Rebel in Time

Rock Creek Park was deserted as he drove through it, then back along the Potomac. No one was in sight when he stopped and threw the jewellery into the river. He was afraid the diary might float, so he tore it up and poked the bits down into a rubbish basket among the newspapers and sandwich wrappers.

The drive home was uneventful and he was whistling happily between his teeth as he drove into the garage.

Chapter 8

Troy Harmon had filed his final report, yet he still wondered if he would ever hear about Colonel Wesley McCulloch again. He had added, at the end of the report, the request that he be notified if there were any further developments in the case. There had to be a reason for the purchase of all that gold and he dearly wanted to know what it was.

But as far as he had been able to determine there was no case at all. Yes, the colonel had been buying a lot of gold. But no, there was no reason why he shouldn't. Since the law had been changed gold was freely available, it was not necessary to produce identification to buy it, nor were records necessarily kept. Nothing that McCulloch had done was illegal. Just very interesting. He had purchased gold with all the money that he possessed — then stowed the gold away in his safe. He had used his savings, sold his new car and bought an old one, got a second mortgage on his house. And had bought gold and still more gold with it all. What he had done might be considered eccentric — but it still wasn't against the law. Troy had reported this in great detail, made a copy of the report for his own files, and delivered it to Admiral Colonne's secretary. Sorry, the admiral would be out of town for two days, but he will contact you upon return. Fine. Troy could use two days off as well. An old friend was getting married in New York. He had already made his excuses — but it still wasn't too late to phone and say that he was coming. It was Friday afternoon and no one in Washington would miss him if he slipped away early.

It had been a good week-end. First there had been the bachelor dinner, an excuse for a lot of drink, with a bunch of the guys from Jamaica High School he hadn't heard about or thought about in years. More of them had stayed in the old neighbourhood than he had realized. He was the one who had moved on, had got out of touch. Going away first to college, upstate in Ithaca, then right into the Army; too much time had gone by. He had always meant to come back for a visit, but had never quite got around to it. He had no family left in Jamaica; his few remaining relatives were in Detroit. Dad had died while he was in Nam, cancer, and his mother had followed him just a few months later. Out of loneliness, people said. It could be true. She had been that kind of woman. But that was all in the past. Getting back here had turned out to be a lot of fun despite these memories. But he had been too tired, had drunk too much, to even consider returning to Washington on the Sunday.

The first shuttle flight out of LaGuardia on a damp, chill Monday morning is a special kind of hell. Particularly with a hangover. Packed behind the chromium rails waiting for the flight to be called, cardboardy Eastern Airlines coffee spilling out of the container, poked in the eye by the New York Times, then jammed into the tiny shuttle seats. Wonderful, only twelve planes ahead of them waiting for take-off. Longer on the ground than in the air. We're glad you chose to fly Eastern today, the outside temperature is…

The coffee from the QCIC machine was a lot better; Troy sipped it from a crockery mug in order to get the cardboard taste out of his mouth. There was a single item in his In tray. A phone call, please return urgent. From a lieutenant with a telephone number he didn't recognize. But there were a lot of lieutenants in the Army.

Except this wasn't the Army. This was a lieutenant in the District police.

'I'm returning your call, Lieutenant… Anderson. This is Lieutenant Harmon.'

'Yes, lieutenant. I wonder if you could get down here to talk to me. I'll give you the address …'

'Can you tell me what this is about?'

'Only that this is a homicide investigation and we think you might be able to help us. Can you come here this morning?'

'On my way now.'

A murder of some kind? What could it have to do with him? But at least it would be a change from working on the case of the surly, gold-hoarding colonel. He had the receptionist phone for a cab. A thin pounding behind his eyeballs had reminded him that the week-end was still more than a distant memory. He had no real desire to walk around the city in the cold drizzle.