“My God,” Rita said. “Who would do such a thing?”
“The new Cuban government,” Ginny said. “They’re nuts, Joe says. Certifiable looney-toons. Listen, I’ve got to run. We’ve only got a couple of hours before we have to be at the boarding stations. You’re only allowed to pack one suitcase for each family member.”
“Okay,” Rita said, her mind racing. She glanced back at the top of the fridge. There was a family member up there. Did Gomez still count for a suitcase?
“If you’ve got a dog, you’re supposed to tie him up in the backyard. And leave the keys to the house on the dining table.”
“We don’t have a dog.”
“Right. I’m sorry. This is a terrible time for you,” Ginny said. “Listen, you get the kids packed and ready to go. Then drive over to my house and we’ll go—”
“We don’t have a car. The MPs have it impounded.”
“Oh. Yes, that’s right. I forgot. Well, listen, Rita, I’ll pick you and the girls up here then. If you could be out front with your luggage?”
“Okay,” Rita said, looking around at the bravely decorated little rooms she and Gomez and the girls had called home for so long. She couldn’t stop herself from noticing just how dry the dried flowers looked. God, how she’d tried to make this house a home.
“Can you be ready in an hour? The streets are a mess. Packed all the way to Wharf Bravo. That’s where the JFK is berthed.”
“Sure. We, uh—whatever you say. I would think your husband would, you know, fly you and Cindy out? Something?”
“That’s what he wanted us to do. I said no way. I think the commanding officer’s wife’s place is shoulder to shoulder with the sailors’ families aboard the Kennedy.”
“We’ll be ready, Ginny. Right out front on the sidewalk.”
Rita followed Ginny out to her car. The sun was broiling now and she shielded her eyes, waving good-bye as Ginny pulled away from the curb. Just as she was about to turn and go back inside, another car pulled up by the mailbox. One of those gray Navy cars.
Two men, one in civilian clothes and the other in Army fatigues, climbed out of the front, then the back door swung open and one of the yellow-suit guys climbed out.
“Are you Mrs. Gomez?” one of the civilian guys asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“We’d like to talk to you for a minute. Is it possible to step inside out of the sun?”
“Of course,” Rita said. “Please follow me.”
Rita showed them into the living room. The two coat-and-tie guys sat down. One had a large briefcase. The man from Mars guy stayed in the kitchen. Rita saw him reach up to the top of the fridge for Gomez’s urn.
“What is he doing?” she said. “That’s my husband!”
“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” the guy on the couch said. “We’re doing a house-to-house search. It’s his job. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
“Who are you?” Rita said, remaining on her feet, twisting the folds of her navy blue skirt in her hands.
“I’m Brigadier General Darryl Elliot, and this is Mr. Chynsky,” Elliot said. “I’m from JSOC, the Joint Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg. Mr. Chynsky is counterterrorist director for the NSA. That gentleman in the kitchen is Dr. Ken Beer, a chief investigator from the Center for Disease Control and Prevention. He has presidential authority to search your house, ma’am.”
“Fine,” Rita said. “Let him.”
“Dr. Beer, I’d start upstairs and work down,” the one named Chynsky said. The guy in the spacesuit nodded at him and headed up the stairway.
“Mrs. Gomez,” General Elliot said, “I know this is a tough time for you. I’m sorry. But I have to talk to you regarding some things our investigators have turned up since your late husband’s death and cremation. We don’t have a lot of time here.”
“Whatever I can do to help.”
“Thank you. Did your husband exhibit any unusual behavior in the weeks leading up to his death?”
“He was drunk a lot. Nothing unusual about that.”
“Any strange new habits? Disappearances?”
“If he wasn’t sleeping he was over at the bar at the X pounding Budweisers.”
“Any new friends or associates recently?”
“He only had one friend. He wouldn’t know what an associate was.”
“Friend’s name?”
“Sparky. Sparky Rollins.”
“Yes. The guard posted on what used to be Tower 22.”
“That’s him.”
“Did you ever overhear any unusual conversations between the two of them?”
“Sparky never came here. Gomez always went over to Sparky’s apartment at the BOQ. So they could watch the Playboy Channel, I guess. He slept over there a lot, too.”
“Please try to think, Mrs. Gomez. Was there anything, anything at all, that struck you as different or unusual about your husband in the last month or so?”
“Well, Julio Iglesias did start calling here about a month ago. That was fairly unusual.”
“I beg your pardon? Julio Iglesias? You mean the singer?”
“Well, he called himself that. But he sure didn’t sound like any Julio Iglesias I’ve seen on TV, believe me.”
“What, exactly, did he sound like, Mrs. Gomez?”
“Cuban. Very strong Cuban accent. Tough guy.”
“How often would he call?”
“Every now and then. He’d call at all hours. I think there were two of them.”
“Two?”
“Two guys both pretending to be that singer. Their voices were different, you know?”
“Mrs. Gomez, this could be very important. Did you ever accidentally overhear or eavesdrop on any of those conversations?”
“No. I wouldn’t do that. Besides, he always took the calls in another room.”
“Ira,” Elliot said to Chynsky, “we need the log on all incoming and outgoing calls from this number in the last two weeks. Thanks.”
Ira got up, went into the kitchen, and got on the phone. Elliot opened his leather bag and pulled out an object in some kind of freezer bag.
“Have you ever seen this object before, Mrs. Gomez?”
It was a metal box, about the size of a brick. Little buttons on it. Banged up. It looked like it had been dropped from a ten-story building.
“Mrs. Gomez?”
“No. I’ve never seen it before. What is it?”
“Did your husband have any hobbies? Like model airplanes or model boats?”
“I already told you. His hobbies were beer and the Playboy Channel.”
“This is a radio control device, Mrs. Gomez. You could use it to fly a remote control airplane. Or you could use it to, say, program a bomb.”
“Why are you showing it to me?”
“It was found in the mud, a hundred yards from your husband’s body.”
An hour later, Rita and her two daughters were standing on the sidewalk, waiting for Mrs. Nettles to pick them up. The girls had on their best dresses. They had four pieces of luggage. Three suitcases plus an old bowling ball bag for Gomez.
The two suits from Washington and the CDC investigator had finally left, but not before the spaceman scared the kids half to death when he went out to the garage. They’d come running into the kitchen screaming their heads off. The yellow suit was right behind them, holding some old newspapers. Cuban newspapers, he said. And some moldy twine.
“Granma,” he said. “The Cuban daily, Havana edition. Dated five weeks ago. Heavily folded and imprinted. Looks like something cylindrical was wrapped in it.”
“Bag it,” Elliot said.
When Elliot started asking her questions about a bunch of old newspapers, that’s when she’d told them, hey, old newspapers, big effing deal, pal. B.F.D. She’d had enough. She’d spent all morning at her husband’s funeral. Now she only had half an hour to pack up all her family’s stuff and head to the Kennedy. Enough.