"I've kept Fitzgerald in the loop on your investigation all along," Canfield said to Hargrave. "I'm not sure how seriously he's taking this connection between Mullins and the sniper, but he did seem interested in talking to Redman if we ever find him. But that mention of the secretary carried a lot more weight than any mention of this Walker character." He nodded at the clipping in Nick's hands. "I got the feeling that Fitzgerald was going to do his job protecting the secretary, but wasting manpower on Walker was not his inclination."
Hargrave remained sitting on the edge of the picnic table until Canfield disappeared around the corner of the building.
"Not his inclination," he said in a mocking voice just loud enough for Nick to hear.
"What?" Nick said, just finishing the story and flipping the paper to see if it continued on the backside.
"Nothing," Hargrave said and then pointed at the clipping. "What do you think?"
"Hell, I don't even remember that quote," he said, tapping the backs of his fingers on the sheet of paper. "I remember doing this story on the National Guard kid, but not that quote about the secretary. I mean, that's kind of reaching. Unless Redman somehow knew the guy or his parents."
The story had been written shortly after Nick had returned to work. At the time he was doing both the cop shift and some home-front stories about area soldiers who were shipped out to Iraq. Some of those stories were obituaries, like the one in his hand. By Nick Mullins, Staff Writer South Florida friends and family of Corporal Randy Williams gathered at his parents' home Friday to remember a young man "who never walked away from a pal and always covered your back," when he grew up here in Fort Lauderdale.
Williams, 28, was killed in Iraq earlier this week during a routine patrol according to the Defense Department. He had been serving with a National Guard unit based in Homestead and was sent to the Gulf more than a year ago. He had been scheduled to return home in January but a change in policy in which guardsmen were to serve only one year of active duty was altered.
"If the Secretary of State had honored her promise, my boy would be back here now, alive and safe with us. He did his job," said Williams's father, Vern.
Vern Williams later said he was referring to a speech made last week by the secretary that defended the military's controversial ruling.
"The interpretation of the contract for guardsmen is that deployments are to mean twelve months, boots on the ground, in the service of the country and do not include the months of stateside preparations and training they spent away from their homes and stateside jobs," the secretary said at the time. "We hope this clears up any confusion and we regret if those families of the soldiers protecting our nation misinterpreted that commitment."
The secretary's words did not mollify the Williams family.
"That's not what our son's commanders told us before he shipped out. They said he'd be home three months ago. If you make a promise to these boys and then ship them off to risk their lives, you should honor that promise," said Vern Williams.
Williams was a highly regarded member of his unit and was guarding the rear flank of his patrol in Iraq when he was killed by a single gunshot fired by an insurgent sniper.
"We still have not taken down his stuff in the barracks," wrote Josh Murray, a fellow unit member from Coconut Creek in an e-mail sent to the Daily News yesterday. "He was a special guy. Always watchin' out for us."
The story went on, quoting friends and other members of Williams's Guard unit praising the kid's intensity and loyalty both at home and in Iraq. But Hargrave had circled the paragraphs that held the secretary's name.
"And Canfield showed this to the Secret Service?" Nick said, working it in his head.
"You heard the man," Hargrave said.
"Do we have any connection between Redman and this guy Williams?"
"Checking. But they weren't with the same Guard unit, nor did their units work together over there as far as anyone can find," Hargrave said. "But then it hasn't been easy to nail down exactly what Redman was doing over there. The information officer with the Florida National Guard will only tell us that he was with a special operations group that was farmed out across the country. No specifics."
"So what? You're thinking Redman reads this piece by me and gets juiced up about avenging this kid's death by assassinating the secretary who justified keeping him over there?" Nick said, to himself as much as to Hargrave.
"Hell if I know," the detective said. "I showed it to Canfield, just like that tight-ass Fitzgerald asked."
Nick could feel the sun cooking the back of his neck. He folded the story and unconsciously slipped it into his back pocket. Hargrave noticed and extended his hand and flexed his fingers in a give-it-back signal. Nick shrugged his shoulders and returned the paper.
"So what do we do now?"
"We?" Hargrave looked up. "We?"
It was hard for Nick to look wounded; he'd made himself an expert at not looking wounded. "What, you're going to sit back and just wait for the next victim to drop?"
"No," Hargrave said. "I'm going to get a return call from the P.D. up in Birmingham on this Kerner shooting and keep all possibilities open."
He gave a nod in the direction of Canfield's departure.
"That's what he was saying, between the management-speak. That goes with his job, not mine."
The detective flicked a furry red blossom, which did indeed look like a bottlebrush, off the table with one finger and then stood.
"Speaking of jobs, Mullins. I see from the front page this morning that someone else has taken over your story."
You can tell a cop either accepts you or despises you by the tone he uses when he takes a verbal shot.
Nick grinned at the statement and answered with an edge of bravado. "No way, Mo. Nobody else has my story. Because I'm the only one who has the true one. This is no marauding killer," he said, thinking of the lead paragraph on Joe Binder's front-page piece. "This guy's got it all planned out."
Chapter 31
Nick stayed off the sauce all day, passing by the urge to stop at Kim's Alley Bar on Sunrise when he drove out to the beach. Three years ago he would have slipped in, had a couple just to relax after a deadline, just to paint over the stress of the day, just to wash out the vision of another body bag or charred home or mangled wreck. Those were the excuses he gave his wife back in the days when he stumbled into the house late, after the girls had already gone to bed. When he repeated the excuses now to himself, they rang just as hollow, and he kept driving.
On A1A he turned left and then parked at the curb along the ocean. He was well north of the once-infamous Fort Lauderdale Strip, once the world-famous bacchanal of college kids gone wild. But the backdrop of Where the Boys Are had gone the way of most things money-driven. When the profit on kegs of beer and cheap hotel rooms couldn't stand up to family resorts and high-priced boutique stores, out went the old, in came the new. Yet it was still a wonder to him that this stretch of beach, from the road to the horizon, was sand untouched. The city had somehow worked it into a legal legacy that no buildings would go up on this stretch of land. Nick got out of his car and walked down to the tide mark and let the surf slosh white and bubbling over his ankles and up onto his cuffs. He thought of Julie, always with her feet in the water. His wife would pull the beach chair all the way down to the edge, even when she knew the tide was coming in, even when she knew she was going to have to change her position within the hour. The closer to the ocean you are, the less of the city you see behind you, she would say. It's more like being out there, floating, without a care in the world.
Nick had never experienced that feeling of floating. He had envied her that. Out on the horizon, the cobalt blue of the ocean water was meeting the azure of the sky, trying to meld, but unable to mix the line until dark. Nick felt the tingle in his right hand again and flexed the fingers.