“Did you ask how many men boarded the Huey?”
“The manifest listed five. Four crew members and Spider Lowery.”
“But did you ask him how many boarded?”
“No.”
“Call him back. Ask him.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“What’s going on—”
“Just do it. Let me know what he says.”
I got up. Paced. Gnawed flesh from my thumb.
Ryan and Lo looked at me like I’d gone over the edge.
On the monitor, Schoon was asking Face Mask to describe Xander Lapasa. The weapon.
Finally the phone rang.
“Kramer saw six men board—four crew, a recently released prisoner, and a civilian.” Danny sounded embarrassed. “He said no one ever asked him that question. All they wanted to know was how the chopper went down.”
“And he never mentioned it because he figured they had a manifest.”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks, Danny. I’ll explain later.”
I refocused on the man on the screen.
“How far did you and Mr. Lapasa travel from the scene of the crash?”
Face Mask shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe a quarter mile.”
“On foot.”
“No. We called a fucking cab.”
“And you shot him.”
“How many times I gotta keep saying it?”
The dark pupils. The Al Pacino brows.
Of course.
That was the message my id was pinging.
“Then what?”
“I put one of my tags on his body and split.”
“What was your reason for being in Long Binh at that time?”
“I was getting out of jail.”
“It’s Spider,” I whispered.
“What?” Ryan asked.
“Who?” Lo asked.
“John Lowery. People called him Spider.”
“Who?” Lo repeated.
“Ssshh.” I hushed them both, wanting to hear the rest of Spider’s account.
“—you go after shooting Mr. Lapasa?”
“Saigon for a few years. Then Thailand. Bangkok. Chiang Mai. Chumphon. Back to Bangkok. Stayed there until eighty-six.”
“Then?”
“Got homesick.”
“You returned to the United States?”
Spider nodded.
“Using an eighteen-year-old passport.” Schoon sounded dubious.
“I got a new one.”
“How was that possible?”
“This dipshit crawl out from under some rock?” Spider asked Epstein, voice oozing scorn.
