Choke (24 page)

People turned and looked at him as if they’d been expecting him to arrive. He tried not to appear to be looking for anybody; instead, he ambled up to the bar and ordered a beer. When the bartender had poured it, he allowed himself to lean on the bar and take a good look around for Merk. Suddenly it came to him that he was in a gay bar, and that Merk was not present. At the other end of the bar, he spotted another door to the side street. Cursing under his breath, he left and headed toward the door.

“Don’t rush off,” a man at the bar said as he passed.

Rushing was all Daryl felt like doing. He pushed open the door and emerged into the side street, looking both ways. Merk was nowhere in sight. Had he noticed Daryl following him and deliberately lost him, or had he just taken a shortcut?

Daryl ran back to the corner and back down Duval Street to his car. He got it started and turned right at the next intersection, heading for Dey Street. The bar had been only a block and a half from Clare Carras’s house.

He cruised slowly down Dey Street, waiting for her house to come into view. Just as it did, the living room lights upstairs went off. A moment later there was a glow from behind the fence from approximately where Clare’s bedroom was located. Daryl drove around the corner into Elizabeth Street, parked, and called Tommy on his portable phone.

“Hello?”

“Tommy, it’s Daryl. Merk stayed home for better than three hours, then suddenly left the house by the back door and walked over to Duval Street.”

“Did you follow him?”

“Yeah, to a bar that turned out to be full of extremely graceful young men, but he wasn’t there. There was a back door, and by the time I figured it out, he had disappeared.”

“How far was the place from the Carras house?”

“A little more than a block. I drove around there just in time to see the living room lights go off and what looked like her bedroom light go on.”

“Bingo!” Tommy said. “I think we’ve found our man.”

“I’m around the corner from the house now; are you going to relieve me?”

“I think we’ll let it go for tonight,” Tommy said. “No telling what time he’ll come out of there, and it would take more than the two of us to watch all four sides of the house. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow morning, okay? We’ll do some checking on Merk.”

“See you tomorrow,” Daryl said. He started the car and headed for home.

Tommy arrived at the station the following morning to find Daryl there ahead of him, working at a computer terminal.

“Hi,” the younger man said. “I’m logged on to the state crime computer right now; it’s doing a search on Merk.”

“You’re sure he left the bar before you did last night?”

“I’m sure; the place wasn’t all that crowded, and I looked at every face.”

“Okay.”

“Oops, looks like we came up empty,” Daryl said.

“No record,” the computer screen read.

“Try the FBI computer,” Tommy said. “I’m going to get some coffee.”

“Right. Bring me some, will you?”

Tommy walked into the little kitchenette and poured two cups of coffee, black for himself, milk and two sugars for Daryl. One day the kid would learn about coffee, Tommy thought, about how much better it was without all that stuff in it. He returned to the squad room and looked over Daryl’s shoulder.

“Bingo,” Daryl said, hitting the keystrokes for a printout.

Tommy grabbed the sheet as it came out of the printer. “Well, well,” he said. “Mild-mannered Merk wasn’t always so mild-mannered. He had two arrests for assault with a deadly weapon in 1970, in California, no convictions, and lookahere, he got a year for battery in L.A. a few months later and served four months on the county farm. He was picked up on a parole violation, what looks like a barroom brawl a couple of months after that. Then nothing; I guess he’s been clean since then.”

“How old is the guy?” Daryl asked.

Tommy looked at the sheet for Merk’s date of birth. “Fifty-one, why?”

“That would make him the right age for military service during the Vietnam War, wouldn’t it?”

“Daryl, you amaze and astound me. Get off a request to the Department of Defense; let’s see if he has a service record.”

Daryl began typing out the request on the computer. “This’ll take a while,” he said. “We’ll be lucky if we get a reply today.”

“Mark it urgent,” Tommy said. “Say it’s for an investigation of a serious crime.”

Daryl finished the request and sent it out by modem. “Maybe that’ll move them a little quicker.”

“Maybe, but let’s not count on it.” Tommy thought for a minute. “While we’re at it, why don’t we run the record checks on Victor and Chuck. You never know.”

“Okay,” Daryl said, and began typing.

Tommy sat down and sipped his coffee, drumming his fingers on the desk, trying not to think of anything in particular. Sometimes his mind came up with stuff when it was just idling.

After a few minutes, Daryl swiveled around in his chair. “Nothing on either the FBI or Florida state computers. They’re squeaky clean, both of ‘em.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Tommy said.

“Tommy,” Daryl said, “do you always think that people you like wouldn’t commit a crime?”

Tommy shook his head. “As a matter of fact, I’m in the habit of thinking the worst of everybody, until they prove me wrong.”

“Even me?”

Tommy grinned. “Especially you, kid.”

W
hen Tommy arrived in the squad room the next morning a secretary handed him an envelope. “This came in late yesterday,” she said.

Daryl arrived while Tommy was opening the envelope. “What’s that?” he asked.

Tommy looked at the sheaf of papers. “It’s a digest of Merk Connor’s service record.”

“Read me the juicy parts,” Daryl said.

Tommy started through the document. “He was drafted in ‘66, right out of college; he went to OCS and got into Special Services.”

“You mean like the Green Berets? Was he in Vietnam?”

“No, like the entertainment and sports services. Yeah, he was in Vietnam, running a tennis program at an officer’s club in Saigon.”

“Not bad duty.”

“Sounds like pretty good duty to me, in the middle of a war and all. Still, he managed to get himself court-martialed.”

“What for?”

“Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman,” Tommy read. “I wonder what that means? Sounds like a catchall charge that could cover just about anything.”

“Was he convicted?”

“No, the charges were dropped, and he was, I quote, ‘transferred at the request of his commanding officer.’”

“Sounds like he was told to get the hell out, doesn’t it?”

“Sure does, but that’s all the record says. Wait a minute, he was discharged as a second lieutenant; he didn’t get promoted in three years of service. Now
that
ought to tell us something. I mean, shavetails get promoted to first lieutenant automatically if they keep their noses clean. He also got a general discharge under honorable circumstances. That’s a peg down from a regular honorable discharge.”

“If you say so. Does it say who his commanding officer was? Maybe we could run him down.”

“Lieutenant Colonel Jacob Morrell, it says here.”

“I’ll get some e-mail off to the DOD and see if we can get an address,” Daryl said.

“Let me phone instead, see if I can press them for an immediate answer; it’s all in their computer.” Tommy picked up the phone, consulted a directory, and called the Pentagon, asking for personnel records.

“Active or retired?” the sergeant asked.

“I’m not sure; try retired.” He gave the officer’s name and listened to the keystrokes on the other end.

“Here we go, got a pencil?”

“Shoot.” Tommy scribbled down the information, thanked the sergeant, hung up, and handed the results to Daryl. He lives in Fort Myers,” Tommy said. “How far is that?”

“It’s just up the west coast of Florida; there’s a direct flight, I think. If not, there’s one to Naples, and it’s not much of a drive from there.”

Tommy grinned. “I got to go to L.A.; you can have this one.”

“Thanks a lot,” Daryl said.

Daryl flew to Naples, rented a car, and was in Fort Myers by noon. He grabbed a hamburger, then found the colonel’s address, which turned out to be one of an attractive group of condominiums across the road from the beachfront hotels. He found the apartment and knocked.

A gray-haired but very attractive woman answered the door. “Yes?” she said.

Daryl thought she must have been a knockout when she was twenty-one. “Good morning, ma’am,” Daryl said, “I’m looking for Colonel Morrell.”

“He isn’t in right now,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Morrell; may I help you?”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am; I’ll have to talk to the colonel himself.”

“With regard to what?” she asked.

Daryl produced his badge. “It’s a police matter,” he said.

The woman’s face fell. “Police?”

“It’s a routine inquiry, ma’am, in connection to somebody he served with.”

“Oh,” she said, looking relieved. “Well, he’s playing golf.” She looked at her watch. “He should be finishing his round soon, and he’ll have lunch at the clubhouse.” She gave Daryl directions. “By the way,” she said, “it’s
General
Morrell; he retired as a brigadier. You won’t get a thing out of him if you call him Colonel.”

Daryl thanked her and returned to his car.

The golf club was less than five miles away, and, after identifying himself to a security guard, he was directed to the clubhouse. He asked for General Morrell at the pro shop, and the young man pointed outside to two men who were sitting on a bench, removing their golf shoes.

Daryl went outside. “Excuse me, gentlemen, is one of you General Jacob Morrell?”

The older of the two men removed his cap and wiped his head with a towel. He still had a whitewall haircut, even in his mid-sixties. “I’m Jack Morrell,” he said. “Let’s not bother with rank.”

“I wonder if I could speak to you in private, Gen … Mr. Morrell.”

“This is Mark Haber, an old comrade-in-arms,” the general said, nodding to the slightly younger man on the bench beside him. “I don’t have anything to hide from him.”

Daryl produced his badge. “My name is Daryl Haynes; I’m a police officer. I’m looking for information about a man who served under you.”

“I served with thousands of men,” the general said. “Might not remember him.”

“His name is Merkle Connor.”

The general’s face darkened. “Good God, he’s not living in Fort Myers, is he?”

“No, sir, I’m with the Key West department.”

“Is the sonofabitch in trouble with the law?” he asked. “I hope so.”

“I can’t go into that, sir; I just want to ask you some questions about him.”

“What sort of questions?” The general was becoming more and more uncomfortable as they talked.

“Well, sir, Mr. Connor’s service record shows that he was court-martialed in Vietnam, but the charges were dropped and he was transferred. Will you tell me what that was about?”

The general suddenly stood up. “No, sir, I will not. This conversation is at an end.” He turned to his companion. “Mark, I’m going to have a piss; I’ll meet you in the grill.” With that, he turned and strode into the clubhouse.

Daryl stood, gaping, looking after him. “What happened?” he asked the other man.

“Don’t mind Jack,” he said. “He gets wound up about certain things. Sit down, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Daryl sat down and turned his attention to the man. “I’m sorry, sir, your name is Haber?”

“That’s right; I was Jack’s executive officer in Saigon and at two other posts.”

“Did you know Merkle Connor?”

“I did; he worked directly for me, operating a tennis instruction program at the club there.”

“Can you tell me what sort of an officer he was?”

“Lousy. He angled his way into Special Services, and he was okay with the tennis program, but that was it. He had a real problem with authority of any kind, and he was always in trouble, always just on the edge of insubordination.”

“What led to his being court-martialed?”

“He was screwing Jack Morrell’s wife,” the man said.

Daryl’s mouth dropped open. “I met her half an hour ago.”

“Then you can see that she was quite something when she was younger. She still is, in fact.”

“Yes, sir, she certainly is.”

“Connor had been screwing everything in skirts, and Jack had always thought it was funny, until he caught him in bed with Nadia. He would have shot Connor if the lieutenant hadn’t been quick on his feet. As it was, Jack brought charges the next morning—conduct unbecoming.”

“Why were the charges dropped?”

“I talked Jack out of it, convinced him that a court-martial would be an enormous embarrassment. He finally agreed, then did his best to get Connor transferred to a combat assignment. Nobody would have him; he didn’t have any real combat training. I finally got him sent to the Aleutians—it was September, and winter was coming—and I saw to it that he served out his hitch there in an engineering company.” Haber grinned. “His CO, who was an old friend of mine from the Academy, put him to work setting explosive charges on a road they were blasting out of rock. For two years, he never knew if he would live through the working day. I sort of liked that. Jack and Nadia made their peace, and I don’t think he’s heard Connor’s name mentioned since then, until you came along.”

“I’m sorry I upset him,” Daryl said, “and I thank you for the information. Is there anything else you can tell me about Connor’s character?”

Haber thought for a minute. “He was always getting into fights—you know, barroom stuff, the sort of thing you would expect of a combat enlisted man. I got him off with the MPs twice. I’d say, on the whole, he was a very screwed-up young man.”

Daryl stood up. “Thank you, sir; I appreciate your help. Please apologize to the general for me.”

“I’ll buy him a couple of drinks, and he’ll get over it,” Haber said.

The two men shook hands, and Daryl was on his way back to Key West.

W
hen Chuck got home from work the yellow catamaran was once again moored next to
Choke,
and Meg, her brother, Dan, and his new girlfriend were seated in the cockpit, drinking margaritas.