“Chief Westwood. As long as we’re doing the whole title thing. I’m the chief of police, actually. Of the town where Captain Cooke was murdered.”
“Are there any other questions, Chief Westwood?”
“What was Hutchinson Cooke doing in East End Harbor when his plane crashed? Why was he there?”
“He was on official leave. He had a few days off. I can’t tell you what he did during his private time.”
“Was it his plane?”
“Again, private information. I don’t have any idea whether or not he had his own plane.”
“Not curious?”
“The man’s dead. It doesn’t strike me as relevant whether he was flying his own plane or borrowing someone else’s. The man was a pilot. He preferred being in the air to walking on the ground. As most of us do.”
“Any idea where he was coming from? Or flying to?”
“No.”
“Is there anyone who might, Colonel?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Justin made no attempt to hide his exasperation. “What was he, a hermit? Eight years on this base and he didn’t have any friends he might have talked to?”
“I’ve asked anyone here I thought might be helpful, in anticipation of your arrival. No one had answers to any of the questions you’ve asked.”
“So you already anticipated all my questions?”
“It doesn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes to come up with this list.”
“Would you mind if I asked them myself? To the people who didn’t have any answers when you asked?”
“Yes, I would mind. I’m afraid that won’t be allowed.” Colonel Zanesworth stood. A not very subtle sign that the interview was over. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Justin nodded slowly. “Here’s one question I can’t quite figure out the answer to,” he said. “And you probably didn’t anticipate this one because it wasn’t on my list.” The colonel’s expression didn’t change. There was only the slightest flicker in his eyes to reveal his anger. He was better at covering up anger than he was at lying. “One of your men died in a plane crash. An expert pilot, so I was told. And someone who worked for you. . well, that’s not the right term, but you know what I mean. . for eight years. Suddenly, someone comes into your office and tells you this officer didn’t die accidentally, that he might have been murdered. . ”
“So far I haven’t heard a question in all of this.”
“The question is, Colonel: 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,
“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
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,
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
