A Study in Honor

by Claire O'Dell

  Stop it. This is not the backcountry of Georgia. And we are not two anonymous black women. We are representatives from the federal government.

  I still didn’t feel any better.

  We exited the Dixie Highway for the streets connecting U.S. 1 with the beachfront roads. Here there were fewer cars, and our cab soon turned off Miami Avenue into a complex of driveways. We drove past several buildings with signs indicating various specialties to the main hospital itself, where the driver shut off his meter.

  Mercy Hospital. A tall gorgeous building, its walls gleaming white under the brilliant Florida sun. Palm trees decorated the landscape, and next to the entrance was the statue of a saint. A hospital founded out of compassion, according to the literature I had come across.

  A hospital for rich people, I thought. How had my two veterans found their way here?

  Beside me, Holmes was staring up at the pale blue lettering of the hospital’s name with a strange, almost fey expression. “And may God have mercy upon our souls,” she said softly. “And forgive us our sins.”

  She paid off the driver and told him he didn’t need to wait. We climbed the few steps to the entrance and through the doors. I allowed myself one glance around the glittering entryway, then followed Holmes.

  “We’re here to speak with Dr. Garcia,” she said to the woman behind the reception desk. “We have an appointment.”

  The woman frowned. She was pale, for someone who lived in Florida—pale blue eyes, pale white skin dotted with freckles, and hair fading from gray to white. Ghost people, my sister called them, when we first moved north. That had earned Grace a spanking and a lecture from our mother.

  Our own ghost woman took in my presence, just behind Holmes. The suits apparently made no impression on her, because her frown deepened and she pretended to consult the papers on her desk. “You say you have an appointment, miss?”

  Holmes slapped her ID case onto the counter. “Agent Harris. It’s an official matter.”

  Her voice was too loud, too flat. The woman jumped in her seat. I sensed movement rippling throughout the reception area. The white people staring at us. The few blacks going still and tense as they stared anywhere but in our direction.

  Holmes touched her gloved hand to the earbud in her right ear. She tilted her head and her gaze went diffuse for a moment. Then she smiled. “Abigail Lampert. Married. Expected retirement date is next year. No record with the police except for a few traffic violations. Ms. Lampert, I would like you to use that pretty console on your desk to notify Dr. Garcia that his nine a.m. appointment has arrived.”

  Lampert fumbled with her e-pen and tapped the display screen. It had gone utterly silent around us, except for a faint whispering at the far end. I felt a flutter of nervous laughter behind my ribs. Sara’s extravagant display with the earbuds, the not-so-subtle threat about our ghost woman’s record. It was a farce of all the spy movies Angela and I had ever watched together.

  Meanwhile, Abigail Lampert was speaking in low tones into her headset mic. She nodded once and tapped the display. “Dr. Garcia is on his way. Please . . . Please make yourself comfortable. He will only be a few moments.”

  Holmes, still smiling, replaced the ID case in her jacket. We took our seats in an ocean of unnerving quiet. No whispers now. Only the hum of electronic equipment and a muted beeping from beyond a set of double doors. Small, anonymous hospital sounds.

  I had forgotten, truth be told, how it was in the Real True Genuine South of these United States. Maryland did and did not qualify. Illinois most definitely did not. I had lived too long in states where you could—for the space of one blink, one breath—pretend there was no difference between white and any other color. My mother said that this belief was more dangerous than the in-your-face racism of the South. And yet she had died in the South, at the hands of those people who were nothing but in-your-face.

  I wished I could talk to her about that. How we were both right, both wrong. How I missed her. Even her lectures about proper behavior, her disapproval of Angela. How I remembered that stricken look—gone in a flash—when I told her I had volunteered to join the army.

  When I got back to DC, I would buy a new cell. I would call Grace. And we would talk about our mother and father, about our grandmother who still lived in Georgia, angry and proud. We would argue. We might even shout at each other. But we would talk.

  Next to me Holmes waited, apparently wrapped in that same impervious blanket of cool and calm she carried with her. I wanted to speculate on where she had acquired it. Was it an artifact of her own upbringing? A clue to a background unconnected with the U.S. and its history? Or simply her own arrogance? The white security guards eyed us from time to time. Lampert glanced in our direction whenever I chanced to shift in my seat. The white patients were blind to us both. The black and brown ones sent us covert glances as if they feared we might cause more trouble, trouble that would wash over them as well.

  “Agent Harris.” An older man, dressed in a wrinkled gray suit, stood at the door beside the reception desk.

  Holmes stood up in one easy fluid motion. “Dr. Garcia?”

  He nodded. “Come with me. If you please.”

  Garcia led us through what felt like a mile of corridors until we reached a newer complex of offices and glass doors. After a few more turns, we came into a bright office with windows overlooking gardens of azaleas, irises, and gardenia trees. Garcia’s medical degrees and certificates of honor decorated the spaces between bookshelves crowded with reference books.

  He gestured toward two comfortable chairs before taking the seat behind his desk. “I received word yesterday to expect your visit,” he said. “Though I’m afraid I don’t have much information myself. The two men in question . . .” He consulted the papers on his desk. “Victor Molina. James Walker. They weren’t regular patients of ours. The ambulance—”

  “I know the particulars,” Holmes said. “Or at least the particulars of their arrival. Molina and Walker were brought here last Saturday, Mercy Hospital being the nearest facility. They died, or were already dead, having been caught in the middle of a shootout in Bayfront Park.”

  “Then you know more than I do,” Garcia said.

  “Possibly.” Holmes waved a hand to one side. “I’m here to fill in a few missing pieces. Molina and Walker . . . No, let me back up. You might’ve heard the reports about the drug trade between Miami and Central America. What you might not know is there’s a new drug cartel with operations in Quintana Roo, various Caribbean islands, and Miami. Our analysts came across a list of names. Molina and Walker were on that list. The purpose of my visit today is to determine if our department needs to investigate these men further.”

  It was a masterful performance of lies constructed from selected truths. Was there a new drug cartel? It was plausible. The mainstream media newsfeeds carried any number of articles about the connection between Miami and the Mexican drug trade. It was even possible Molina and Walker each had a history of drug use. Too many veterans did.

  I suppressed a shudder at the thought of that possibility. Garcia seemed pleased. An easy explanation? A solace for him and his staff, knowing they could not have prevented these deaths?

  “There’s not much more I can tell you,” he said. “Both men were DOA. The cause of death was obvious—each body had a dozen bullet wounds. Internal injuries in both were severe. One man had nearly bled out by the time the EMTs arrived at the scene.”

  “Did you have any blood work done on them?” Holmes asked.

  Garcia shrugged. “No. We saw no reason for that.”

  No doubt it was the end of the case in his eyes, but I hadn’t missed his unthinking dismissal of these deaths. “I have a few questions,” I said, “concerning the cause of death. Did you perform an autopsy?”

  He swung his gaze toward me. He took in my expensive suit, then my battered device, which rested uneasily in my lap. “We received no request from the family for one.”

  Did you bother
to contact them?

  I suppressed that surge of anger. I recognized Garcia’s attitude from my years at Georgetown. Why borrow trouble? a senior surgeon told me once. Find the simplest cause and treat that. You’ll be happier. So will your patient.

  Clearly Garcia believed the same. I smiled at him. “Thank you. And could you tell me the official cause of death? Was it blood loss or internal injuries?”

  “It’s irrelevant,” he said sharply. “They died because they were shot.” Then he drew a long breath and collected himself. “If you want my opinion, however, I’d say internal injuries edged out the blood loss. Those bullets left a mess behind that I’m not certain we could have repaired even if they hadn’t bled out. Is that what you needed to hear, Agent Harris?” he said to Holmes.

  Holmes nodded. “It will do, yes. Thank you.”

  We went through the usual round of handshakes and polite commentary. Garcia offered us coffee, which Holmes declined, then the courtesy of summoning a taxi, which she accepted. The entire episode had lasted an hour.

  “That was useless,” I said.

  “Not entirely,” Sara said. “Though I expect our next interview will be more productive. The police headquarters,” she said to my questioning glance. “And please, continue to ask any questions that occur to you.”

  Her optimism about the usefulness of our next interview was misplaced. When we announced our presence at the front desk, the sergeant on duty immediately sent a minion to fetch Detective Fletcher. Another minion brought us coffee and doughnuts, and told us the detective would be along soon. Eventually Detective Fletcher, dressed in a wrinkled black suit, took us away to his office on the third floor.

  “I only heard from your people last night,” he said. “Not much notice, but you could say I’m used to that when the FBI gets involved. Here’s what we know.”

  He recited the details of the police record in a dull, flattened voice. No, there had been no previous drug-related incidents in Bayfront Park. The principals involved each had a record with buying marijuana, and Walker had a quite legal prescription for painkillers, which sometimes indicated a deeper involvement with drugs. When Sara pressed him, he admitted there had been no other complaints or arrests.

  “But let’s get back to the night when there was a complaint,” Sara said. “Can you tell us anything beyond the official report?”

  “Not much more,” he said. “We got an anonymous tip about a disturbance. Gunfire in the park, five or six guys at least, shooting at each other. Our caller thought it might be a drug deal gone wrong. By the time our people arrived, the shootout was over and we had two dead bodies and nothing else. Whoever else was there had disappeared. We made a sweep of the area, of course. All that got us was a collection of nine-millimeter bullets. And before you ask, yes, yes, we checked the local clinics and sent out a broadcast. Nothing showed up. No ER visits from people with gun wounds. No word about trouble between gangs.”

  “Is that unusual?” Holmes asked. She had already given him the spiel about drug cartels and the list of names with Walker and Molina.

  “Eh,” Fletcher said. “Unusual is too strong a word. Let’s call it odd. If it was an argument between two drug dealers, we generally hear about it. But that’s with the local boys. You say they were connected with a drug cartel, no? That might explain things.”

  Holmes shrugged. “They might be, they might not. Our analysts are sometimes more suspicious than they need to be. However, if we confirm the connection, my department will let you know.”

  Fletcher shifted his gaze to the paperwork on his desk, his expression noncommittal. Obviously he expected as little from us as we did from him. I left the usual courtesies to Holmes as we negotiated further exchanges of information and records, then took the offered escort back through the precinct hallways to the front entryway.

  “Do you need a taxi?” our escort said.

  “Thank you, but no,” Holmes replied. “I’ve called for one already.”

  The relief in the woman’s face was all too obvious. Miami, or at least the doctors and police of southern Miami, wanted us and our inconvenient questions gone. Can’t say I blamed them.

  A car waited outside, no doubt summoned by Holmes through the network she wore. I hardly cared. I murmured a good-bye to our escort, then followed Holmes to the sleek black car that waited at the curb. It was far more elegant, and therefore far more expensive, than the taxis we’d used from the motel. Another deliberate choice on Sara’s part? Did she intend to confuse our audience as much as she confused me?

  By one p.m., we were back at the motel. Holmes paid off the driver and unlocked the door to our rooms. “Checkout was at noon,” she said. “I bought us an extra two hours.”

  I dropped my useless medical bag, with its equally useless IDs, on the unmade bed. “No doubt I ought to be grateful,” I replied. “Can you tell me what you found out from those pointless interviews? Or was there something I missed?”

  “It’s not important,” Holmes said.

  “It fucking is important,” I said.

  She tsked at me. “Such language, Dr. Watson.”

  I slammed my fist into the pillows of my bed. “Fuck language. You know Belinda Díaz died for no good reason. You said there was a connection—”

  “I said no such thing. I merely agreed there might be one. Which we have not proved. Yet. Now, if you are done with your speeches, we need to pack. Our next plane takes off within the hour.”

  Our car had vanished, replaced by a nondescript taxi. The driver was Latino, his meter appeared to be stuck at the $20 mark, and the few legible city license stickers dated from ten years ago. There was a pattern to these choices, but I was too weary and frustrated to work it out. I let myself doze in my corner of the backseat while our driver veered from lane to lane as he sped along the Dixie Highway. We made one stop, where Holmes ducked into a small shop plastered with signs in Spanglish. She returned five minutes later with a large bag and two large bottles of water.

  “Eat,” she told me. “We have another stop to make before we head home.”

  We shared the bag’s contents—several Cuban sandwiches, a paper bucket of spicy fries. By two p.m., we had finished our lunch, and the cab had dropped us off at the south terminal of the Miami airport.

  “Where is our next stop?” I said once the driver had pulled away from the curb.

  “Someplace cold,” Holmes replied. “Don’t worry. I brought coats.”

  “Coats,” I muttered under my breath. Coats were the least of my worries, I thought as I followed her through the nearest door.

  Our brief encounter with Miami International was a replay of Dulles. A man in a dark gray suit met us by the ticket counters and led us into a windowless office, bare of anything except a battered desk. Holmes handed over an ID—a different one from the one she had displayed to the hospital and police officials. This one was smaller, the size of my palm, and had a row of embedded chips along one side. Our new escort slid the card into a small device strapped to his wrist. A sudden image of assassins in the ancient world, with daggers in wrist sheaths, flashed through my mind.

  “Holmes,” the man said. “I’ve heard of you.”

  “But I haven’t heard of you,” she replied.

  He laughed softly. “Fair enough.”

  He offered Holmes his own ID. She clasped it between her lace-covered hands and paused, apparently listening to the results from her earbuds.

  “Have we collected any new friends?” Sara asked.

  “None so far,” he said.

  She nodded. “Is the plane ready?”

  “Ready and waiting this past half hour. Come with me.”

  We made a long trek through the back corridor, followed by a hurried exit through a back door onto the tarmac, where our plane sat—the same plane from yesterday, but with a different pilot and a second man who took charge of our bags. Once more we strapped ourselves into our seats. The plane took off on a jolting run down the airstrip. There was
a hesitation, a sudden leap into the air. Then we were shooting through a brilliant blue sky I had not even been aware of. Our pilot circled around over the ocean, then angled the plane to the northwest.

  On and on we flew through the afternoon. Two stops to refuel: once in Raleigh; once, much later, in Pittsburgh. I heard the tick, tick, tick of sleet against the windows. When she saw me shivering, Holmes unbuckled her seat belt and staggered to the back of the plane. She returned in a couple of minutes with two coats. Mine was a wine-colored down coat with a hood. Holmes had one of dark blue wool. I tucked my hands into the pockets and discovered black wool gloves.

  Had she forgotten no detail?

  And what would happen if she did?

  By five thirty we landed at a small municipal airstrip outside Lansing, Michigan. By six p.m. we had arrived at our destination, a hospital whose name I missed as we hurried from our cab into the warm, bright reception area.

  It took me several moments before I shook off the cold and took in my surroundings, only to realize we were the only black people there. Oh, yes. We had traveled into a different world. I tensed, ready for another confrontation.

  One or two visitors glanced in our direction. I caught a hint of surprise, or perhaps uneasiness, when they noticed my device. No one challenged us, however. No one questioned our presence. When Holmes gave our names, the pale blond woman behind the desk tapped a few keys on her console, then smiled. “Dr. Allen will be right out. She was afraid the weather might have delayed you. Would you care for anything? Coffee? Tea?”

  “Water, thank you,” Holmes said.

  Answers to our questions, I thought. I kept that comment to myself, however, and accepted a cup of weak coffee. We had only a few moments to wait. Dr. Allen, an older woman, soon appeared to lead us to her office.