There were plenty of cars in Miss Palm's parking lot, indicating a crowd. I took a calculated risk and walked in. The decor was designed to resemble a tropical beach shack — the sort created by expensive architects following local building codes to the letter. The air smelled of barbecue, sautéed garlic, perfume, and wine. U2's “Beautiful Day” was playing through hidden speakers. Amy McDonough and Butler were at the bar, sitting behind a couple of super-sized margaritas. Amy seemed angry. Butler was doing the talking, attempting to mollify her. I couldn't get close enough to hear what the problem was, not without revealing my presence. But whatever he was trying to sell her, McDonough wasn't buying it. They weren't exactly making a scene. Her anger was more the smoldering kind, the sort generated between people who'd shared bodily fluids and were maybe starting to regret it.
I hadn't been there more than ten minutes before I realized the crowd in the place was thinning. I didn't want to be seen. I left as Amy stomped off to the ladies' room while Butler stared at the floor, shaking his head. Maybe he, too, was thinking about the drive back to Hurlburt Field with nothing but the local radio station for company.
TWENTY
I woke in darkness, ran five miles in the dark, and had enough time left over to boil a couple of eggs before the sun finally rose, revealing a sky so blue and cloudless it could have been a dome of spray-painted metal.
The run had done me good. I'd missed doing regular exercise. Going for an extended jog around the place also gave me the chance to refamiliarize myself with the layout of Hurlburt Field while I thought about Sergeant Wright, Amy, Butler, and those dead cockroaches. I also thought about the DVD, about who might have put it under the hotel room door, and about what the pictures on it meant. Moreton Genetics was a high-security facility, as Dr. Spears had pointed out. Cameras were everywhere, inside and out. While I ran, I also ran these thoughts around my brain until they all started to run together like the colors in a four-year-old's painting, making even less sense than when I started.
After breakfast, I called Colonel Selwyn on her cell. She was already in. I met her at her office ten minutes later. She was at her desk, head obscured by a computer screen, filling in forms, keeping on top of the triplicate beast. “Morning. How's your man?” I asked.
She glanced up. “Hi — he'll live. But I don't know about his mother. I've had about three hours' sleep in the last twenty-four.”
She looked pretty good, I decided. Sleep deprivation agreed with her.
“You ever going to change out of that Hawaiian shirt? First thing in the morning, it kinda hurts the eyes, you know what I'm saying?”
“Just keeping that Christmas feeling,” I said. “A few things have come up,” I added.
“Like what?”
“I'm not sure yet. You did toxicology tests on Wright?”
“SOP. Screened for cocaine, barbs, alcohol, meth — that sort of thing. You know from my report he was clean. Why? What are you thinking?”
“Could be nothing, could be something. Can you test this for me?” I pulled the small plastic bag out of my pocket.
“What is it?”
“I'm hoping you'll tell me.”
Selwyn squeezed the pill into a corner of the bag and held it up to the light for closer inspection. “Looks prescription. Where'd you find it?”
“Under the refrigerator at Wright's house. They missed it when they cleaned the place out.” It wasn't necessary to tell her that I'd been billeted in his last place of residence.
“Was he there short term or long term?”
“Short term.”
“Whatever this is, it might not have been his. Could have been a previous tenant's.”
“I guess.”
“Like you said — could be something, could be nothing. I'll get it tested.”
“I found a photograph under there, too. Can you have a look at it?” I handed her the bag.
“Who's the woman?” asked Selwyn.
“Her name's Amy McDonough. I think she was Ruben's girlfriend. There's also this.” I pulled another evidence bag from my pocket. “Could be a piece of flashlight lens. Can you check it for me?”
“You found this under the fridge, too?”
“No. Out near the crime scene. In the general vicinity thereof.”
“What do you term ‘the general vicinity'?”
“Within a hundred yards of it.”
Selwyn shook her head, angry with herself. “I walked every square inch of that damn patch of swamp.”
I said nothing.
“What are you hoping for?” She was examining the piece of red plastic, frowning at it.
“A blinding flash of clarity wouldn't hurt.”
“Oh, right, one of them.” Selwyn held up the bag containing the pill. “I'll have to send this off. Might take a couple of days.”
The clock on the wall said I had to get my ass across to OSI. I was late. I had interviews to conduct.
I'd been getting the same answers for two hours. Butler's men repeated identical stories and even repeated a lot of the same phrases. And then it was Lance Corporal Brian Wignall's turn under the blowtorch, which, in this instance, was a bank of overhead fluorescent tubes, one of which buzzed. If I was an epileptic, it would be grand mal time.
Wignall had a broad Liverpool accent, sandy hair, and sandy skin. The muscles in his jaws worked when he talked, like they were chewing steel.
I went through the questions and he went through the responses — no deviation from the details related by his buddies. But, unlike his buddies, Wignall was uneasy. I asked about Wright's relationship with the squad generally, and with Butler in particular. I asked about Amy. I asked about the High Altitude Low Opening drop — Wright's last. What I got was that Ruben Wright was well liked by the men and by Butler. I got nowhere further on Amy. I got a mirror-image account of the drop. I got a bunch of half-truths and semi-lies.
The interview concluded, Wignall stood and took half a step. Then he stopped and turned, as if he was reluctant to leave. His fellow squad members had almost sprinted to get out the door.
“You're not going to get another chance like this, Wignall,” I said. “If there's something eating away at you, now's the time to tell me what that something is.”
Wignall took another halfhearted step toward the door.
“Y'know, I can always do it different — I could detain you. Start the interview later today, or even tomorrow,” I told him. “Maybe get your military attaché involved.”
Wignall's palms were sweating. He wiped one on the front of his pants.
“If you know something, sooner or later you'll spill it. Like I said, we can do it now when no one need know, or I can single you out for something long and drawn-out. That'll send a message to your buddies on the other side of that door — choice is yours.”
Wignall bit into the skin beside his thumbnail and peeled it away. “Staff Sergeant Butler is a very fit man.” He said it slow and steady, like he'd rehearsed it in his head.
“And…?” I said, motioning at the chair.
Before he sat, Wignall pulled something from behind his back and placed it on the desk between us. It was a flashlight, a military flashlight, the sort of flashlight paras use. Its low-light red lens was smashed. Part of that broken lens came loose and fell out onto the desk, making a tinkling sound.
“I liked Sergeant Wright,” Wignall said, going another round with his thumb, his front teeth sliding back and forth over a shred of skin. “He was a good man. A good soldier. I don't know what happened when he died — not exactly — but I can guess.”