Murder at the Pentagon (27 page)

She rested her elbows on the desk and tried to force order into her thinking. Surely, it was possible to inject reason into this situation—into any situation. Nothing is ever solved until the emotional quotient is replaced by hard-nosed cognitive reasoning. She’d always prided herself in having that ability. Law demanded it of you. So did flying a helicopter. She
hadn’t saved her skin and accomplished those missions in Panama by allowing emotions to fly her chopper.

She wished she’d been direct and had asked Jeff about the rumor that Joycelen might have been a whistle-blower to the Wishengrad committee. She thought of his pumping her over dinner about her day. He must have had a reason for it, but he hadn’t been direct, either. The two of them, supposedly in love (were they?) playing games with each other. Joisting and parrying, like a couple of second-year law students at a mock trial.

She decided to leave. Jeff had made it plain he wanted to be alone. She opened a desk drawer and rummaged through supplies in search of a piece of blank paper, to leave him a note. He could let her know if he ever changed his mind. As she withdrew a sheet of white bond, several scraps of paper came up with it, including one on which was written an address, a phone number, and a series of digits: 2, 2, 5, 5, 10, 2.

Margit stared at it. It meant nothing to her. Yet she felt it was something she’d seen before or at least should connect with. Without much thought, and wanting to be out of there before he returned, she shoved the scrap into her pocket and closed the drawer, rolled the blank page into a typewriter, and typed:

“I really feel as though I’ve barged in on you,” Margit said to Mac and Annabel as she sat with them in their den.

“Don’t be silly,” Annabel said. “All you’ve interrupted was a potential argument over where to take our next vacation. Mac wants to go to London—again—but I’m in the mood for white-water rafting.”

“A regular Amazon,” Smith said, laughing. “A wild and crazy woman.”

Margit smiled. She hadn’t wanted to impose upon them when she left Jeff Foxboro’s apartment, but it was as though a hand had led her to the phone booth and had punched in their number. They hadn’t hesitated. “You sound upset,” Annabel had said. “Come on over. I’ll put on coffee.”

“Jeff and I broke up tonight,” Margit told them after Annabel had placed a steaming mug in her hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Annabel said.

“I am, too,” said Margit. “It was coming.”

“Mind if I ask what brought it about?” Smith put in.

“Nothing in particular, Mac. We’d been drifting apart. Jeff was upset. He told me he thought part of his problem was us, and that he needed time alone.”

“That doesn’t necessarily sound like a breakup,” Smith said. “We all need time alone now and then. Too much togetherness can stifle a relationship.”

Margit smiled. “Being together too much was hardly our problem,” she said. “Maybe if we’d spent more time together, things would have gone smoother.”

Smith leaned back and scrutinized her, a gallery visitor examining a painting. “The Joycelen-Cobol mess has a lot to do with this, doesn’t it?”

Margit bit her lip. “Yes.”

“Jeff wasn’t happy with your unwillingness to accept how it ended up?”

Margit thought for a moment before answering. “Yes and no. Initially, he was critical of my involvement with the case. But now that it’s over for me, he’s been encouraging me to keep pushing.”

“What caused that turnabout?” Smith asked.

“I have no idea.”

“It’s still gnawing at you,” Annabel said.

Margit whistled. “That, Annabel, is putting it mildly. I’ve always considered myself a normally compulsive person. I have my ablutions, like most of us. But in this situation I am totally obsessed, to say nothing of being consumed by it. I must find some answer.”

Smith left them to walk Rufus. As he led the beast to a favorite patch of brown grass at the corner, a neighbor called from his front steps. “Evening, Ross,” Smith said. “Looks like we might get some rain.”

Ross Jepsen, a widower, spent his retirement giving tours at the National Cathedral, and working as a volunteer at the Kennedy Center gift shop. He was a nervous man, especially about the rising crime rate in the city. He had reason. Two years before, he’d been mugged. The mugger hadn’t been content to take Jepsen’s wallet; he’d beat him, severely enough to leave his victim with a slight speech disorder and a pronounced limp. He beckoned Smith to come closer.

“I was wondering about that car,” Jepsen said, nodding in the direction of a green—or gray—sedan parked four or five spaces on the other side of Smith’s house.

Smith looked. “Is someone in it?”

“Yes. Been there for an hour,” said Jepsen.

Smith grunted. “Probably waiting for someone.”

“Waiting a long time.”

“Well, Ross, let’s keep an eye on it, give it another hour. If he’s still there—it is a man?…” Jepsen nodded. “Then we’ll call the police.”

“I think we should do it now.”

“If you’d feel better,” Smith said.

“I think I would.”

“Let me know how it turns out,” Smith said, responding to Rufus’s urgent tug on his lead.

Smith returned to his house, stood in the doorway of the den, and asked, “What are you going to do about this so-called obsessive-compulsive need to resolve what happened to Cobol?”

Margit sighed. “Keep digging, I guess. I told Cobol’s mother at the funeral that there were people who might be willing to help me clear his name. I was thinking of you.”

“Flattering,” Smith said, sounding as though he didn’t entirely mean it.

“It’s become a cause with me,” Margit explained. “I haven’t had many causes in my life, and those I have haven’t demanded much of me. I’m involved with DACWITS, a military women’s organization. I’ve worked for local humane societies in some of the places I’ve been stationed. I feel strongly about many things, but this is different. A man, who happens to be a fellow officer, has died with his name dragged through the mud. He never even had a chance to clear himself. I’ve done what Colonel Bellis warned me not to do. I became emotionally involved with him, and with his family and friends. I want to clear his name, Mac. I
have
to clear his name.”

“Fair enough, “said Smith, returned to his recliner. “How do you intend to go about it?”

“I was hoping you could give me some advice about that.”

“Do you have any resources left to you within the military?” Smith asked.

“No. Maybe that’s what upsets me most. This horrible thing—the murder of a scientist, an army captain accused of the murder, homosexual allegations flying around, the captain found hanged in his cell, allegedly by his own hand—and no one involved has even raised an eyebrow.” She thought of Louise Harrison, and debated whether to tell Mac and Annabel about her earlier meeting with the reporter. Smith would be critical of her for talking with the press, and she wasn’t anxious to be criticized. But she told them about the meeting, and that Harrison had brought up the question of whether Joycelen had been a whistle-blower to the Wishengrad committee.

Smith muttered, “Interesting. Better: pertinent.”

“Jeff must know something about that,” Annabel offered.

“I assume he does, but he’s not talking,” Margit said.

“Joycelen is obviously the key to this,” Smith remarked. “And Wishengrad.”

Margit agreed.

“What do you want me to do?” Smith asked. He glanced at Annabel, who smiled. Friendly? Chiding? Any smile in a storm.

“Your friend who was here the other night,” Margit said. “The private investigator.”

“Tony Buffolino,” Smith said. “Spelled with an
O
. He’s sensitive about that. What would you like him to do?”

Margit raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I have no idea. I’ve never worked with a private investigator before.”

“Nothing mysterious about it, Margit,” Smith said. “Would you like Tony to do some digging into Joycelen’s life?”

“Do you think he would?”

A laugh from Smith. “Tony will do anything for money.”

Annabel quickly said, “Almost anything.”

“Right,” Smith said. “Almost anything. I told you he was a good investigator. Is the Cobol family interested in clearing the captain’s name?”

“Very much,” Margit answered.

“Tony will have to be paid,” Smith said.

“Of course,” Margit agreed. She sat forward and placed her hands on her knees. “I think Flo Cobol, Robert’s mother, would sell hearth and home to clear him.”

“I’ll talk to Tony,” Smith said.

Margit said, “If Flo Cobol isn’t willing, I’ll pay him out of money my father left me.”

Smith sighed deeply before saying, “Are you absolutely sure, Margit, that wanting to pursue that doesn’t represent some—some emotional need of the moment that will naturally pass with time?”

“I’ve been sitting here wondering the same thing,” Margit said. “Is this my feeble attempt to rectify what happened to my father? Maybe. A couple of layers deep? Maybe. But so what? Hopefully, I have a lot of years to live with myself.
I didn’t go to see Cobol when he called, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my years tossing and turning because I didn’t do the right thing.”

Smith stood in the center of the room. “I’ll get to Tony in the morning and set up a meeting. Can you come back tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow is Thursday,” Margit said. “Yes, I can come after work.”

“Unless you hear from me, or vice versa. I’ll have Tony here at seven.”

They stood outside in the tiny front yard that was typical of houses on the block. It was a balmy night; heat and humidity had begun to move in. Summer’s last gasp. Low, fast-moving clouds slid silently above them. Smith asked, “Have you thought about taking leave, Margit?”

“Yes, I have, but I think it’s better for me to continue working. I might learn more by being in the Pentagon.”

“You do realize, don’t you,” Smith said, “that pursuing this can backfire on you?”

“I’ve thought about that. I’ve become a master at rationalization. I tell myself that I’m not going against orders because I haven’t received flat-out orders. All I’m doing is a favor for Flo Cobol. I suppose it’s the same justification I used in getting you involved with Cobol’s defense. The
family
wanted civilian counsel. Now, that same family wants help in clearing the name of a dead son. Does it play?”

Smith put his hand on her shoulder. “Not entirely,” he said, “but it isn’t outrageous, either. Let’s take small steps at a time. No big leaps destined to get you in trouble. Tony will act with discretion.”

Margit thanked them and walked up the street to where she had found an almost-legal parking space. Mac and Annabel watched her get into her car, start the engine, turn on the headlights, and pull away. As she did, the car that Ross Jepsen had pointed out to Smith left the curb and fell in behind her. Smith stepped onto the sidewalk and squinted to read the license plate of the receding car.

“What’s the matter?” Annabel asked.

“The driver of that car was waiting for Margit to leave. I think she’s being followed.”

Ross Jepsen approached them.

“Did you call the police?” Smith asked.

“Yes. They came.”

“And?”

“I watched from my window. A patrol car pulled up next to the car, and they talked to the driver.”

“And?”

“Just like all cops,” Jepsen said disgustedly. “They drove away.”