” said Venn. “I just need him to get out of the base.”
*
The Chevy Impala pulled through the gates at six-thirteen. Venn was starting to get seriously antsy by then, and was thinking of driving away and returning to watch the gates from a different angle. He’d just started the engine when he saw the Impala.
Its color wasn’t distinguishable under the glare of the lights, other than that it was light. But he glimpsed the license plate, and knew it was Craddock’s.
Two other cars followed the Impala. Venn was thankful for that. It meant he’d be less conspicuous as he eased in behind the Chevy.
He kept the two cars between his jeep and the Impala for around a mile, until one of them turned off. The Impala was headed in the direction of Fallsburg, three miles away. Maybe Craddock was going straight home after all. Venn didn’t know if he lived alone. He hoped so.
But he saw the Impala’s indicator signalling a left turn up ahead, and slowed. The Impala turned into a parking lot, scattered with cars and trucks. At the far side
stood a low, long building with a neon sign above it: Arturo’s.
A roadside bar.
Venn was a little surprised. Craddock had been out drinking just two nights earlier. Venn knew from his time in the Marines that military guys, particularly those below officer rank, liked to party hard, and could hold their drink. But you also learned quickly to pace yourself, otherwise you wouldn’t last. Craddock had looked strong, fit. Not like a boozehound.
Venn pulled into the parking lot and found a space several rows away from where the Impala had parked. He killed the engine and sat watching the rearview mirror.
Craddock got out of the car, no longer in uniform. A moment later Austin got out of the passenger side. Venn watched them head for the bar.
Austin, too. Well, that might make things easier. Might make them harder, though.
Venn sat in the Jeep for ten minutes. It wouldn’t hurt to let them get a drink or two in before he made his approach. It might lower their guard further, and loosen their tongues.
The bar was crowded, but not so jam-packed that Venn had any difficulty spotting Craddock and Austin seated at the counter along one side of its horseshoe shape. Most of the patrons looked like long-haul truck drivers or military types. A few were kids, but the majority were around thirty or older. The men outnumbered the women three to one, Venn estimated. It didn’t look like a pick-up joint – more like a fairly quiet pit-stop, a place to have a drink or two after work. Soft rock played from the speakers.
Venn made his way to the counter along from the two corporals, several other patrons separating him from them. The lone bartender was moving about swiftly, and he nodded to Venn. Venn held up a casual hand in a no rush gesture.
He ordered a Budweiser in a long-necked bottle, tipped it to his lips but didn’t swallow. There were no mirrors across the bar, so he couldn’t watch Craddock and Austin that way. But he was aware of their presence down the bar, aware of the way they sat with their heads down, nursing their drinks, deep in quiet conversation.
Venn knew they’d see him, sooner or later. If you wanted people to notice you, eventually they always did.
The couple of drinkers between Venn and the two soldiers moved away. A few moments later, he noticed from the corner of his eye that Austin had turned to stare at him.
Venn glanced down the bar.
He said, “Hey, fellas. Fancy meeting you here.”
Without being asked, he scooted down the counter and sat on the stool beside Austin. The two men had almost-empty whiskey glasses in front of them. From the smell on Austin’s breath, it wasn’t their first round. Or even their second.
Neither of them spoke. Venn said, “Remember me? Joe Venn. NYPD. We talked earlier today.”
“How can we help you, Lieutenant?” Austin muttered. His speech wasn’t quite slurred. Past him, Craddock glowered.
Venn knew alcohol did one of three things to a guy, even in small quantities. In each case, it brought out something essential about his temperament. Sometimes – usually – it made him affable. Sometimes it made him pathetic and maudlin.
Other times, it made him mean.
Venn saw that now in Craddock’s face. The meanness, like a tightly coiled spring which has suddenly been allowed a little leeway. Austin, on the other hand, just looked wary.
Instead of answering Austin’s question, Venn looked over his shoulder.
“Not a lot of women here, are there?”
Both men frowned, as if some crazy drunk had just accosted them.
“Sir?” said Austin.
“Mostly guys at this establishment.”
“It’s a soldier’s bar,” Craddock muttered. “Soldiers and truckers.”
“Ah. I get it.” Venn took another hit off his beer bottle without actually drinking any. “For a moment there I thought this was some other kind of place.”
He saw Craddock stiffen, his face darken. Austin glanced incredulously at his friend, then back at Venn.
Craddock knocked back the last of his whiskey in one shot. He put the glass down harder than necessary.
“What are you trying to say, sir?”
Venn raised his eyebrows in mock bewilderment. “What? Nothing. Nothing at all.” He paused. “Just thought Arturo’s might be a gay bar, is all.”
The glass in Craddock’s fist creaked an instant before it splintered. Craddock snarled: “Mother-”
Venn glanced down the bar. The bartender was at the far end, tending to a customer, and hadn’t noticed.
He looked back at Craddock. The man had his hand raised, a trickle of blood running down the palm and dripping on to the counter.
Venn said, “You might want a napkin for that.” He grabbed a handful out of a container on the counter and shoved them Craddock’s way.
As the soldier wadded them in his fist, Venn said: “What’s the problem, Corporal Craddock? You got something against gay people?”
Beside him, Austin said, his voice low and hoarse: “Listen, pal.” There was no sir this time. “I don’t know what you’re playing at. But this is police harassment All we need to do is pick up the phone and call -”
“You threatening me, soldier?” said Venn, his voice even quieter. He gazed mildly into Austin’s face.
When the other man didn’t drop his eyes, Venn said: “Here’s the thing. I’ve got this theory. A theory which says you guys took Dale Fincher along with you as some kind of court jester. Somebody you could amuse yourselves with, while you pretended to be his friend. Because I think Fincher was gay. Firmly in the closet, but gay nonetheless. And you knew it. All of you. You probably mugged it up behind his back, sneering at him, but never let on to him that you knew which way he swung. Why, I don’t know. Maybe it boosted your sense of your own masculinity. I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
Austin was still staring at him. Craddock held the bloody wad of tissue paper in his fist, clenched his teeth, and kept his eyes shut.
Venn continued: “When Fincher was approached by this hot woman in the bar, you thought it was hilarious, didn’t you? You egged him on. Wanted him to be made a fool of, because he was forced to keep up this pretense that he was straight. You laughed when she led him away. You thought he’d come crying back to you. But he didn’t. Then, next day, when you learned he’d been murdered, you felt guilty as all hell. Because you could have stopped him from going with her, and you didn’t. So now you’ve got this massive weight of shame and guilt pressing down on you. And that’s why you’re here, on a work night, getting a load on in some tacky bar. You’re trying to blot out the knowledge of who you really are.”
He paused, raised his eyebrows once more.
“Pretty crazy theory, huh? What do you guys think?”
Austin broke eye contact finally. His head sagged onto his palm.
“Jesus, man,” he said.
Craddock muttered, his teeth still clenched: “You’re wrong. I don’t feel guilty at all.”
“Why’s that?” said Venn.
Craddock looked at him, hard. Enunciating each word carefully, he said: “That god damn fag deserved everything he got.”
Austin whipped his head round sharply. “Ryan. Shut up -”
“No, no,” Venn said. “I’m interested. Carry on.”
Craddock turned on his stool so that he was facing Venn down the counter. “Yeah. You heard me. The guy was too much of a pussy to admit what he was. Yet still, he dared to live and work among us. Among men. Pretending he was a soldier, a tough guy. Did we laugh at him? We did, yeah. So what? You can’t take knocks like that, you don’t belong in the US Army. You’re such a weakling a few jibes and taunts get under your skin? What the hell are you going to do when you’re under enemy fire? Piss your pants?”
Venn eyed him for a few long seconds. He was aware of the bartender sidling down the counter. The guy looked at the cracked whiskey glass, the blood stains on the counter top.
“Hey. You all right?” He peered at the red ball of tissue paper in Craddock’s bunched fis
t.
“He’s fine,” said Venn. “At least, his hand is.”
The bartender looked from Venn to Craddock and back. “Everything okay here, guys?”
“Yep.” Venn slid off the stool. “I was just leaving. I got what I came here for.”
Chapter 9
The cold was bracing as he stepped out of the smokey light and warmth of the bar. His Jeep was on the far side of the parking lot, down a slight slope. He walked toward it at an unhurried pace, counting slowly.
One thousand and one. One thousand and two.
Behind him he heard a flare of music and conversation as the doors opened and then swung shut again.
Casually, without breaking his stride, Venn turned.
Craddock and Austin were heading toward him. There was nobody else in the parking lot.
Venn stopped. His spread his arms wide.
“Help you gentlemen?”
They continued advancing. Venn felt the weight of his Beretta inside his jacket.
There was no way he was going to use it, or even draw it.
“Calling me a fag,” Craddock muttered.
Beside him, Austin looked less sure of himself, but he had the springy lope, the slightly hunched posture, of a man ready for combat.
Venn kept his arms splayed, his torso fully exposed.
“You sure you want to do this?” he said.
The two men separated as they drew near, so that by the time they drew level with Venn they were ten feet apart. It was a classic two-on-one strategy, forcing their opponent to cover two sides at once, something that was almost impossible to do.
Venn could have moved in first, taking down Craddock forcibly enough that it might give Austin serious pause. In most circumstances he would have done exactly that. But right now, he needed one of them to land the first blow. Needed whatever he did to be in legitimate self-defense, with no room for misinterpretation.
Austin, to Venn’s left, moved first, something that vaguely surprised Venn. The smaller man charged in at a stoop, lashing his booted foot out at venn’s knee. Venn stepped aside, feeling the toe-tip brush the material of his trousers, and continued the movement so that its momentum helped swing his right fist toward Austin’s face. The other man was fast, and jerked his head aside.
