“So far I haven’t heard a question in all of this.”
“The question is, Coloneclass="underline" How come you don’t seem to give a shit? How come you’re not saying to me, ‘What makes you think what you’re saying is true and how can I help?’ That’s my question. Well, I guess it’s two questions, if you want to get technical.”
Zanesworth still showed no outward signs of anger or discomfort. He stared at Justin for a long time, as if he were used to winning such staring contests. “I don’t know who you are, Chief Westwood. I’m going to make a point of finding out, however. And when I do, my guess is that this is what I’ll learn. That you’re a smart-ass, small-town cop who’s decided to cause trouble for God knows what reason. It’s not that I don’t give a shit about what happened to my officer, it’s that I don’t give a shit about you. I’m in the Air Force. That’s where my loyalty lies, that’s who I answer to. Not to an arrogant little turd like you. Does that answer your question? Or questions?”
“Not exactly. But I have a feeling that’s as close as I’m going to get.”
“I’ll have Lieutenant Grayson show you to your car.”
Justin stood up. Neither man made any attempt to shake hands. But before Justin moved, he pulled a piece of paper from his wallet, dropped it onto Zanesworth’s desk. “That’s my card, Colonel. If you decide to go for the truth instead of all this bullshit about loyalty, feel free to give me a call.”
“How long have you been a police chief, son?”
“Why?” Justin asked. “Think I need to work on my technique?”
Colonel Eugene T. Zanesworth’s only answer was a quiet snort, followed by, “I think you need to start looking for a whole new line of work.” Then he closed the door firmly behind Justin, who didn’t say a word until he and the lieutenant escorting him reached the Grand Am and the lieutenant was holding the driver’s door open.
“So did you know Captain Hutchinson Cooke?” Justin asked as he was climbing in behind the wheel of the car. “Did you ever meet him?”
“Have a nice trip, sir,” the lieutenant said, closing the car door.
“Thank you. That’s damn polite of you.”
“No,” Lieutenant Grayson said. “Thank you, sir.”
When Justin pulled up to the gate, about to turn out of the complex, he glanced in his rearview mirror. In the reflection he could see the lieutenant, still standing in the same spot, seemingly at attention, unmoving, staring straight ahead. It wasn’t until Justin was a couple of blocks away and picking up speed that he realized he was breathing normally and that his hands had unclenched. He took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and called the station house. He heard Reggie’s voice on the other end of the line say, “East End Police.”
“Hey,” he said.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Great. Couldn’t be better.”
“You sound kind of funny. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I just needed to talk to somebody normal.”
He heard her laugh and then say, “Things must be tough if you’re using me as the standard for normal.”
“You have no idea.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Silver Spring. Outside of D.C.”
“You need me to do anything?”
“I’m just going to go try to charm a woman and see if I can get her to talk to me. I should be able to manage on my own.”
“You sure? I’ve seen you turn on the charm. You probably could use the help.”
“You got anything for me on Lockhardt?” he said.
“Not a thing.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “I’m trying, Jay. But there’s zip on the ballistics and nobody saw anything. The only possible lead that’s come up at all is a car that was parked about a quarter of a mile away from the airport. Looks like it was parked there at the time of the murder and moved sometime not that long after. But the witness didn’t see the driver. Just the car pulled off to the side of the road. And his ID on the car is pretty tenuous.”
“All right. Keep on it.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Tonight. Catch a seven or eight o’clock shuttle, I hope.”
“Well. . if you’re hungry. . or something. . feel like talking. . you can knock on my door. I’m sure I’ll be up.”
“What a good neighbor,” he said.
“You can even borrow a cup of sugar,” she told him.
They hung up and Justin headed for Silver Spring, Maryland, blaring the Lou Reed CD, Magic and Loss, he’d brought with him. It was the perfect music for his mood. Quiet and harsh, and all about love and loss and bewildering, incomprehensible death.
Justin found the house without too much trouble. Sense of direction was not his best thing, so he made several wrong turns, went too far going one way, went too far again coming back, finally stopped and asked directions, made one more wrong turn, then he was there. Not too much trouble compared to his usual treks.
There was a car in the driveway and there seemed to be movement in the house, so he knocked on the front door. It was a decent-sized two-story colonial, and when no one answered, Justin figured it was possible that whoever was home had gone upstairs and hadn’t heard him, so he knocked again, this time louder. He waited one full minute, knocked one more time, then forced himself to wait two more minutes, timing it to the second on his watch. He decided enough was enough, that something was wrong, so he tried turning the doorknob, confirmed that the door was locked, took two steps back, swayed his weight onto his back right foot, lowered his left shoulder, took one very deep breath. . and then the door slowly swung open. Justin didn’t move for what felt like a very long time, long enough for him to feel extremely foolish, hunched over, ready to try to ram the door open. He coughed awkwardly, stood up straight. There didn’t seem to be anyone on the other side of the door so he stepped forward, gently pushed the door a few inches farther open with two fingers. He heard a quiet breath, then another, but didn’t see anything until he lowered his gaze. That’s when he saw them: two large brown eyes at about the level of his waist, peering up at him from behind the door. Justin let a little air seep out of him.
“You’re Hannah, I bet,” he said. When the little girl nodded shyly, Justin asked, “Is your mom home?”
The girl nodded a second time. “She’s in the bathroom.”
“Would you do me a big favor?” he asked.
“What?”
“Would you go tell her that I’m here?”
The little girl pondered the request quite seriously, then nodded again and went scurrying up the stairs. Justin stepped farther into the small foyer, peered into the living room. The house was spotlessly clean. Everything was obsessively dusted, waxed, and shiny and there was the pervasive odor of Lemon Pledge everywhere. Odd for a house with two kids. It was too clean. Seemed like there were very few personal possessions or touches, too. It was all rather barren and antiseptic. Like a movie set meant to parody a suburban, middle-class house.
Justin turned around when he heard footsteps on the stairs. The woman coming toward him was probably in her early fifties, tall and bony, with her dark hair pulled into a tight, severe bun. She looked stern, not particularly attractive, but as she got nearer he saw that she had probably been quite attractive. And she wasn’t nearly as old as he’d thought. She could have been in her mid- to late thirties, but fear or worry or sadness had both aged and hardened her. As he took a few steps in her direction, he saw that she was shaking. Her cheek was twitching and the veins in her neck were taut. Her fingernails were bitten down to the quick, but that didn’t stop her from chewing on her cuticles. As she walked, her fingers were in constant motion, and the only way she seemed to be able to keep them still was to pick and scratch at them. He saw that the areas around her nails were bleeding and that her fingertips were picked red and raw.
“Mrs. Cooke?” he asked. “Theresa Cooke?”