Last I heard, consumerism wasn't a crime in this country. And Ruben was unmarried — had to spend his money on something. Why not himself?
“There are a few books, clothes, photos…”
“Any records?”
“As in The Beatles, Elvis …?”
“As in tax, phone company…” I wondered how long Lyne had been in OSI, so I asked.
“Three months. Does it show that bad?”
“No,” I said, both of us knowing it did. But the guy was doing his best. “I'd like to see a copy of Ruben's will, along with those records.”
“No problem. I'll get them brought in, along with a couple of tables so you can spread it all out.”
“I also want the service records of Staff Sergeant Butler and his men.”
“Easy,” said Lyne.
“Can you get them to my quarters now?”
“Done.”
“What about medicines? Did he have anything prescription listed among his personal effects?” I picked the pill off the floor between thumb and forefinger. I cupped it in my hand. It was pale blue and pitted — nibbled? None of the roach carcasses appeared to be dried-out husks. They hadn't been dead long. A week maybe. Perhaps they'd all keeled over at roughly the same time. Maybe it was something they ate.
“Let me check.” I heard paper being flicked over. “No… no, nothing special. The list here says … Tylenols, floss, condoms, antiseptic cream, hemorrhoid cream — the usual. I thought you had all this.”
I told him I didn't. I only had the coroner's report along with Selwyn's and the previous investigator's notes, all of which suggested that if Butler didn't do it then one of his helpers did. So far, I hadn't seen anything that might have led me to disagree with this broader view. But I had a few things to check on and I wanted to keep an open mind.
I followed Highway 98 as it tracked the shoreline, in one side of Destin and out the other. I checked the number on the white stucco wall to make sure it matched the address I'd written down in my notebook. SAS Staff Sergeant Butler, Corporal William Dortmund, Lance Corporal Brian Wignall, and Troopers Damian Mortensen and Brent Norris were shacked up nice and cozy and convenient — for me — in a detached mock-Spanish-style house on the cheap side of the highway, the landward side.
The clouds had rolled away and the sky down toward Cuba was the color of polished copper. The molten sun sat a couple of inches off the horizon as I pulled into the driveway.
One of Butler's men answered the doorbell — I recognized him from the photo attached to his file. Trooper Norris was the shortest of the Brits, stocky, with powerful arms and legs like Christmas hams. He had dirty blond hair and skin flushed a bright red. It was the type of skin that was always that color, like it was reacting badly to something. Maybe it was something in the air, like America. Whatever, he invited me to come in and so I followed him into the small living room, which had been converted into sleeping quarters for three of the men.
Sleeping bags were rolled up out of the way. Gear was stacked neatly everywhere. Their mothers would have been proud. Two of the men were cleaning and servicing various items. The place smelled of male body odor, spray deodorant, and old pizza, boxes for which were piled neatly on the kitchen table. The door opened to what I guessed was a bathroom because Butler walked out with a towel around his waist and another around his shoulders. “Oh, just a sec,” he said, ducking behind another door and appearing a moment later dressed in shorts and a T-shirt that stuck to his skin where it was still wet.
“Sorry, guv'nor,” he said. “Didn't realize the time.”
Butler smelled like he'd bathed in cologne, and his hair was gelled up like a cockscomb. I handed him five of my cards, each with a time written on the flip side.
“What are these for, then?” he asked.
“I want to interview you and your men separately tomorrow morning. I've checked your training schedule and you've got a rest day. The appearance order's up to you, Staff Sergeant, except that I want to see you last,” I said. Butler and his men had been together long enough after the death of Sergeant Wright to have put their stories in order. I figured another twelve hours wouldn't make any difference. And, in fact, there was really only one of the men I wanted to talk to. I just didn't want Butler to know that. “In the meantime, do you know who this is?” I showed Butler the photo I'd found under the fridge.
“Yeah, that's Sergeant Wright.”
“Thanks. The woman. Who's the woman?”
“The light's not good. I think that's Amy. What do you think, Norris? Is that Amy?”
He showed the picture to Norris, who nodded tentatively. “Yeah,” he said. “Could be.”
The light in the photo wasn't great, but the woman's face was clearly visible. “That would be Amy McDonough?” I asked. Poor light or not, there couldn't have been many women around who looked like Amy, let alone women who looked like Amy and who also had the same name.
Norris mumbled something. He glanced at Butler. Butler took over. “Yeah, Amy McDonough. I think Amy and Sergeant Wright were friends.”
“What sort of friends?”
“The sort that's more than friends. Or were.”
“You care to speak American for me, Staff Sergeant?”
“They were shagging, but I believe they split up,” said Butler.
All but one of the men seemed relaxed about making eye contact. The guy who wouldn't look me in the face was the same man I remembered seeming uncomfortable at the crime scene. “Do you know where she works?” I asked.
Butler shook his head. His men played “Sergeant says,” copying him. It was easy to see who was boss, and it wasn't me. They were cautious, like I might be the kind of animal that could turn around and bite them. Butler, on the other hand, was a known quantity to these guys. He would maul them. I'd met guys like Butler before. They made life hell for the people around them and beneath them, while they buried their noses between the ass cheeks of their superiors. They were not good leaders. In battle, they got good people killed. In peacetime, they got good people in trouble.
“Well, if you guys run into Amy, tell her to give me a call. You've all got my number.” It wasn't the only reason I handed out my card to each. I wanted Butler's men to have someone they could contact if anything was preying on their minds. “I'll see one of you tomorrow at OSI, Hurlburt Field, oh-nine-hundred. Sharp.” I walked out without waiting for acknowledgment.
Later that evening, I was beginning to think that maybe I was slipping. It could be that Butler always dolled himself up before hitting the sack, but I doubted it. The Explorer I was sitting in was backed into the shadows provided by a building a little down the road from the house Butler and his men had rented. The local radio station was rotating through the hit parade, just filler for a barrage of inane advertising for local restaurants, tire stores, and the casinos in Biloxi selling cheap rooms to suckers. Three hours of this and my brain was turning to mush.
But then, at just after 2130, a cab arrived. Butler ducked out his front door and jumped in.
I followed the cab for thirty miles down Highway 98 to Laguna Beach. There, it pulled up to a bar with a flashing neon palm tree over the entrance. More flashing neon informed me this was Miss Palm's. It was the sort of out-of-the-way place where Butler was unlikely to run into anyone he knew, unless the meeting was of the arranged variety. Butler got out and went inside. I pulled the SUV under the fronds of a stand of real palm trees and told myself to give it ten minutes. I only had to wait five. A red Chevy Cavalier in need of a wash pulled into the lot. The brake lights went out, and the interior light came on. I watched a woman touch up her lipstick in the rearview mirror. She got out of the vehicle — a looker in jeans, heels, and leather jacket. The light wasn't so good, but Amy's red hair shone. And she was tall, maybe five eleven. Striking, was the word that came instantly to mind. I made a note of her license plate.