A Deeper Darkness (19 page)

Fletcher eyed the man. That was an awful lot of detail. “And you just happened to notice this why?”

Frank Wright blushed. “Well…Maggie’s a hot piece of ass. You know how it is.”

“So you’re stalking her?”

“No.” Wright had the audacity to look upset. “Not at all. I just like watching her. She’s pretty, that’s all. I was out on my porch watching the brouhaha and noticed her leaving. She’s a friend. Don’t make it sound so dirty.”

“You didn’t talk to her, did you? Ask her where she was headed?”

“No.”

Fletcher just shook his head. “Thank you for your help, sir.”

“You aren’t going to mention this to my wife, are you?”

Fletcher tossed a glance over his shoulder at the man and didn’t answer. Let him sweat.

He flipped open his phone and called Hart.

“We’re going to need a warrant for 67435 N Street. Computers included. And everything we can find out about Maggie Lyons.”

Hart was quiet for a moment. “The chick from the Croswell scene?”

“Lonnie, you’ve got a memory like a steel vault. The very one. I stopped by to see if some more people were at home, had a nice chat with her very drunk ex-husband. She served in Afghanistan. House is empty, but no signs of a struggle. That’s too close for comfort. She’s moved pretty high up my suspect list now. I’m going to go talk to some more of the neighbors, see what I can get about her. Hurry, okay?”

He hung up and realized he was smiling. Two hours ago, he had no leads. Now he had two, and maybe three. Sometimes, he really did like being a cop.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Arlington National Cemetery
Dr. Samantha Owens

White marble gravestones marched in perfect unison for thousands of yards across the undulating green hills of Arlington. Sam had never been inside the gates before. She’d seen it, no one could drive by without seeing it, but being there was more than overwhelming. All these men and women, dead in the service of their country. All of them dead and lost, and so often, their sacrifices simply forgotten. It boggled the mind, especially when she thought about the fact that this was simply a fraction of all the deaths. She wondered what they would do when they ran out of land, and then quickly prayed that day would never come.

The noises that accompany a military funeral are different than those of civilians. Clicking, tapping, the unified march of soldiers’ feet as they escort the horse-drawn limber and caisson that carries the flag-draped coffin. The snap of the ceremonial flag as it’s raised from its last spread and precisely folded into a crisp triangle. The three-volley shots fired in the ultimate last salute, cracking through the still air. The haunting, solitary loneliness of the bugler in his red cap, the song of the night, of the dead, “Taps,” mournfully flowing from his pursed lips. The sobbing, accompanied by soft, inadequate words of comfort. Through all of that, the meticulousness and timing were flawless. As if emotions could be contained by perfection, tradition and stoic discipline.

Seeing the world Donovan had left her for—the pageantry, the unassailable honor—for the first time was eye-opening, and did help assuage her grief, in a way. It was nice to see them show him such respect. To see the throngs of people out to honor their fallen comrade. To get a glimpse of the ceremony with which he served. The vast majority of the men in uniform around her had the distinctive yellow-and-black Ranger tab on their left shoulder. A line from Shakespeare floated in her head: “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers…”

Brothers in arms.

She knew Eddie’s life in the military had been hard. She knew how much pain and suffering went into his preparation, and how even the difficulties of the elite training for Ranger school couldn’t have possibly prepared him for the realities of war. That was something you had to experience to fully grasp. Words on the page couldn’t do it justice. PowerPoints and lectures from combat veterans couldn’t do it justice. Training that left you sweating, delirious and starving in a Florida jungle or atop a north Georgia mountain couldn’t do it justice. Only truly being in the fight—seeing blood spill from a wound, feeling the dead weight of an unconscious man on your back, watching a leg or arm be blown off, or watching a Bradley fighting vehicle catch on fire after being hit with an RPG, its occupants stuck inside, feeling hot bullets whizzing by your head turning your guts to water, screams of pain and fear—that, that could give war its due. As could putting those soldiers in the ground.

And as a leader who also had medical training, Donovan was faced with the worst of the worst. He had to charge forward and pass by the dying and wounded on both sides as the battle raged around him, focus on keeping his men alive and accomplishing the mission. Sam imagined that’s why he sometimes disobeyed protocol and worked on his own people; being a doctor, even one who dropped out of school, the desire to help was ingrained into your being.

The reality of war was this: men and women laid down their lives. Willingly. Knowing that each day might be their last. It was a kind of courage that was unfathomable to most people. And it never seemed to end. Sadly, Donovan’s interment was one of twenty-seven scheduled for the day, on the low end of average for Arlington. And they were just one military cemetery.

Some asked what was the point? There is no real reason for our soldiers to die in foreign lands.

Sam was no apologist. She’d tell them straight out that the sacrifices made allowed us the freedom to demand those answers. That liberty wasn’t universal, and that all free men and women deserved the same power to question as we do. She believed in what Donovan did. Believed it in her soul. Maybe that’s why she never fought for him, never tried to get him to stay. He was a good and honorable man who would make sure to defend his country with all of his being, even if it meant laying down his life to do so. She didn’t fight the breakup because she respected his cause too deeply.

The honor guard who acted as the pallbearers committed themselves well. Sam couldn’t imagine how taxing it must be for those young men, knew they competed long and hard to become the deads’ witness. Even the horses had a certain dignity, as if they knew how vital they were to the process. The Donovans’ priest stood to the side as people Sam didn’t recognize spoke words of glory and humility, all of them bathed in a white glow from the sun’s reflection. Sam couldn’t get “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” out of her head; stood there silently singing “Glory, Glory, Hallelujah” over and over and over instead of washing her hands.

The red roses on the wreath by the coffin were like drops of blood against the white marble and green grass backdrop.

Sam had stepped back from Eddie’s family when they arrived at the grave site, was out of eyeshot, watching. Trying to cope with the tearing grief that coursed through her veins as the ceremony proceeded. She wiped tears from her eyes and pushed her sunglasses higher on her nose. She wanted to be anywhere but here. She thought Susan was handling herself beautifully. She had Vicky in her lap, was holding Ally’s hand. Her head was high, the pride in her husband and his accomplishments visible. She was strong. Sam envied her that strength.

Fletcher and his younger partner, Lonnie Hart, were on the opposite side of the grave from her. She watched them standing straight, their shoulders back, their sunglasses on, as well, knowing they were like hawks soaring over the trees, waiting for a vole to show its naked nose to the sky so they could swoop down and grab their tasty meal.

She’d disassociated herself from the situation. She had to. She had cheated. She took a full Ativan before they left, knowing she couldn’t make it through the day without chemical support. She didn’t think anyone would hold it against her.

Things were wrapping up, it seemed. Susan had been presented with Donovan’s medals. She clutched the flag and the letter from the Army’s chief of staff and stared blankly at Donovan’s elegant, now-bare coffin. Eleanor was pale and breathing hard, trying to keep herself in check. Without their mother to hold them, the girls were lost and uncomprehending. Ally cried when the guns went off.

And then it was truly over. Susan touched her hand to the coffin, encouraged the girls to do the same with a whisper, then turned and walked away, her back straight, her shoulders square. The daughter, and the wife, of a soldier.

She knew what was going through Susan’s mind. She’d done the same thing with Simon, after the memorial service. Sam bit her lip and tried not to embarrass them all by crying out.

She walked twenty paces away, stopped by a huge old maple tree, and gathered herself.

“That was beautiful.” A soft voice to Sam’s right pulled her back. A tall man with dark hair and soulful eyes was standing next to her.

“Yes, it was,” she said, voice still shaky.

“You a friend of the deceased? Or a friend of his wife?”

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

He slipped a card into her hand. “My name is Gino Taranto. I’m with the
Daily News
.”

“And why is the media here?” Sam asked.

“Paying respects. You ever hear of friendly fire?”

“Of course.”

“You ever hear of Major Donovan involved in a friendly fire incident?”

“No. Why?”

“You might want to clue in the cops over there to take a look at the records from Jal¯al¯ab¯ad, 2007. Might help them figure out who killed Major Donovan.”

Sam turned to the man. He had a beard, and long shaggy hair. The exact opposite of all the buttoned-down soldiers showing their respect to Donovan by being perfectly squared away. His juxtaposition was almost violent, and Sam felt anger bubble inside her.
You could have at least dressed and combed your hair to show your respect. Jerk. Probably one of those assholes who protest at soldiers’ funerals
. She turned a cold shoulder, let her words cut.

“You should tell them yourself. If you have information about the murders—”

“And get fired? My bosses would shoot me on the spot for giving information to a cop. That’s not my job.”

“Then why tell me? Why not write about it?”

He put his finger to his lips dramatically in a hush sign. “Let’s just say someone gagged me. And I know you’ve been working with them. You’ll tell them to look deeper, and keep me out of it.”

“I won’t do any such thing.” But he was already moving away from her, getting lost in the throngs of people moving back toward the road. She watched him go, confused. Why come to her? Why not go directly to the family? What the hell kind of journalist was Gino Taranto, anyway?

She realized that she was one of the few people left near the grave, and her heart sank. This was the part she couldn’t handle. Walking away. Leaving them behind, alone. But there was no choice. This was what had to happen. She pushed the slovenly reporter from her mind and turned to Donovan’s casket.

She whispered a prayer, a poor substitute for saying goodbye, and turned away, the cracks in her heart opening wide. Everyone she had loved, had given her heart to, gone.

To distract herself, she glanced down at the card the reporter had put into her hand. It wasn’t a normal business card. It had
Gino Taranto—Daily News
handwritten on the front. No address. No phone number. No way of contacting him directly. Weird. She flipped it over and saw more writing on the back. Numbers, to be specific.

39-40'58" N 079-12'25" W

What in the world?

“Who was that you were talking to?”

She’d been so absorbed in what she was doing that she hadn’t noticed Hart walk up beside her. She saw Fletcher over his shoulder on the phone.

She carefully put the card into her purse. For some reason, the first thought she had was not to tell Hart everything. And that was insane. She knew better.

“Some reporter. Said his name was Taranto from the
Daily News
. He said something about Donovan being involved in a friendly fire incident while he was in Afghanistan.”

Hart knitted his brows. “We haven’t heard anything like that. Fletch! Heya, Fletch!”

Fletcher held up a finger, the universal gesture for just a minute. He finished his call, then walked over.

“No one seems to have seen Whitfield. Damn, I really thought he’d be here.”

“Some reporter talked to the Doc over here, said Donovan was involved in a friendly fire incident. Taranto, from the
Daily
. You know him?”

“Yeah. You know him, too, we talked to him about that jumper last month. Remember? Writes that column on DOD every week. He’s not a friend of the military.”

“Wait a minute,” Hart said. “What did he say to you, Doc?”

“Nothing, really. Small talk.”

“Do you see him anywhere?”

Sam looked around. There were still people milling about, but no one who remotely resembled the man she’d talked to. She shook her head. “No. He dropped the bombshell and walked away before I had a chance to ask more. Why?”

Hart looked at Fletcher. “Dude that was talking to her wasn’t short and bald like Taranto. He was six-one, built, with a full head of hair and a beard.”

“Fuck me!” Fletcher threw his phone down, drawing the disapproving stare of a uniform-clad passerby.

Hart got on his walkie, taking off at a jog toward the visitor’s center. She could hear him yelling into the mouthpiece: “He’s here, he’s here.”

Sam realized what they were talking about at last. She blamed the Ativan for making her dopey. She hadn’t been talking to some beatnik reporter or war protestor.

She’d just had close and personal contact with their number-one suspect.