beneath the mound of coats and dresses tossed on the bed, he wasn’t here.
Russ pointed toward the other room. He turned, and Clare turned with him, and then she caught his arm and looked at the bed again. The pillows were missing, and the clothes all had hangers in them, as if they’d been lifted bodily off the rack. Maybe Mrs. Walters had started sorting Tally’s things already.
Clare looked at the closet door. Maybe someone else needed the space.
Russ nodded. Gestured for her to get against the wall next to the closet. He opened the door, stepping out of the line of fire as he did so.
Quentan Nichols was sitting cross-legged on the floor. He slowly lowered the book he was holding and butted it against the.45 lying in front of him. He gave the book a shove, and the gun slid across the floor. Russ bent down and picked it up.
“Inside the damn closet was the only place I could turn a light on and be sure it wouldn’t be seen.” Nichols was scrambling up a huge skillet of eggs. He had announced that if his hideout was busted, he might as well enjoy a hot meal before they carted him off. “I can live without the Internet, and I don’t mind missing a few games on TV, but damn, if a man can’t read…” Clare glanced at the book, now resting on the mauve-and-gray-speckled counter.
Nichols shoveled the scrambled eggs onto three plates and laid them out on the table. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bag of grated cheese and a bottle of hot sauce.
“I notice McNabb left in such a hurry he still had a full carton of eggs,” Russ said.
“And a gallon of milk.” Nichols smiled ruefully as he sat down. “Dig in.” He paused for a second, his hand over his fork. “Unless you want to say a blessing, Reverend.”
“Do you want me to?”
“Not particularly. My grandparents raised me up strict Baptist, but I’ve slid some since then.” He shoveled a bite in. Clare did, too, suddenly ravenously hungry. Nothing like a hunt through a darkened house for an armed man to stimulate the appetite.
“Along with the groceries, McNabb left behind his calendar.” Nichols reached for the hot sauce. “Seems he had a man-date to some truck show and a dental appointment next week.”
“The head of the company told me the overseas construction unit did a six-months-on, six-months-off shift, and it was McNabb’s time to go.”
Nichols shook his head. “Bullshit. Excuse me, Reverend.” She glanced toward Russ and found him looking at her, amused. “I mean, yeah, maybe that’s the drill, but no way he’d been planning to go this past Wednesday. My guess is, he offered to swap with whoever really was scheduled to join the crew in Iraq.”
Russ nodded. “I think Seelye scared him and he ran.”
“You don’t think they’re in it together?”
“No. She came with me to the hospital when I interviewed him. I’d lay money he’d never seen her before. He didn’t recognize her name, either. When she asked him about the missing money, he lawyered up and wouldn’t say another word to either of us.”
“Coulda been an act.”
“Yeah, it could have-but then why bug out for Iraq?”
“Maybe he was personally afraid of the colonel,” Clare said. “Maybe she threatened him. Maybe she told him she killed Tally and she’d do him, too, if he didn’t cough up the money.”
Russ propped his arms on the table. Its uneven legs clunked toward his side. “Tally McNabb’s death was a suicide. There’s no doubt about that.”
“Yes, there is!” Clare put her fork down and glared at Russ.
“Only in your imagination.”
Nichols paused, his loaded fork halfway to his mouth. He looked at her, then Russ, then back to her. “What… are you guys…? You’re a minister, right?”
“Episcopalians use the term ‘priest.’” Clare nodded. “But, yes, I am.”
“Police chaplain?”
Russ snorted. “Only unofficially.” He crumpled his paper napkin. “For our purposes, it doesn’t matter why McNabb ran. He’s obviously in it up to his neck. The thing to figure out is-”
Clare pointed her fork at him. “Why did John Opperman tell us he’d been assigned to leave?”
“Who’s John Opperman?” Nichols asked.
“Opperman saw a chance to dick me over at no cost to himself and he took it,” Russ said.
Clare turned to Nichols. “The CEO of BWI Opperman, where Tally worked. They run the resort, which you’ve seen, and the construction company where McNabb works.”
Russ made a noise. “As I was saying-”
A sharp rap on the door interrupted him. “Millers Kill police,” a voice called. “Please open the door and identify yourself.”
Russ raised his eyebrows. He held his hands up, indicating Clare and Nichols should stay put. He rose and crossed the kitchen.
“I’m opening the door. I’m unarmed.” Which wasn’t strictly true. There were two 9 mm automatics on the counter next to the sink. Russ swung the door open to reveal Kevin Flynn.
“Chief?” His gaze swept the kitchen. “Reverend? Wait a minute, isn’t that-”
“Quentan Nichols, yeah. Come on in, Kevin.”
“Um…” Kevin stepped past Russ, his eyes still on Nichols. “We got a report from the old lady next door that the place was lit up like Christmas. I figured maybe Mrs. Walters was here going through her daughter’s things…” His voice faded as he took in the three plates and the remains of a scrambled egg dinner. “What’s going on, Chief?”
“Quentan Nichols, this is Officer Kevin Flynn.” Kevin nodded warily toward Nichols, who still sat, seemingly relaxed. Clare suspected she was the only one who could see the pale crescents beneath his fingernails from pressing hard into the table.
“So… I guess he’s no longer on our BOLO list?” Kevin’s voice had a pinch-me quality.
Russ crossed his arms and looked at Nichols. “I think Mr. Nichols is willing to cooperate with us.”
Nichols nodded slowly. “I get the credit if we find the money. From the army, I mean.”
“Still hoping to avoid a court-martial?”
Nichols dropped his gaze, but his voice was steady. “I got twelve years invested. Eight more to go. I’m not gonna flush it all down the toilet because of one stupid mistake. Not if I can fix it.”
It was the weirdest case briefing Kevin had ever been to. Him and the chief, in his civvies, sitting around the table in a dead woman’s home with Reverend Clare and the guy they’d all been looking for as a POI.
“Report in your break,” the chief said. “Keep your radio on in case you get a squawk.”
Nichols got up and made coffee while Kevin signed out with dispatch. The chief let the guy have his run of the kitchen, so Kevin guessed that was all right. When they had all taken a seat, he ventured a question.
“Uh, Chief? What exactly are we doing here?”
The chief took a deep whiff of his coffee, a gesture so familiar Kevin could see an image of him, uniformed, sitting on the squad room table, superimposed over this flannel-shirted man in a pine-paneled kitchen.
“We’re going to find the money Tally McNabb stole. Then we’re going to use it to prove Colonel Arlene Seelye is dirty.”
Nichols paused from getting the milk out of the fridge. “How the hell will finding the money get you to Seelye?”
“We’ll let her think
