Official Privilege

by P. T. Deutermann

  She thought about that for a minute.

  “Let’s play it this way,” he said finally. “You and I do what we can to help the real detectives; but when it comes down to knocking on doors in the night, that’s for the cops, the real cops. The trick is for us to stay in deep background, so that the bad guy or guys don’t see us—they only see the real cops. Bad guys don’t usually go after the cops.”

  “Amen to that. So what will you do?”

  “I’ll have a talk with Summerfield. Let him pulse his contacts in the EA network and maybe some of his classmates who are already flag officers. Wait for Vann to call—he said he was taking that hot-line call up his tape. Figure out where we’re going to go to dinner tonight.

  You know, important stuff.”

  dan got in to see Summerfield at five o’clock Wednesday afternoon while they were waiting for the staff call to the JCS debrief. The Joints Chiefs of Staff, the four star officers who were the heads of the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines, met every Wednesday afternoon in the JCS conference room, called the

  “Tank,” at two o’clock, accompanied by their operations deputies. The Navy’s operations deputy was Vice Admiral Layman, OP-06. He would come back to the 06 offices in the late afternoon after the Tank session and debrief the staff officers on all the issues that were discussed and on any decisions made. Any staff officer who had an issue working hi the Tank was on call until the JCS meeting broke up and the debrief was conducted. Many issues fell into what the staff called the kick-the-can mode: The chiefs would talk about it and then decide nothing, so the JCS debriefs were rarely about brand-new issues.

  But no one could go home until Admiral Layman came back.

  Dan closed the door and plopped down on Summer field’s couch. The walls in Summerfield’s office were covered in ship pictures and mementos: Summerfield had been in Opnav for almost four years. The captain was longingly fondling his pipe, but he knew it was too early.

  “So, Daniel. Got a personal problem?”

  “Yes, and no, sir,” Dan said. He proceeded to debrief Summerfield on what he and Grace had been up to, what Vann was asking, and what help he, Dan, needed from Summerfield. When he was done, Summerfield said nothing; instead he went ahead and loaded his pipe and stoked it up, filling the room with a pungent blue cloud.

  “This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Daniel,” he said finally.

  “Because of the EAs?”

  “Yes, although you have to assume that they were # &

  indeed speaking for their principals when they wanted this thing handed back to NIS. Now perhaps we know why. On the other hand, they might just have wanted to work it back-channel because there was potential for embarrassment to the flag community, short of murder, of course. But, either way, they find out that you got out of your box, against orders, they could find you a new box, somewhere wet and very warm, or dry and very cold, you follow?”

  “Yes, sir. I keep reminding myself that I’m just a mark one, mod zero tin-can sailor. But in a sense, this cat’s already out of the bag, isn’t it?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, first, there’s Captain Vann. He’s a honcho in the police department, ex-chief of detectives, now the EA to the deputy chief of police. If he gets the idea the Navy’s covering up a murder, especially of somebody he knew, a family he knows, wouldn’t it be best if the Navy got to the bad guy first, even if a flag might be involved?”

  “Yeah, that computes,” Summerfield said. “And there’s Miss. Snow, isn’t there?”

  Dan shrugged. “Yes, sir. She’s fully aware of the implications of the hot-line call. But she’s not in government anymore.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She’s a private citizen. A free agent, if you will.”

  Summerfield nodded. “Free to do any goddamn thing. In other words, a potential loose cannon.”

  Dan remained silent. He was suddenly wondering whether Summerfield was worried or angry, or both.

  Perhaps confiding in him had not been such a good idea, because Summerfield appeared to be viewing this problem from the point of view of protecting the Navy, not finding a murderer. On the other hand, he had to admit that, for a Navy captain on the Opnav staff, this would not be an unreasonable reaction on Summer field’s part, especially for an ex-EA.

  “Okay,” Summerfield said at last through a cloud of blue smoke. “Let me ruminate on it. There are lots of points of entry into the EA and flag officer networks. I can start at the top—go see my classmate, the vice chief. If there’s a flag officer involved in a murder, the vice is just the guy to flush him out fast. Or I can schmooze some of the EAs.” He put his pipe down for a moment before continuing.

  “But you should understand one thing, Daniel: Yes, there is a flag protection circuit, but that’s mostly about saving face after a bureaucratic or operational bungle.

  The flag selection system isn’t foolproof, or we wouldn’t retire sixty percent of each year’s selectees as one-stars after only two tours of duty. On the other hand, the flag protection circuit is also about protecting the Navy from its bureaucratic enemies, like the Air Force or certain career politicians who hate the Navy. It is not about protecting incompetent or evil individuals.”

  He stopped for a moment to draw on his pipe. “Well, maybe incompetence falls into the sphere of something that might be protected, given some of the people I’ve seen get two and three stars. But I can guarantee that every flag officer would want a murderer nailed. But preferably by our own investigatory system, see?”

  “Yes, sir, I roger that,” Dan said.

  “My only problem is that if you happened to tell the wrong guy in that system, you could be telling the bad guy.”

  “I think I can take that chance, Commander. Because if the network ends up alerting the bad guy, he’ll start to wiggle and squirm. And the flag network, with all those EAs tuned in, can sense a squirm like a spider can sense a bug on the web—with about the same results.

  But my advice to you is to back out, and to tell your girlfriend to back out, too. This could get real nasty real fast.”

  “She’s not exactly my girlfriend, Captain.”

  “Yeah, I hear you. And how was lunch? And have you considered this: If there’s a flag involved in murder, he’ll have a guy or three working for him—principals don’t get their hands dirty, remember? That’s why they have EAs. These guys can go in motion if the principal starts to squirm, sometimes without the principal’s knowledge, you follow? Because if the principal goes down, his EA goes down. Miss. Snow seems like a nice young woman, but she’s not a real cop, is she? And neither are you.”

  “Yes, sir, but we’ve only been talking about it, we haven’t really done anything.”

  “The bad guy might not appreciate that nuance. Tell your Captain Vann we’re working on it, but you and Miss. Snow go play house somewhere and leave this game to the cops—the real cops.”

  grace let herself back into the house and locked the front door. It had been a lovely evening, with dinner at L’Auberge Provencal out in Great Falls, Virginia—on her nickel; naval officers could not afford that restaurant.

  Then back into town for a leisurely walking tour of the Lincoln Memorial after dark, which had been surprisingly full of people. From the steps of the Lincoln, they had been able to enjoy the shimmering reflection of the entire Washington Monument in the long reflecting pool.

  She had been more than a little ready for Dan to come in tonight. The chemistry between them was ripening well, without artifice or any apparent effort. But she had sensed his unease as they drove back to Georgetown, and she had contrived a small excuse to end the evening. She had kissed him affectionately on the cheek before saying good night, and he hadn’t really known what to say or do. He was such a nice man, handsome, amusing, unpretentious, and yet emotionally still a bit fragile; the lady Claire must have been something indeed. She parked her purse in the hall and went to the answering machine, which was blinking impati
ently at her. She turned on the overhead light and sat down to listen. It was Captain Vann.

  “Miss. Snow, hello. This is Moses Vann. I’ve talked to a few people here. I can confirm that this Hardin thing is a bit of a hot potato.

  I’ve been directed by my bosses to turn over the tape and the transcript to the Navy, like ASAP. In fact, I’ve already done it—a guy from the NIS named Englehardt sent someone for it late this afternoon.

  Give me a call, please. There’s more. Thanks.”

  Grace replayed the message once, her good mood evaporating. Even Vann had sounded a little disappointed.

  Give it to NIS. Throw it into the Grand Canyon with the rest of the Navy’s investigation. She looked at her watch and thought about calling Dan’s machine; he wouldn’t have made it home yet. But she didn’t want to end the evening on the Hardin case. She called it anyway and left a brief message about how nice the evening had been and that she just wanted to say good night. Time enough for the Hardins and Moses Vann in the morning. She rechecked the house locks and went off to bed.

  Dan had to circle his neighborhood streets before finding a parking spot on Lee, one full block away from his house. He locked up, checked his parking permit, and walked back to the house. It was a lovely night, cool, almost zero humidity, with the night air appearing to generate a light of its own in the soft glow of the gas lamps. When he got in, he listened to Grace’s message on the machine and smiled. He had acted like a damn virgin teenager on the way back from the Lincoln Memorial.

  He wondered if she had noticed the sheen of perspiration on his forehead as he piloted the Suburban down her street. Everything had been so damn pleasant, without a single false note the whole evening. He had wanted to go in with her. Hell, he wanted to go to bed with her, and he sensed she felt the same. But at the last minute, a whirl of nameless emotions had seized him and he had backed away. From what? he wondered as he went around securing the house. Grace wasn’t some piece of fluff, some one-night stand. It was understood between them that they were working on something, maybe even falling in love. He could make her laugh, and she made him feel like a human again, conscious of needs that had been too long suppressed.

  He knew that someday they would have to talk about Claire, and he was comforted by the knowledge that

  Claire’s death was something he could talk about to Grace.

  He went out to the kitchen and fixed himself a small cognac. He turned out the lights and stared out the kitchen windows into the shadows of the garden. The darkened windows of the houses across the alley looked like caves in an irregular, moonlit cliff. He had spent a lot of time doing just this: staring out the kitchen window at everything and nothing, seeing the familiar, if mundane, details of the garden and the back wall and the buildings beyond, listening to the sounds and currents of life passing him by, and suspending himself halfway between acceptance of that fact and doing something about it.

  Grace had rekindled an impetus in his life that had been missing for a long time: something besides his career, getting to his almighty ship command, and all the other trappings of his Navy-centered life. Life after Claire, and before Grace. Since Monterey, all he had had was the Navy, which offered the advantage of being able to fill up his every waking hour if he cared to let it.

  Meeting Grace had exposed the fact that his personal life was supremely contrived, designed to minimize time alone, time to think about the future and face his prospects, time to stare out this kitchen window.

  Seeing to it that by Tuesday at the latest he had something lined up for the weekend, a trip, a stay with friends, a day’s domestic project, anything to fill up those empty weekend hours, when the streets filled with people bustling about doing all the mundane things people did; when they had a life. And Sundays. Saturdays could be consumed by errands, laundry, housecleaning, washing the car.

  But Sundays lay in wait; Sundays in an empty house accentuated the noise of clocks, the sounds of voices outside on the sidewalk, the sense that living alone could be downright lethal. Meeting Grace had forced him to rediscover how the quality of a man’s life could end up being defined by the presence or absence of a woman. Above all, he now wanted to be very careful, because he sensed that, with Grace, he had come into the orbit of a valuable woman.

  He finished his cognac, washed out the glass, and headed upstairs. As he climbed the narrow stairs, the Hardin case intruded, provoking a flare of irritation. He hadn’t cared for the warning note in Summerfield’s voice during their little seance that afternoon. His boss had focused almost automatically on protecting the Navy, to the apparent exclusion of finding out who had done this thing, and why. And what was it that Sum merfield had said about principals not getting their hands dirty? He had a nagging sense that he had missed something, something important, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember. The captain was probably right in one respect: They really ought to let the cops handle this. Let the NIS get wrapped around the axle with the flags and the EAs—serve ‘em both right. Right now, you’ve got something more valuable to attend to, don’t you? He stopped again at the top of the stairs, a nagging thought evading him, but then went off to bed.

  grace called captain vann’s office at 9:00 a.m. on Thursday morning, but he was once again in a meeting.

  The secretary told her that Vann wanted to do a teleconference at 10:30 with Grace and Commander Collins. Could she make that? Grace could, and the secretary said that Vann would initiate the conference calls. Grace hung up and wondered if she should call Dan, but he would know by now, so she let it go and went to attend to household chores. At 10:30, she was sitting by the phone with a notepad ready. At 10:35, the phone rang and she picked up. It was Vann, with Dan Collins already on the line.

  “Good morning, Miss. Snow, this is Moses Vann. I have Commander Collins on the line. This connection okay?”

  “It’s fine, Captain Vann. Hi, Dan.”

  “Morning, Grace. And, everybody, let me start by saying that I’m in an empty office for right now, but that can change. If I start talking about car repairs and shut this off, that’s why, okay?”

  “Got it, Commander,” Vann said. “I’ll be quick. We caught another tip on the Hardin case last night, by fax this time—to the Traffic Division.

  Lemme read it to you. Says: ‘If you want to know how Elizabeth Hardin really died, call this number,’ and it gives a metro D.C.

  phone number.”

  There was a moment of silence common to conference calls, and then Dan said, “What in the hell is going on here?”

  “Good question, Commander. This message was forwarded into the hot-line center, and since I’d snatched up the last Hardin-related information, they flagged it to me. I’ve had the phone number checked out, and it belongs to one Captain Malachi Ward, U.S. Army, Retired, in a house up on Capitol Hill.”

  “Capitol Hill? That’s hardly an Army captain’s country,” Dan said. “An army captain is an Oh-three.”

  “Ain’t no tellin’ with those places: Lots of ‘em were abandoned dumps in the late sixties; you could pick ‘em up for a song if you agreed to fix ‘em up. I own three as rental units myself.”

  “Where did the fax come from?” Dan asked.

  “A phone booth in a hotel that had a data plug; somebody probably used a portable PC. Effectively anonymous.”

  “Did you call him? Ward?” Grace asked.

  “No, no,” Vann said. “That’s not how it works. First we check a guy out, especially when someone else is putting him in for some heat. We’ve only done a preliminary screen—nothing in depth. But this guy Ward is interesting. He’s a sort of a contractor, got a business license as a PI and as a ‘security consultant’ in the District.

  He owns half of a duplex on the Hill outright.

  Now we’ll have to check around to see what he consults about and who he works for, but we’ll need probable cause, a warrant, all that stuff, before we can go much farther down that road. But there’re a couple of things that intere
st me. Like the fact that he has no driver’s license or vehicle in any of the metro-area jurisdictions, and, get this, no credit history or even a credit rating.”

  “What’s bad credit got to do with anything?” Dan asked.

  “Not bad credit—no credit rating. Not with any of the three major credit-reporting systems. Nowadays, everybody’s got a credit rating. For a guy not to be in the national credit-rating databases takes some doing—a lot of doing, in fact. This is a guy who wants to be invisible.

  And he damn near is.”

  “Captain?”

  “Yes, Miss. Snow?”

  “What is going on here? You’ve had one anonymous tip alleging that an unidentified senior naval officer was having an affair with Elizabeth Hardin and that her love life was somehow connected to her brother’s murder.

  Now a second tip involving this Captain Ward in Elizabeth Hardin’s death.”

  “Yeah, it’s getting’ a little crazy. But this being Washington, it’s beginning to sound like a conspiracy of some kind starting to unravel: The players begin leaking information, usually to the press, trying to put the blame on someone else. Only these guys are leaking to the cops—who, I gotta tell you, don’t have a damn clue as to what this is really all about, unfortunately. Commander Collins, who’ve you talked to?”

  “To my boss in Op-Six-fourteen—you met him, Captain Summerfield.

  Remember, he’s plugged in to the flag officer EA network in the Pentagon in a way that I am not.”

  “Okay, that’s reasonable. And I was ordered to pass the first tip over to the NIS. So maybe this second tip makes sense.”

  “How so?” Grace asked.

  “Because between what you’ve done and what I’ve done, we may have lit two separate fuses in the Navy admirals’ network inquiring about a tie-in between the Hardin murder and a senior officer’s love life, presumably an admiral’s.”

  “Two channels?” Grace asked.

  “Yeah—NIS and the commander’s boss, Summer field. This second tip might just be a reaction from said admiral: If this guy Ward is what I think he is—and we don’t know that yet—this second call might be a shot at putting somebody’s hired hand in the shit, in retaliation for the hired hand putting that somebody in the shit.”