‘Anything else you need?’ he asked.
‘Another opportunity to kill Lockhart would be good.’
‘C’mon, trust the system, Vin.’
‘The system’s only as good as the people working it,’ I said vaguely, distracted, and the dead air informed Arlen that I wasn’t talking about what was really on my mind.
‘Let it go, Vin,’ he said. ‘You’re not responsible for Anna’s death. We’ve talked about this. The inquiry exonerated you.’
Yes, it did, but it also found that perhaps the situation at Oak Ridge, where Anna and I had confronted the suspects in the case that ended with her death, might have had a different outcome if I hadn’t made an aggressive, badly timed move to end the Mexican standoff that confronted us. I could conjure up the scene at will, as if I were hovering above it, because that’s how I dreamed it like it was on a loop. Helping me out with the details was the forensics team that had gone in afterwards and placed line-of-fire rods through the bullet holes in the walls, floor, and ceiling, so that the trajectories of each round could be visualized and the gunfight recreated.
This is how it went down: Anna was being held from behind by a man who also had a gun to her back. A second weapon was leveled at her by another man, sitting in an armchair in front of her, who had relieved me of my Colt.45. I was down on the carpet, an evil dyke bitch pointing a Glock at my head. The guy in the armchair took his eyes off me for a split second just as a fifth person, a bystander, blundered through the door, which, by a stroke of good fortune, took out the evil dyke bitch and her Glock. That’s when I went for the fucker in the armchair. But it was a bad move. In all, nine shots were fired in that room, most of them at Anna, or in her general direction. The last of these was the one I fired at the creep holding Anna and then the one he fired at me. Anna was between us. The bullet that took her life came from behind, but the weapon that fired it was never determined beyond any doubt, because she was wrestling with her assailant at the time — spinning, twisting, and grappling with him. I fired a Colt.45. The creep shot a nine-millimeter Glock. Ordinarily, that would have settled the question; however, the ammo we both used was ball. Both types left neat entry and raggedy exit holes, and the actual slug that killed her exited her body and was not recovered from the scene, all of which meant that she could have been shot with either a nine or a.45. Tissue damage didn’t resolve the issue either way, but that’s the point. It could have been the shot I fired. I could have been her killer.
Anna died in my arms. She took her last breath lying in a pool of her own blood, the black sucking hole in her chest leaving a bottomless pit in mine.
‘Vin… you still there? Hello?’
‘I’m still here.’
‘Hey… I miss her, too,’ said Arlen.
Arlen and Anna had been pals from the start, when I introduced them after the conclusion of a case she and I had worked in Germany. Both of us were in the hospital at the time. And ever since, whenever things got a little rocky between us, Arlen had been our go-between. I had first met her twenty-four hours after my divorce had gone through. The last thing I wanted was another relationship, but Anna walked into my life and the fireworks were there from the start. Occasionally, they burned us — so much so that along the way we’d had time apart to cool off. Anna even became engaged to a piece-of-shit JAG attorney with questionable morals, to get, as she put it, a little control back into her life. She came to her senses about the engagement just days before walking into the Oak Ridge office and collecting a round from a nine-millimeter. Or a.45. Now she was gone forever. And the guy responsible — me — was still here. That, not my lack of trust in the system or the shower block at Leavenworth, was my problem.
‘Are you listening?’ Arlen asked.
‘What?’
‘Stay with me, Vin. I said there’s an investigation underway into Lockhart.’
‘Did you initiate it?’
‘Me? Absolutely not.’
‘Then who did?’
‘Your court-martial has attracted a lot of press, especially after the Afghanistan thing. You’ve got plenty of public support. I think maybe the wife of some general up the food chain smelled injustice and leaned on her old man.’
I didn’t believe a word of that. An inquiry into Lockhart was a ball only Arlen would have kicked into play. He would have to play it carefully. News of an investigation into the DoD contractor might make it look to Judge Fink that Cheung and Macri were playing dirty pool, hoping to pressure Lockhart into withdrawing his testimony. As the star witness for the prosecution, his withdrawal would destroy the government’s case.
‘Lockhart has powerful friends,’ I said. ‘Asswipes like him can’t operate without them. Have a look at a guy by the name of Piers Pietersen, from a company called Swedish American Gold. And while you’re at it, check out a black guy by the name of Charles White. He’s thick with Pietersen.’
‘What’s their connection to Lockhart?’ he asked.
‘I’m betting they do his dirty laundry.’
‘I’ll see what turns up.’
‘You should also look into the Congolese and the Rwandans at Cyangugu.’
‘Forget about them, Vin. They’re beyond our reach.’
I wasn’t happy about that, but I understood. Africa swallowed whole populations. It’d be easy for a few connected individuals to disappear. ‘What about that M16 with its numbers filed off?’ I asked.
‘We’ve got no serial or batch numbers. We know it was made by FN Herstal, but without the numbers the weapon’s untraceable.’
Disappointing. I’d carried the weapon all the way through the Congo rainforest believing it would shoot someone important in the foot — hopefully, Lockhart.
‘What about the French Armée de l’Air pilot André LeDuc?’
‘Interpol has a warrant out for him.’
‘Can you get access to his records?’
‘Paris will cooperate. What are we after?’
‘His head on a plate.’
‘See what I can do. While we’re on the subject of the French, I believe they’re going to launch an inquiry into Fournier’s death. You’ll be called as a witness.’
‘Bring it on.’
‘Hey, I have to go, Vin. I’ll try to drop by soon. Hang in there, buddy.’
‘By the neck,’ I replied.
I heard the dial tone, put the cell in my jacket pocket and turned into the double driveway that lined up with the double garage attached to the double-fronted house with its two flags waving in the breeze over the landing. Just some of the perks of criminality.
I took a long bath in the master bathroom and watched a little high-def spring baseball on the flat screen TV with the 5.3 surround sound system turned up. I was eyeing the liquor cabinet when the doorbell rang. Cheung and Macri were early.
‘You’re early,’ I said, as I opened the door to a man I didn’t recognize.
‘Mr Cooper,’ he said, holding forth a hand. ‘My name is William Rentworthy. I’m a reporter from the New York Times. If you’ve got a few minutes, I’d like to talk to you about the—’