“I bet you made a casserole.”
She glared at him.
“Okay. So today you saw a youngish black man of average height, standing maybe a hundred yards away, through the mist and rain.”
The door bumped open and Harlene entered, carrying two mugs and a sugar bowl on a wooden tray that looked as if it had been someone’s shop project in high school. She set it atop the most stable stack of papers on Russ’s desk. “I got one for you, too,” she told Russ. “Don’t get used to it.”
After she closed the door behind her, Russ spooned a generous helping of sugar into one cup and handed it to Clare. The oversized mugs were decorated with fat, parasol-carrying geese. Too cutesy-poo for his wife, he had once told her, so they had donated the set to the department.
Clare took a sip of the sweet and bitter brew from Linda Van Alstyne’s rejected kitchenware. “Yes, okay, I was a long way away and conditions were cloudy-but I have very good eyesight, and it’s not as if Millers Kill is crowded with black men in uniforms.”
“What about the private who’s here with Seelye? Was he with her during the ceremony?”
“No, but-”
“She probably set him at a distance to observe. Maybe follow Wyler McNabb.” He blew on his coffee. “If I were investigating the theft, I’d have him dogged. See if he led me to the money.”
“I know what I saw! It was Quentan Nichols!”
“Clare, it doesn’t matter. Let’s say you did see Nichols. Let’s say he took a leave of absence and drove a thousand miles north to lurk outside his girlfriend’s funeral. He didn’t kill her. Her husband didn’t kill her. She committed suicide. The case is closed.”
“I cannot believe you’d dismiss her death that-that-casually!”
He stepped away from the desk. “I’m not dismissing her death. I’m making a judgment based on physical evidence and solid investigating. You, on the other hand, are pulling crap from thin air because you don’t want to believe the plain facts.”
“The plain facts? You mean, like the fact that she may have a fortune stashed away somewhere? The fact that she must have had accomplices who helped her steal the money? The fact that she was troubled and under investigation-”
“Which led to her suicide!”
Clare stabbed a finger against his khaki-covered chest. “So she knew, one way or the other, that the party was over. Anyone who wanted to keep that money or keep their involvement in the crime a secret had a million reasons to shut her up before she could talk to anyone. I don’t see how you can just blindly ignore that!”
He leaned forward in a way she had seen before, when he was trying to use his size to intimidate people. “The theft of U.S. Army property is outside my jurisdiction.”
“Tally McNabb’s death is in your jurisdiction-and you’re failing her.”
His mouth thinned until it was a hard line. “I’m sorry you can’t accept the death of someone in your therapy group. I’m sorry you didn’t see where she was going ahead of time and stop her. But I’m not going to waste my department’s resources on an imaginary murder because you feel guilty for not helping her.”
His words hit like a sucker punch. When she could find the air, she said, “I see. Clearly, I should keep out of your business. Like Linda did.”
“Goddammit!” He slammed his mug on his desk, sloshing coffee over folders and papers and blotter. “That is
“You think I’m overreacting because-what? She was in Iraq, like me? Because she was in therapy, like me? Because she was screwed up, like me?”
He looked at her. “Yes.” His voice was flat.
“I’m out of here.” She grabbed her purse and hat from the top of one of the filing cabinets.
“Clare-”
“And I want you to think, very carefully, about whether you really want to marry someone like me.” She swung open the door and dropped her voice. “Because God knows, I might snap and decide to kill myself for no good reason.”
BUT I HAVE SQUANDERED THE INHERITANCE OF YOUR SAINTS, AND HAVE WANDERED FAR IN A LAND THAT IS WASTE.
– Reconciliation of a Penitent, The Book of Common Prayer
MONDAY, OCTOBER 10
They were sitting around Will Ellis’s hospital bed, all five of them together. At the end of the sad, short ceremony at the graveside, Sarah had said, “It’s Monday. I expect to see you all tonight.” Trip Stillman had pointed out Will hadn’t been discharged yet. “That’s why the group is meeting in his room,” she had told them.
The three soldiers had changed back into civilian clothes, but Sarah could still conjure the way they had looked, pressed and contained and ramrod straight, as if they were double-exposed in photographs. Sarah wondered, not for the first time, which was the original image and which one had been superimposed.
Fergusson told Will about the people who spoke, and Stillman described the rifle salute. Sarah mentioned how beautiful the flowers were. Everyone tried to keep it upbeat, but there wasn’t really any way to put a good face on the violent death of a twenty-five-year-old woman. Will grew pale and paler as they spoke, as if the light inside him were being turned down by degrees and would soon be extinguished. “I can’t believe it,” he finally said. “I can’t believe she really did it.”
It struck Sarah that the only difference between Will and Tally was lack of access to a gun and seven days of stomach purges and antidepressants. Coming close but no closer seemed to have stripped death of its glamour in Will’s eyes.
Fergusson shook her head. “I don’t believe she did.” Sarah was sure she had been drinking. She was in control-no slurring or listing-but her color was high and her expression unguarded.
“Forget it.” McCrea lifted his head and spoke for the first time. Something was clearly bothering him beyond Tally’s suicide. “I thought she was killed, too, but we’re wrong. Her husband turned out to have an airtight alibi before, during, and after the time of death.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. And her boyfriend from Iraq couldn’t have done it because he was on duty at Fort Gillem. I’m not saying she was killed in some sort of lovers’ quarrel. I think she was killed for money. A whole lot of money.”
“Excuse me?” Sarah said.
“You saw the other officer at the funeral?”
“Yes. I thought she was from Tally’s company.”
“She was. Sort of. She’s with CID, assigned to FINCOM. She’s investigating the theft of a million dollars from the army’s coffers.”
Stillman leaned forward. “She thinks Tally was involved?”
“She thinks Tally’s responsible.”
“What?” Will said.
“That’s ridiculous,” Stillman said.
McCrea rubbed a finger over his mouth and made a humming noise.
Sarah’s first impulse was to view Clare’s statements as a symptom of denial or anger. A projection, thrown up because the bald truth of McNabb’s suicide was too painful. On the other hand, she
