High Crimes

“Staff Sergeant Henry Abbott left the army in 1985. Went into the private sector. Defense-contractor work, specifically.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Grimes said.

“He’s in ‘government liaison’ at one of those big scary defense corporations. That means he sells to the Pentagon. So somehow I don’t think he’s going to turn state’s evidence for you. The Pentagon’s got him by the proverbial short hairs.”

“He’s on the prosecution’s witness list,” Embry said. “But we don’t know when he’s being called.”

“He’s in Washington,” Devereaux said, always the master of timing. “At the Madison Hotel.”

“Let’s see him,” Claire said.

“I’ve set up a breakfast for you guys,” Devereaux said. “Tomorrow morning at seven.”

“What?” Claire said. “Thanks for telling us—”

“Seven?” Grimes moaned.

“I just set it up,” Devereaux said. He turned to Grimes. “He’s an early riser.”

“Or he’s just busting our balls,” Grimes said. “Who does that leave us?”

“Two others,” Devereaux said. “Robert Lentini and Mark Fahey. Fahey I finally located. He’s in real estate in Pepper Pike, Ohio. Wherever the hell that is. I talked to him. He might be worth talking to — it’s hard to say. He seems sort of embittered about his army experience. Not exactly gung-ho.”

“Our kind of guy,” Claire said.

“Then there’s Lentini,” Devereaux went on. “The mystery man. All I can turn up is his enlistment photo, which I put in a request for; they ought to dig it up in a few days, but it’s not going to do us any good. After that, nothing. No files on him. No record of where he ended up. I checked the U.S. Army Reserve Personnel Center in St. Louis, which keeps the records of all personnel who’ve left the army. And the U.S. Total Army Command, in Virginia, where they keep the active army files. Zippo. And there’s no record of his death anywhere.”

“That’s impossible,” Claire said. “If he’s alive, he’s either in the army or out of it. Can’t be neither. Make sure there isn’t some dumb glitch, like a wrong middle initial or a spelling error or something.”

Devereaux glared at her. “Do I look like an idiot?”

“Don’t answer that,” Grimes said.

“All right,” Claire said. “Ray, I need whatever you got on Abbott, right now. You guys can stay up if you like, but it’s almost two A.M., and I’ve got to get some sleep if I’m going to be coherent with Abbott tomorrow morning.”

35

There was the light tap of a car horn, and Claire opened her front door. Grimes’s rusty silver Mercedes was sitting in her driveway. Saturday morning at six-thirty, and Thirty-fourth Street was deserted. The early-morning sunlight was pastel. A bird trilled musically, regular as a metronome. Her head ached and thudded at the temples. The daylight pierced her eyes.

“Rise and shine,” Grimes said, sardonic.

“I read over the Abbott stuff until almost four. I need coffee.”

“We’ll grab some on the way.”

In the lobby of the Madison Hotel they were joined by Ray Devereaux. He handed Claire a small Motorola cellular phone, spoke for a few minutes, and returned to the street.

They met Henry Abbott in the Madison restaurant. He was tanned and prosperous-looking, handsome in a vaguely sinister way. His silver hair was combed straight back from his square forehead. He wore gold wire-rim glasses. He was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, elegant blue foulard tie.

He looked at his watch, a slim gold Patek Philippe, as they joined him at the small table. “You’ve got twenty minutes,” he said.

Grimes rolled his eyes but said nothing.

“Good morning to you, too,” Claire said, setting down her cell phone on the table in front of her. Caffeine and a fresh application of lipstick had made her feel marginally human. She introduced herself and Grimes.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he said. “No law says I have to talk to military investigators.”

“Then why’d you agree to meet us?” Claire asked.

“Curiosity. I wanted to see what you look like. I’ve read about you.”

“Well, now you know,” she said.

“She normally looks better,” Grimes apologized, “but she’s operating on less than three hours’ sleep.”

“We’ve got a couple of questions for you,” she said.

“Why the fuck should I talk to you? I’ve got a reputation to protect.”

I’ll bet, Claire thought. “Your CID statement is quite specific,” she said. “I’m sure they’ve provided you with a copy to refresh your memory.”

“I didn’t see what Kubik is supposed to have done anyway.”

“That’s not what your sworn statement says,” Grimes put in.

“Yeah, well,” Abbott said, and took a sip of coffee. A waiter came by and poured coffee all around. Claire took a grateful sip. The caffeine had an immediate effect, accelerating her heartbeat, causing prickles of sweat to break out at her temples.

“We know the real story,” she said. “All your statements are exactly the same, all you guys in Detachment 27. Which is too cute by half. As this case goes on, you run the risk of being locked into your statement, the one that was coerced out of you thirteen years ago. You don’t want that.”

“Are you tape-recording this?” Abbott asked.

“No, I’m not,” she said.