She said, “I was sort of startled to see you last night. I’m sorry if I was rude.”
“No ifs about it.”
“Well, then, I apologize unequivocally. But I still don’t like you.”
I smiled. “But you’d like to have this case.”
“Yes, so I’ll be nice to you.”
“You’ll he nice to me because I’m your superior officer. If you’re not nice, I’ll send you packing.”
“Cut the posturing, Paul. You’re not sending me anywhere, and I’m not going anywhere.” She added, “We’ve got a case to solve, and a personal relationship to straighten out.”
“In that order.”
“Yes, in that order.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
Victory Drive, formerly Pine Hollow Road, had been renamed during World War II in a frenzy of Orwellian name changing. It was once a two-lane country road heading south out of Midland, but by the time I saw it first in 1971, it was becoming a mixture of garden apartments and commercial garishness. Now, almost a quarter century later, there wasn’t even a hint of Pine Hollow Road.
There is something uniquely ugly and depressing about commercial strips in the old South, great expanses of parking lots, motels, fast-food places, discount stores, car dealers, and what passes for nightclubs hereabouts. The old South, as I remember it, was perhaps not so prosperous, but it was picturesque with its tiny gas stations with the Coke cooler next to the fish-bait cooler, the sagging pine houses, the country stores, and the baled cotton bursting from sheds along the railroad sidings. These were the things that grew organically out of the soil, the lumber from the forests, the gravel roads from nearby quarries, and the people themselves a product of their environment. These new things seem artificial, transplanted. Convenience stores and shopping strips with mammoth plastic signs and no relationship to the land or the people, to history, or to local custom.
But, of course, the new South had embraced all of this, not quickly, as we had done up North, but embraced it nonetheless. And in some strange way, the garish commercial strip was now more associated with the South than with anywhere else in the country. The carpetbaggers have finally taken over.
Within fifteen minutes of leaving the post, we arrived at Victory Gardens and parked the Mustang near unit forty-five.
Victory Gardens was actually a pleasant sort of place, comprised of about fifty attached town houses around a central courtyard, with landscaping and ample parking. There were no signs that said, “Officers Only,” but the place had that air about it, and the rents probably approximated the offpost quarters’ allowance for lieutenants and captains. Money aside, there are unwritten rules about where officers may live off post, and thus, Ann Campbell, daughter of a general and good soldier that she was, had not gone to the funky side of town, nor had she opted for the anonymity of a newer high-rise building, which, in this town, is somewhat synonymous with swinging singles. Yet, neither did she live in her parents’ huge, government-issue house on post, which suggested that she had a life of her own, and I was about to discover something about that life.
Cynthia and I looked around. Though the Army workday starts early, there were still a few cars parked in front of the units. Most of them had the blue post bumper stickers signifying an officer’s car, and some had the green bumper sticker of a civilian post employee. But mostly, the place looked as deserted as a barracks after morning mess call.
I was still wearing the battle dress uniform I’d had on in the armory, and Cynthia was, as I said, in jeans and windbreaker. As we approached the front door of unit forty-five along the row of red brick facades, I said to her, “Are you armed?”
She nodded.
“All right. You wait here. I’ll go in through the back. If I flush somebody out the front, you stop them right here.”
“Okay.”
I made my way around the row of units and came to the back. The rear yard was a common stretch of grass, but each unit had a patio separated from the next by a wooden fence for privacy. On Ann Campbell’s patio was the standard barbecue grill and lawn furniture, including a lounge chair on which lay suntan oil and a travel magazine.
There were sliding glass doors facing onto the patio, and I was able to see through the vertical blinds into the dining area and part of the living room. There didn’t appear to be anyone home. Certainly, Ann Campbell was not home, and I couldn’t imagine a general’s daughter having a live-in male lover, or even a female roommate, who would compromise her privacy. On the other hand, you never know who’s inside a house, and when the subject is murder, you proceed with caution.
Where the patio met the back wall of the house was a basement window well, which meant these units had basements, which also meant a tricky descent down an exposed staircase. Maybe I’d send Ms. Gung Ho down there first. In any case, the window well was covered with a Plexiglas bubble that was bolted to the outside wall, so that no one could get out that way.
To the right of the sliding doors was a door that opened into the kitchen. There was a buzzer there, and I pushed it. I waited and rang again, then tried the doorknob, which is a good idea before breaking and entering.
I should have gone straight to the Midland city police, of course, as Colonel Kent suggested, and the police would have been happy to get a search warrant, and happier still to be included in the search of the victim’s house. But I didn’t want to bother them with this, so I found the house key on Ann Campbell’s key chain and unlocked the door. I entered the kitchen, then closed the door behind me and relocked it.
On the far side of the kitchen was a solid-looking door that probably led to the basement. The door had a bolt, which I slid closed, so if someone was down there, he or she was locked in.
Having secured my rear, or perhaps having cut off my line of retreat, I moved unarmed and cautiously went through the house to the front door and opened it, letting Cynthia in. We stood there in the cool, air-conditioned foyer a moment, looked around, and listened. I motioned for Cynthia to draw her pistol, which she did, a .38 Smith &; Wesson. That done, I shouted, “Police! Stay where you are and call out!” But there was no reply. I said to Cynthia, “Stay here and he prepared to use that.”
“Why do you think I’m carrying the fucking thing?”
“Good point.”
A staircase led from the foyer to the second floor, and staircases, as I indicated, are dangerous, especially if they squeak. Cynthia positioned herself at the base of the stairs, and I bounded up three steps at a time and flattened myself against the upstairs hallway wall. There were three doors coming off the upstairs hallway, one open, two closed. I repeated my order to stay put and call out, but again no answer.
Cynthia called up to me, and I looked down the stairs. She was halfway up and pitched the Smith &; Wesson underhand. I caught it and motioned her to stay where she was. I flung open one of the closed doors, dropped into a firing stance, and shouted, “Freeze!” But my aggressiveness did not provoke a response. I peered into the unlit room and saw what appeared to be a spare bedroom, sparsely furnished. I closed the door, then repeated the procedure with the second closed door, which turned out to be a large linen closet. Despite all the acrobatics, I knew that if there was anyone up there with a gun who wanted to use it, I’d be dead by now. But you have to go through the drill. So I spun back against the hallway wall and glanced inside the door that had been open. I could see a large bedroom and another door that led to a bathroom. I motioned Cynthia to come up the stairs and handed her the Smith &; Wesson. “Cover me,” I said, and entered the large master bedroom, keeping an eye on the sliding doors of the closet, and the open bathroom. I picked up a bottle of perfume from the dressing table and threw it in the bathroom, where it shattered. Recon by fire, as we used to say in the infantry, but again I did not provoke a response.
I gave the bedroom and bathroom a quick look, then rejoined Cynthia, who was in a crouched firing stance off to the side door, covering all the doors. I half expected, half wanted someone to be in this house so I could arrest
