“Sir, I-”
“Hear me out, please. When things go wrong here, as they inevitably do, the people who hate everything we stand for tend to pile on, with visible glee, I might add. And should we make accommodation, then the alumni pile on. I spend a whole lot of my time on damage control.”
“I’m not sure I understand the significance of the alumni, Admiral,” Jim said. “I’m an alumnus, for instance.”
“I’m talking about the alumni who wear three and four stars on their shoulders. Unlike the civilian university world, Mr. Hall, our alumni sit on our promotion boards.”
“So this is about turning two stars into three, Admiral?”
The admiral’s face hardened. “That’s a cheap shot, Mr. Hall. There are a couple hundred other officers here besides me. Being superintendent, I have to protect their careers.”
“We’re taking dead Brian Dell’s point of view, Admiral,” Branner said. “If what we’ve learned is true, the Academy let him down big-time.”
The admiral glared at her. “That’s a big if, Ms. Branner,” he said. “And suppose you do interview this Booth and he just tells you to pound sand. What then?”
“We take him apart. We search his room. We interview his weird girlfriends over in town. We compare hair, fibers, blood, DNA, fingerprints, voiceprints, and E-mails with crime scene evidence from the muggings in town, Dell’s room, Dell’s body, Markham’s person-in other words, we focus on a suspect and we investigate his ass.”
“The problem is, you have no evidence to justify reopening this investigation, Agent Branner. Plus, you are just about out of time, because very soon, the vice president of the United States is going to commission the entire class, and then they will be gone.”
“Not all of them, Admiral,” Jim said. “There’ll be football players with ruined knees, at least a couple of academic holds, maybe somebody with appendicitis. You could always add Booth to that list. Just because he graduates doesn’t make him immune from military justice.”
The admiral sighed and looked at his watch again.
“You know, Admiral,” Branner said, “slamming the lid on this thing doesn’t exactly square very well with your new ethics and morality program, does it? I mean, you’re always telling the mids that the proof of the program is when people practice what they preach. I’ve got an idea: Why not put the question to the midshipmen? See what they’d do with it. Exams are almost here; there’s a super final exam question for you.”
The admiral gave her a pained look. “I’ve got to go. You’ve got to go. You have no evidence. All you have is a he says/she says finger-pointing drill. That can go on forever. At this juncture, my job is damage control. I’m sorry.” He pushed a small button under the side table, and the steward appeared a moment later to show them out.
As they headed for the door, the admiral had a final question. “Mr. Hall, didn’t the dant tell you to stand down from this matter? That we already had a SecNav determination?”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“No, sir. He does not.”
The admiral stared at him for a moment. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Hall, but didn’t you come to the Academy MarDet after an incident in the Bosnia campaign? A blue on blue, where they blamed you and then found out someone else was responsible?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, this time, I believe it is on you. It’s been nice knowing you, Mr. Hall.”
Twenty minutes later, Jim and Agent Branner sat in one of the clam bars along the city dock, having a beer and some fish and chips. They ate in silence, digesting what had just been said in Buchanan House. The clam shack was almost empty, the tourists having gone back to their hotels or into one of the local restaurants. Jim wiped oil off his mouth and hands and crumpled up the cardboard container.
“I don’t each much fried food,” he said, “but every once in awhile, this stuff hits the spot.”
“A spot that usually stays with me forever,” Branner said, patting her tummy. “So what now, Sherlock?”
“I’m conflicted, filled with self-doubt, suffering low personal esteem, and I’m probably a victim,” he replied with a straight face.
She grinned. “In other words, it beats the shit out of you, does it?”
“Something like that. I know what I want to do, but that augurs badly for what’s left of my job security.”
“What job security? ‘It’s been nice knowing you, Mr. Hall.’ You’re history.”
“I’m technically a civil serpent. I at least get a hearing. And I’m not sure they’d want to have any of this pop out in a civil service hearing.”
“Maybe. But what they’d do in Washington is create a new position for you, then forget to budget for it. And you’d get to find a new home somewhere.”
“Oh well, screw ’em if they can’t take a joke. I loved it when you suggested the supe do the right thing-practice what they preach. That bit about asking the mids what they would do-that was medium brilliant.”
“But, bottom line-”
“Even if they don’t smear Julie Markham, this Dyle Booth guy gets commissioned. A Marine officer and a gentleman by act of Congress. A sadist at least, and maybe a murderer.”
“There’s still a chance we’re wrong,” she said. “The admiral kept pounding on our weak spot: zero real evidence.”
An obese waiter wheezed over and removed their debris, wiping down the counter with a rag that left about as much grease as it picked up. “But they won’t even let us talk to this guy,” he said. “If I could just get a look at him, I think I could tell if he was the runner. I’ll never forget those eyes.”
She finished her beer and slid the empty bottle down the full length of the counter, where it fell off the end, landing right in the trash can. Jim knew if he tried that, the bottle would miss the can and break all over the floor.
“So now what?” Branner asked. “We just give it up for Lent?”
“You mean do what we’re told for once?” He rubbed the sides of his face with both hands. He was tired, and eating all that grease had been a mistake.
She sat there looking at him as if expecting something.
An idea bloomed in his head. “Or…” he began.
“Or?”
“Or I could go get that tennis ball-you know, the one our runner rolled down the tunnel that night? The one that said ‘You’re on’? I could go get that tennis ball, find out what room this guy Booth lives in, and put it on his desk. Then go on down to the tunnels, see what shakes out.”
“Oh, I like that,” she said, a nasty gleam appearing in her eye.
“I could do all that by myself, you know. My ass is already on the skids. No reason for you to burn down, too. I mean, after Bosnia, I know how to do skids.”
She produced her Glock from somewhere beneath the counter and held it up for him to see. “If he did Bagger, we’re gonna have a talk. And maybe an accident.”
The waiter looked up, got wide-eyed when he saw the Glock, and backed hurriedly into the kitchen, closing the door and then the pass-through hatch.
“Put that thing away,” Jim said softly, glancing at the front windows. “We need to call Liz DeWinter. See if she has Julie’s cell number. See if Julie can give us Brother Dyle’s room number.”
Ev and Liz walked back to where Ev had parked his car. Now that it was dark, Ev had offered to give her a ride back up the hill to her house. The night was clear, with almost no sea breeze coming in from the bay. The occasional cars making the turn at King George towards the city docks seemed unusually loud. Ev thought there might be fog later. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell was tolling the hour.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked her when they got to his car.