The Enemy

“Just checking,” I said. “I was thinking about the beach.”

“Too cold.”

“Won’t be in August.”

“Think you’ll be here in August?”

“No,” I said.

“Pity,” she said. “You’ll never know what I wear.”

“You could mail me a picture.”

“Where to?”

“Fort Leavenworth, probably,” I said. “The maximum security wing.”

“No, where will you be? Seriously.”

“I have no idea,” I said. “August is eight months away.”

“Where’s the best place you ever served?”

I smiled. Gave her the same answer I give anyone who asks that question.

“Right here,” I said. “Right now.”

“Even with Willard on your back?”

“Willard’s nothing. He’ll be gone before I am.”

“Why is he here at all?”

“My brother figures they’re copying what corporations do. Know-nothings aren’t invested in the status quo.”

“So a guy trained to write fuel consumption algorithms winds up with two dead soldiers in his first week. And he doesn’t want to investigate either one of them.”

“Because that would be old-fashioned thinking. We have to move on. We have to see the big picture.”

She smiled and drove on. Took the Green Valley ramp, going way too fast.

The Green Valley Police Department had a building north of town. It was a bigger place than I had expected, because Green Valley itself was bigger than I had expected. It encompassed the pretty town center we had already seen, but then it bulged north through some country that was mostly strip malls and light industrial units, almost all the way up to Sperryville. The police station looked big enough for twenty or thirty cops. It was built the way most places are where land is cheap. It was long and low and sprawling, with a one-story center core and two wings. The wings were built at right angles, so the place was U-shaped. The facades were concrete, molded to look like stone. There was a brown lawn in front and parking lots at both sides. There was a flagpole dead center on the lawn. Old Glory was up there, weather-beaten and limp in the windless air. The whole place looked a little grand, and a little bleached in the pale sunlight.

We parked in the right-hand lot in an empty slot between two white police cruisers. We got out into the brightness. Went in and asked the desk guy for Detective Clark. The desk guy made an internal call and then pointed us toward the left-hand wing. We walked through an untidy corridor and ended up in a room the size of a basketball court. Pretty much the whole thing was a detectives’ bullpen. There was a wooden fence that enclosed a line of four visitor’s chairs and then there was a gate with a receptionist’s desk next to it. Beyond the gate was a lieutenant’s office way off in one corner and then nothing else except three pairs of back-to-back desks covered with phones and paper. There were file cabinets against the walls. The windows were grimy and most of them had skewed and broken blinds.

There was no receptionist at the desk. There were two detectives in the room, both of them wearing tweed sport coats, both of them sitting with their backs to us. Clark was one of them. He was talking on the phone. I rattled the gate latch. Both guys turned around. Clark paused for a second, surprised, and then he waved us in. We pulled chairs around and sat at the ends of his desk, one on each side. He kept on talking into the phone. We waited. I spent the time looking around the room. The lieutenant’s office had glass walls from waist height upward. There was a big desk in there. Nobody behind it. But on it I could see two plaster casts, just like the ones our own pathologist had made. I didn’t get up and go look at them. Didn’t seem polite.

Clark hung up the phone and made a note on a yellow pad. Then he breathed out and pushed his chair way back so he could see both of us at the same time. He didn’t say anything. He knew we weren’t making a social call. But equally he didn’t want to come right out and ask if we had a name for him. Because he didn’t want to look foolish if we didn’t.

“Just passing through,” I said.

“OK,” he said.

“Looking for a little help,” I said.

“What kind of help?”

“Thought you might give us your crowbar notes. Now that you don’t need them anymore. Now that you’ve found yours.”

“Notes?”

“You listed all kinds of hardware stores. I figured it could save us some time if we picked up where you left off.”

“I could have faxed them,” he said.

“There’s probably a lot of them. We didn’t want to cause you the trouble.”

“I might not have been here.”

“We were passing by anyway.”

“OK,” he said again. “Crowbar notes.” He swiveled his chair and got up out of it and walked over to a file cabinet. Came back with a green folder about a half-inch thick. He dropped it on his desk. It made a decent thump.

“Good luck,” he said.