“Don’t hold your breath, son.”
He hung up, and I stood, wrapping the towel around me. Cynthia asked, “Burt Yardley?”
“Sure ’nuf.”
“What did he want?”
“My ass, mostly. The SOB cleaned out my trailer.” I laughed. “I like this guy. Too many wimps around these days. This guy is a genuine, hard-ass old prick.”
“That’ll be you next year.”
“I hope so.” I looked at my watch on the nightstand. “It’s ten after six. Do we have time?”
She stood. “I have to dry my hair, get dressed, do my face—”
“All right. Rain check?”
“Sure.” She walked to the bathroom door, then turned and asked me, “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Yes. Colonel Fowler at seven, then Moore about eight—”
“I forgot, you don’t like that expression. Are you romantically involved with anyone?”
“No, I’m kind of between meaningful relationships at the moment. Truth is, no one since you.”
“Good. Keeps it simple.”
“Right. Except for Major what’s-his-name. Your husband?”
“I’m very clear about that now.”
“That’s encouraging. We don’t want a repeat of Brussels, do we?”
She laughed. “Sorry. Why do I find that funny?”
“Because you weren’t looking down the muzzle of the gun.”
“No, but you didn’t have to listen to him for the next year. But, okay, Paul, I owe you for that. I’ll pay off tonight, then we’ll see where it goes.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“Me, too.” She hesitated, then said, “You’re too obsessed with… this case. You need a release.”
“You’re a sensitive and nurturing partner.”
She disappeared into the bathroom, and I found yesterday’s shorts and yesterday’s socks. I got dressed, thinking, as I went through the motions, that life is a series of complications, some small, like where to get clean underwear, some a little bigger, like the one who just left the room. How you handle life depends a lot on how you handle plan B, or if you have a plan B.
Anyway, as I checked to see if my Glock had a firing pin and ammunition, I considered that the time had come for me to settle down a bit, and that what I didn’t need anymore was a little light sport-fucking now and then.
Right. Whatever happened tonight with Cynthia would be the real thing. Something good had to come out of this mess.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Bethany Hill is Fort Hadley’s Shaker Heights, though considerably smaller and not as well manicured. There are about thirty solid brick colonial-style homes set in an area of some sixty acres of oaks, beech, maple, and other high-ranking trees, while the lowly southern pine is specifically absent. All of the houses go back to the 1920s and ’30s, when officers were gentlemen, were expected to live on post, and there weren’t so many of them
Times change, and the officer population has swelled beyond the Army’s needs and its ability to give each one a house, a horse, and a manservant. But the top dogs on post still get the houses on the hill if they want them, and Colonel Fowler probably felt that living on post was good politics. Mrs. Fowler may have also preferred Fort Hadley. Not that Midland is a bastion of Old South attitudes toward blacks; it is not, having been influenced by decades of close proximity to the fort. But Bethany Hill, sometimes called the colonels’ ghetto, was probably more comfortable in social terms than a similar neighborhood in town.
Bethany Hill’s only disadvantage was its proximity to the rifle ranges, range number one being about five miles south of the hill. I could imagine that during a night firing exercise, with the wind from the south, you could hear the gunfire. But for some of the old infantry types, it was probably as soothing as a lullaby.
Cynthia was wearing a green silk blouse and a tan skirt, and, presumably, clean undergarments. I said to her, “You look very nice this morning.”
“Thank you. How long do I have to see that blue suit?”
“Think of it as the duty uniform of the week.” I added, “Your makeup didn’t cover the dark circles under your eyes, which are also bloodshot and puffy.”
“I’ll look fine with a good night’s sleep. You need a more recent birthday.”
“Are you a little grumpy this morning?”
“Yes. Sorry.” She put her hand on my knee. “These aren’t the best circumstances for us to renew our friendship.”
“No. But we got real close there.”
We found the house, a good-sized brick structure with standard green door, green trim, and green shutters. A Ford station wagon and Jeep Cherokee were parked in the driveway. American-made vehicles are not de rigueur for high-ranking officers, but it’s not a bad idea, either.
We parked on the street, got out of Cynthia’s Mustang, and proceeded up the front walk. It was still cool on the hill at 0700 hours, but the hot sun was slanting in at a low angle under the trees, and it felt like another one of those days in the making.
I said to Cynthia, “Colonels with enough time in grade and time in service to be a general, such as Colonels Fowler and Kent, are extremely sensitive to career-limiting problems.”
Cynthia replied, “Every problem is an opportunity.”
I said, “Sometimes every problem is a problem. Kent, for instance, is finished.” It was exactly 0700 hours and I knocked on the green door.
An attractive black woman, wearing a nice aqua summer dress, opened the door and forced a smile. Before I could announce ourselves, which is customary, she said, “Oh… Ms. Sunhill and Mr. Brenner. Correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I was willing to forgive her for recognizing the younger and obviously lower-ranking warrant officer first. Civilians, even colonels’ wives, sometimes got it wrong, and to be honest, rank among warrant officers is like virginity among prostitutes: there ain’t none.
We stood there awkwardly a moment, then she showed us in and escorted us down the center hall.
Cynthia said to her, “This is a beautiful home.”
She replied, “Thank you.”
Cynthia asked her, “Did you know Captain Campbell well?”
“Oh… no… not well.”
Which was a rather odd reply. I mean, how could General Campbell’s adjutant’s wife not know General Campbell’s daughter? Clearly, Mrs. Fowler was distracted, forgetting all sorts of little social courtesies that should be second nature to a colonel’s wife. I asked her, “Have you seen Mrs. Campbell since the tragedy?”
“Mrs. Campbell? No… I’ve been… too upset…”
Not as upset as the victim’s mother, however, and that was a sympathy call that should have been made by now.
I was about to ask another question, but we reached our destination, a screened porch in the rear of the house where Colonel Fowler was speaking on the telephone. He was already dressed in his green A uniform, his shirt buttoned and his tie snug, though his jacket was draped over a chair. He motioned us into two wicker chairs opposite him at a small table, and we sat.
The military is perhaps the last American bastion of fixed and clearly defined social customs, rank, responsibilities, and required courtesies, and in case you needed guidance, there’s an entire six-hundred-page book for officers, explaining what your life is and should be about. So when things seem a little askew, you start wondering.
Mrs. Fowler excused herself and disappeared. Colonel Fowler was listening on the phone, then said, “I
