The General's Daughter

was able to post your prints on his chart.”

“Thank you. Am I a suspect?”

“Not yet. But Cal did need to disqualify your prints.”

“Did you polish my boots?”

She ignored this and said, “Cal’s got a computer program from Fort Gillem, and he’s programming the computer in the hangar to show the footsteps of each identified and unidentified person. I gave Cal a complete briefing on what we think happened that night.” She stood and went to the window. “Rain stopped. Sun’s out. Good for the crops. Good for the funeral.”

I noticed a sheet of paper on the bed and picked it up. It was the computer printout of Ann Campbell’s letter to Mrs. Kent. It began: “My dear Mrs. Kent, I’m writing you regarding a situation that has developed between your husband and me.” The letter ended: While I respect your husband professionally, I have no personal interest in him. I would suggest that he seek counseling, alone or with you, and that perhaps he should seek a transfer, or ask for a leave of absence. My concern is for his career, his reputation, my reputation, and the avoidance of any appearance of impropriety within my father’s command. Yours very truly, Ann Campbell. I said aloud, “Impropriety within my father’s command.” I almost laughed, and Cynthia turned around and commented, “She had balls. I’ll give her that.”

I threw the letter on the nightstand. “I’m sure Kent saw the original of this, and it freaked him out. Anyway, did Cal hear from the footprint guy in Oakland?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, I’m going to rise and shine, and I’m naked.”

Cynthia threw me my robe and turned back to the window. I got out of bed and into the robe and went into the bathroom. I washed my face and lathered up.

The phone rang in my room, and Cynthia took it. I couldn’t hear much over the running water, but a minute later, Cynthia stuck her head in the door while I was shaving and said, “That was Karl.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to know if he’d rung the wrong room.”

“Oh…”

“He’s in Atlanta. He’ll be here by 1000 hours.”

“Call him back and tell him we’re having tornados.”

“He’s on his way.”

“Great.” I finished shaving and began brushing my teeth. Cynthia went back to my room. As I turned on the shower, I heard the phone ringing in her room. I didn’t think she could hear it, so I looked into my room, but she was on my phone. So, thinking it was official and important, I went into her room and picked it up. “Hello?”

A male voice inquired, “Who’s this?”

I replied, “Who are you?”

“This is Major Sholte. What are you doing in my wife’s room?”

Good question. I could have said the clerk rang the wrong room, I could have said a lot of things, but I said, “Basically, I’m doing what I did in Brussels.”

“What? Who the hell… Brenner? Is this Brenner?”

“At your service, Major.”

“You bastard. You’re dead meat. You know that, Brenner? You’re dead meat.”

“You had your chance in Brussels. You only get one chance.”

“You son-of-a-bitch—”

“Ms. Sunhill is not here. May I take a message?”

“Where is she?”

“In the shower.”

“You bastard.”

Why was this guy getting so bent up if they were getting a divorce and he had a girlfriend? Well, men are funny, and they still feel proprietary toward their wives, even when they’re finalizing a divorce. Right? No, something was not right, and I had the distinct feeling I’d made a big boo-boo.

Major Sholte said to me, “Your ass is grass, Brenner, and I’m the fucking Grim Reaper.”

Interesting metaphor. I asked him, “Are you and Cynthia in the process of a divorce?”

“Divorce? Who the fuck told you that? You put that bitch on the phone.”

“Trial separation?”

“Put her on the goddamned phone. Now!”

“Hold on.” I laid the phone on the bed and thought about things. Life really sucks sometimes, then it gets better and you get optimistic again, and your heart lightens up a little and you get a little spring back in your step, then somebody pulls the rug out and you’re on your ass once more. I picked up the phone and said, “I’ll have her call you back.”

“You fucking well better, you rat-fucking, mother-fucking—”

I hung up and went back into the common bathroom. I slipped off my robe and got into the shower.

Cynthia stood in the doorway and called out over the water, “I phoned the Psy-Ops School and confirmed that Colonel Moore spent the night there. I left a message for him to meet us at the provost office in an hour. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I laid out your uniform. We should wear our uniforms to the service.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m going to change into uniform.”

“Okay.”

I could see her through the glass, walking across the bathroom into her own room. Her door closed, and I shut off the shower and got out.

By 0800 hours, we were dressed in the A uniform, and we were in my Chevy Blazer, pulling up to the provost building. Cynthia asked, “Is something bothering you?”

“No.”

I had another cup of coffee in our office and went through phone messages and memos. Colonel Moore showed up looking a bit ragged, but dressed in his A uniform for the funeral. He had acquired a pair of dress shoes somewhere. Cynthia offered him a seat. Without preliminaries, I said to him, “Colonel, we have reason to suspect that Colonel Kent murdered Ann Campbell.”

He seemed surprised, almost stunned, and didn’t reply.

I asked him, “Does it fit?”

He thought about that for a long moment, then replied, “He was becoming a problem, but…”

“What did Ann say to you about him?”

“Well… that he was calling her at all hours, that he wrote her letters, dropped in on her unexpectedly at home and in the office.”

And so on. I asked him, “On the night she was murdered, when you called her at Post Headquarters, did she say he’d been around to see her or that he’d called her?”

He thought a moment, then answered, “As a matter of fact, she did tell me that she wouldn’t be using her BMW that night, which was the original plan. She told me to look for a humvee instead. She said that Bill Kent was annoying her again and that she’d be less conspicuous in a humvee, and that she wanted him to see her car in the headquarters lot all night. This presented a problem because her car had a wired-in phone, and I had a portable phone, and we intended to stay in touch as she drove out to the range. But it wasn’t a major problem, and she drove out with the humvee and we rendezvoused on schedule.”

Cynthia asked him, “Did she mention Kent when you met?”

“No…”

“Did she mention that she’d been followed?”

“No… Well, she said she saw one vehicle behind her, but it turned off toward Jordan Field.” He added, “She felt that everything was all right, and I placed the call to her father on my portable phone.”

Cynthia said, “Then you went out on the rifle range?”

“Yes.”