Darkside

6

On Friday morning, Jim stopped by the Academy dispensary to get some help removing the paint from his eyes. The nurse used a vile mixture of stinging substances to dab the last flecks out of his eyelashes. Looking in his rearview mirror when he got back to his truck, Jim decided that he looked like the vampire now. The gate guards gave him a decidedly funny look.

The chief was waiting in his office with tiny cups of espresso coffee ready; he kept a machine right there next to his desk. Jim closed the door and inhaled the strong vapors gratefully.

“Interesting makeup,” Bustamente said. “And if that’s not makeup, there’s lots more coffee. You said you wanted to talk about the Dell incident.”

Jim sipped some coffee and felt his heartbeat quicken almost immediately. “Yeah. I have a mission, directly from the dant.”

“Should you choose to accept it, Jim,” the chief intoned with a perfectly straight face.

Jim tried to give him the fish eye, but his lashes were still sticking. “Not exactly,” he said. He explained what the commandant had asked him to do.

“You ever get close to Branner?” the chief asked. “Now, you wanna talk about your vampire…”

Jim grinned. “I suspect nobody gets close to Branner, other than perhaps her Calvin Kleins.”

The chief grinned back. “You noticed.”

“She lets you look, but I suspect you better not even think about touch. But to answer your question, no, I don’t know her or her sidekick. Young black guy-what’s his name?”

“Special Agent Walter Thompson. Nice kid, plays everything cool and loose, but he’s no dummy. You should see him shoot. Stands there on the range all casual like, kinda bored, holding the nine down along his leg, and then-badda-boom-his target silhouette’s got a see-through heart. Spooky.”

Jim looked over at the chief, but Bustamente waved it off. “I know, you can’t use that word. But Thompson’s cool. Somebody gets racial with Bagger, he can handle it.”

“Bagger?”

The chief shrugged. “That’s how he introduced himself to me. I believe he’s partial to the demon rum.”

“Well, he seems easier to deal with than Branner. I’m thinking of maybe taking this tunnel-runner thing over there. Use that as a back-door way to insinuate myself into the Dell investigation. The dant, of course, is worried about NCIS squawking command influence.”

Bustamente nodded. “If it weren’t for this homicide firefly, I think they’da ruled it a DBM from day one. You know, dumb-ass plebe, screwing around up there on the roof, some kind of plebe year antics, who knows what, falls off. Like that.”

“That’s what the dant thinks, too. He said homicide was ‘inconceivable.’ But even with that, if it wasn’t suicide, they’d feel compelled to chase down whichever upperclassman incited him to go up there. There has to be accountability.”

“There does?” the chief asked, looking skeptical.

“Yeah, there does,” Jim said. “The dant is into damage control, of course, but the supe is ultimately accountable for everyone here. I can’t feature Admiral McDonald sweeping anything under the rug.”

The chief shrugged. “If you say so.”

Hey. It happened. That security guy came downstairs last night. Down to my little world. Playing at setting traps. Only he was the one got himself trapped. And a paint job, too. I left him looking like a black guy trying out for the white guy’s part in one of those vaudeville shows. Introduced him to the joys and power of steam in confined spaces. I studied that at length, segundo year. And, did I say I was in costume? Was. The vampire Dyle. It had the same shock effect on him that it does on the drunks. Just enough to give me a split-second advantage. And trust me, that’s all I need. They say that’s the difference between the fighting abilities of a regular Marine and a recon Marine-about a half second.

But he was waiting for me-of that, I’m certain. So now it’s officially a game. I love games, don’t you? Well, maybe not like I do. Anyway, he’ll be back. And so will I. Only he doesn’t know the tunnels like I do. And he doesn’t have the facilities that I do, either. And now that plebe year’s almost over, I’m going to focus on this guy for my fun. Stay out of town, except for the occasional run for Gothic love. But see if I can seduce this guy to come back down to play again. He has no idea of the things I can do down there. It’s a lot more fun than terrorizing plebes. Although there was one plebe…but I’ll tell you about that later. Or maybe I won’t. Depends on what the Dark Side does about the case. I’m betting they’ll sweep it. What do you think? You think they’ll sweep it? Or maybe they’ll tag somebody for it? If they do, they’ll be so wrong. So very wrong.

Jim met with Agent Thompson right after lunch Friday at the NCIS office. The formidable Agent Branner had gone up to NCIS headquarters at the Washington Navy Yard. She was supposedly on her way back. Thompson showed Jim into a small conference room and offered coffee.

“Coffee’d out, thanks,” Jim said, sliding into a side chair, his ears still ringing from the chief’s espresso. Thompson sat down and raised his eyebrows.

Jim described his recon work of the past few months in the tunnels, presenting a comprehensive picture of what he’d been doing, leaving out only the fact that he had been messing with the tunnel runner’s graffiti. “I didn’t consider this any big deal, beyond the obvious security implications that there were ways into and out of the Yard that just about anybody who knew about them could use.”

“You’ve never caught anyone using the tunnels?” Thompson asked.

“Negative. But there are clear signs that they are being used by someone other than the diggers and fillers. I’ve been assuming that it was just some mids, probably firsties, indulging in some after-hours party times.”

“You go to the Academy?” Thompson asked, eyeing Jim’s big gold ring. He had been taking notes, but he looked up when he asked this question. Jim suddenly felt like a suspect.

“Yeah, class of ’93. Went Marine option. I was CO of the MarDet here a coupla years back. Got out, and walked into this job.”

Thompson let the obvious question hang in the air. Shit, Jim thought. This is turning into an interview. Chief was right. “Sure, I ran the tunnels,” he said. “Back then, we didn’t have town liberty like the guys do now. But let me tell you what happened last night.”

When he’d finished describing the attack with the spray paint, the laser pointers, and the vampire getup, Thompson was writing busily in his notebook.

“Thing is,” Jim said, “Chief Bustamente mentioned something about some kids being attacked in town. By a ‘vampire,’ according to the one who was most seriously injured.”

Bagger got a pained look on his face. “A vampire.”

“Yeah, well, some guy dressed up like one. Big guy, too, from what I saw. That’s what those townies said, too. Big motherfletcher. Came up behind them, surprised them. Clapped their heads together while they were gawking. Then he beat up the third guy.”

“And you saw this guy?”

“I mistook the direction from which those laser beams were coming. You know, lasers: They’re instant light. He came from the town side of the tunnel. I was hiding down under a cabinet, and he surprised me. I flashed a Maglite into his face, trying to blind him. Instead, there’s fucking Dracula. In the flesh. In the moment it took me to get my brain around it, he’d blasted a can of spray paint into my face. Then he ran down the tunnel.”

“Why come to NCIS?” Thompson asked, still writing.

“Guy ran back into the Academy side of the tunnels. This is probably a mid.”

“Ah,” Thompson said. “But it could also have been a townie, who ran the opposite way to confuse you into thinking he was a mid.”

Jim shrugged. “That’s possible.”

“And were you able to follow, to see where he actually went?”

“Nope. Had an eyeful of paint.”

“And he was made up like a vampire?”

“He was indeed. I have to tell you, when I got that one look, it didn’t register as makeup. It registered as just what it looked like. Big white face, really red lips, a mile of teeth, red eyes. Too many movies, I guess. But man!”

Thompson nodded. “I’da just plain shit my pants, I saw something like that,” he said. “Don’t much care for vampires and ghost shit.”

“Not that we believe in such things, right, Special Agent Thompson?”

“Call me Bagger,” Thompson said. “And I don’t know what the hell I believe anymore, comes to shit like that. I didn’t believe it was possible to have a homicide here at the Naval Academy, either, Mr. Hall.”

Jim seized the opening. “It’s Jim. And I heard that rumor, via Chief Bustamente. They really have something solid that indicates this kid was murdered?” He used the word they to keep his focus ambiguous.

“Solid?” Bagger said, putting down his pen and closing his notebook. “Forensics have some indications. Indications of restraint. Of course, these marks could have been made under different circumstances. You see what I’m sayin’?”

Jim nodded. “Maybe some kind of sexual fun and games that involved the kid wearing panties.”

“There you go,” Bagger said. “Branner thinks it could even have been some kind of sex domination. Then maybe the kid got so humiliated, he offed himself afterward. But it’s also possible someone threw his ass off the roof.”

“He was alive when he went down, though.”

“That’s the indication. You view the body?”

“Vividly.”

“Well then, you can understand the forensics problem. Plus, there’s major political and media heat. The dant wants accident, death by misadventure, even suicide, anything but homicide.”

Jim shook his head. “Whole thing is pretty sordid,” he said. “When I was here, we didn’t have time for much of anything except studying, classes, sports, and endless tests.”

“And yet you ran the tunnels,” Bagger said.

“Weekends, first class year, and not many of them,” Jim said. “But it was a game, a way of beating the system. Gave you bragging rights, but you kept that within the company classmates you could trust.”

“What would have happened had you been caught?”

“Class-A conduct offense, going over the wall. Unauthorized absence. A bunch of demerits, restriction, shitty grease grade.”

“‘Grease’?”

“Mid slang for military aptitude. Guys who worked hard at pleasing the officers in Bancroft Hall were known as being ‘greasy.’”

Bagger smiled.

“So what happens next with the Dell thing?” Jim asked, trying to keep it going.

“Who wants to know?” a woman’s voice asked from the doorway. Uh-oh, Jim thought. The Branner is back. He saw Bagger tense up a little when she strode into the room. Her face was colorfully made up this time, but she was wearing a severe-looking pantsuit as if to compensate. No leg show today, Jim thought as she slipped into a chair at the head of the table. Her hair was copper-colored in the office light. “Bagger and I were talking about how life at the Academy has changed since I went through,” he said, trying to deflect any questions on the Dell case.

“Why are you here, Mr. Hall?” she asked.

“Came to report a vampire attack in the tunnels under the Yard,” Bagger said with a perfectly straight face.

Branner leaned back in her chair and cocked her head. “A what? Did you say vampire?”

Jim realized that the window of opportunity to talk about the Dell case had just slammed shut. But maybe he could keep something going with Bagger Thompson.

“Bagger here has all the details,” he said, pushing back in his chair. “You guys decide whether or not you want to work it. Although I know you’re busy just now with this Dell thing.”

“I’ll call you,” Bagger said before Branner could say anything. “Maybe you can show me where it all went down.”

Jim handed him one of his cards. “Right. Be glad to take you down there. If this is a mid, we need to catch his ass.”

Branner was looking from Jim to Bagger, obviously in the dark and not happy about that. “If this relates to the Dell case,” she said, “then please remember we have exclusive jurisdiction.”

Jim nodded. “Absolutely, but this has nothing to do with the Dell matter. Bagger, thanks for your time.”

Bagger nodded pleasantly and Jim let himself out the conference room door. He pulled it almost all the way shut and walked down the hall, but slowly. He heard Branner ask her assistant angrily what he’d revealed about the Dell case. Didn’t fool her, did we? Jim thought as he left the building. Plus, she knows for whom I work. But maybe if I can get young Bagger there to run the tunnels with me, I can get him talking again.

He got into his official security officer’s car out in front of the old postgraduate school building. Next stop, the town cops. See what they had on the vampire incidents. But first, he should call the chief. No point in going through channels if Bustamente could get him straight through to the right guy.

At 3:30 Friday afternoon, Jim got a call from Branner, asking him to meet her at the commandant’s office in Bancroft Hall. She and Agent Thompson were going to reinterview Midshipman Markham, and she wanted Jim present as an observer. Jim checked it out with his boss, who shrugged. Jim walked over to Bancroft Hall, where he found Branner and Thompson getting set up in the commandant’s conference room. Somewhat to his surprise, Branner had changed clothes. She was still wearing visible makeup, but now she had on a see-through blouse, which revealed layers of frilly underwear, and a tight short skirt. Thompson, on the other hand, was positively drab in a plain dark brown suit. Branner greeted Jim politely and told him that they would do the talking.

“What, if anything, do you want me to do or say?”

“Say nothing. Just be here. Afterward, we may have some questions for you.”

“Questions?”

“It’s our experience that mids don’t trust civilians. Sometimes they speak in code. You’re a graduate. I’d like you to watch Markham, then tell me afterward if you think she’s lying, holding back, or just giving us the CivLant brush-off.”

“I can probably do that,” Jim said. “She bringing a lawyer?”

“So we’ve been told,” Branner said, and went to sit down at the head of the table. Jim took a chair over to one side, where he could watch Markham and also enjoy the view. Thompson gave him a hello nod, and then the secretary brought in Markham and a very elegant-looking lady lawyer. He saw Branner bristle when she got a look at Markham’s lawyer, and he found himself looking forward to a possible catfight. He wondered if Branner had changed clothes to distract a male lawyer.

The agents got up and shook hands with the lawyer, whose name, Jim learned, was Liz DeWinter. He stood to be introduced, and DeWinter gave him a curious look.

“And why are you here, Mr. Hall?” she asked.

“At the commandant’s request,” replied Branner, lying smoothly. “Mr. Hall is the Academy’s security officer, and we’ve been directed to liaise through him for any support we need from the Academy while conducting our investigation. Today, he’s basically an observer.”

“Is that so?” DeWinter murmured, raising an eyebrow. Jim wondered if she was buying it. On the other hand, she’d have no way to disprove what Branner was saying. Branner indicated that they should sit down so that the recorder could pick up their voices. The lady lawyer was dressed in an expensively tailored suit. Markham was in working blues, and she looked mostly angry. Liz sat down in a side chair and indicated that Julie should sit on her right, so that she was between Julie and the agents. She put her own voice-activated recorder out on the table, turned it on, introduced herself, and asked the agents to introduce themselves. Neither of them moved to turn on their recorder, which, Jim realized, meant it had been on since Liz and Julie had walked in. Branner took the lead.

“I’m Special Agent Branner, Naval Criminal Investigative Service,” she announced, speaking to the recorder. “I’m the supervisor of the Naval Academy NCIS resident unit. With me is Special Agent Thompson, also from my office. For the record, also present is Mr. Hall, Naval Academy security officer, Midshipman First Class Julie Markham, and her attorney of record, Ms. Elizabeth DeWinter of DeWinter, Paulus and Sloane, LLC, One-oh-seven Beale Street, Annapolis, Maryland.” Then she recited the date and time.

“What is the purpose of this meeting?” Liz interjected.

Branner blinked once when Liz interrupted the flow of her spiel. “The purpose of this meeting is to conduct an official interview with Midshipman Markham in connection with the death of Midshipman Fourth Class William Brian Dell.”

“Is this a homicide investigation?” Liz asked.

“This is an official NCIS investigation,” Branner said evenly. “NCIS does not characterize investigations other than as official investigations.”

“Is my client suspected of having committed a crime or other infraction of military law?”

“No,” Branner said. Then she held up her hand before Liz could ask any more questions. “This interview is suspended at sixteen twenty-three for five minutes,” she announced, speaking into the recorder, then reached forward and turned it off. “Look, Ms. DeWinter, this is not an interrogation. Your client is not a suspect. Why don’t you take your pack off and just see where this goes?”

Liz had not turned off her own tape recorder. “I have received unofficial information that your investigation is a homicide matter. I’d like you to Mirandize my client now, please, and then understand, if you will, that she will clear her answers to any and all of your questions through me. If these procedures are unsatisfactory to you, this interview will be terminated.”

Branner’s face colored. “Ms. DeWinter, I should remind you that Midshipman Markham is subject to the Uniform Code of Military Justice,” she said. “That said, she does have rights. If she is or becomes a suspect, that’s when she gets an Article Thirty-one warning.”

“What is that?”

“Like a Miranda, only better, from the suspect’s point of view. But I repeat, she is not a suspect.”

“Even if she is not a suspect, she does have the right to remain silent, and the right to have counsel present for this interview, correct?”

Branner made a sound of exasperation. “Does your client want to become a suspect?”

Liz shook her head. “No. Do you have evidence linking my client to the death of Midshipman Dell?”

“Well, you know we do, actually,” Branner replied, glancing at Julie.

Liz stared at Branner. “So let’s do that Article Thirty-one warning, then.”

Branner hesitated, then looked at Thompson. He shrugged, reached down into his briefcase, and withdrew a single-page form. “It has a waiver line on the bottom, where the interviewee agrees to answer questions voluntarily. Why don’t we have her sign that, and you can control which ones she answers? That okay?”

Liz took the form, read it over, and nodded. Thompson filled out the top part, and Julie signed. Round one to the petite lady lawyer, Jim thought.

“Now that we’ve agreed on the ground rules,” Liz said, “let’s go back on the record.”

Branner rolled her eyes, clearly thinking this was all lawyer nonsense. She punched the recorder back on and announced resumption of the interview.

“Midshipman Markham, do you know how Midshipman Dell came to be in possession of your underwear?”

Julie looked at Liz, who nodded. “No,” she answered.

“Do you have any idea of how he might have obtained the panties?”

Julie again looked at Liz, who leaned in close and murmured. “Laundry.”

“The laundry might have done it,” Julie said. “All our clothes are marked with a laundry number, but we often get back items belonging to other midshipmen.”

“Have you ever gotten back male underwear?” Thompson asked.

Liz nodded, and Julie said, “No.”

“Did you have or have you ever had an intimate relationship with Midshipman Dell?”

“No.”

“Did you know Midshipman Dell in any capacity?”

“Yes.”

“Which was? For the record, please.”

Liz nodded again, and Julie described plebe summer and the fact that Dell had been in her battalion.

“Was Dell a homosexual?”

Julie blinked. “I don’t know.”

“Were there rumors to that effect within the battalion?”

“I don’t know,” Julie said before Liz could give the signal to answer. Liz wrote a note down on her notebook and showed it to Julie. Jim figured it probably said not to answer until instructed to. Julie flushed and nodded.

“Midshipman Markham, do you know of anyone in your battalion who might have wanted to harm Midshipman Dell?”

Liz nodded. “No,” Julie replied.

“Did anyone in your battalion have it in for Dell? Want him out of the Academy?”

Liz nodded, but Julie paused, as if thinking about the question. “There was a sense among the upperclassmen that Dell was a little weak. That he might not make it.”

“Was there any one person or persons who said that a lot? That Dell ought not to make it?”

Julie thought for a moment, looked at Liz, then said, “No.”

“Where were you when Dell went off the roof?” Thompson asked.

Liz put her hand on Julie’s arm. “Why are you asking that question?” she said.

“To establish Midshipman Markham’s whereabouts at the time of the incident,” Branner said. “For the record.” Jim realized then that Branner and Thompson had rehearsed and agreed on the line of questioning. If they’d done that, then they were case building. He began to pay more attention.

“You may answer that,” Liz said to Julie.

“I was in my rack. Bed. In my room. Asleep.”

“Had you been in your room all night?” Thompson asked.

Julie looked at Liz, who nodded. Julie hesitated for a fraction of a second, then said, “Yes.”

Branner consulted her notes. Jim wondered if maybe Markham hadn’t wanted to answer that question. But had the NCIS people picked up on her hesitation?

“Midshipman Markham, this is a question we have to ask, for the record. It’s actually two questions. One, did you kill Midshipman Dell?”

“No!” Julie protested in a loud voice. She hadn’t even looked at Liz, who once again put her hand on Julie’s arm. This time, she squeezed.

“And the second question is this: Have you done anything, anything at all, in the entire time you have known Midshipman Dell, that might have contributed to his death?”

“My client will not answer that question,” Liz announced before Markham could say anything.

“Why not?” Branner asked.

“Neither she nor I has to explain our decision,” Liz said. “Next question?”

Branner leaned forward, looking directly at Julie. “You understand, Midshipman Markham, that by not answering that question, you necessarily draw our attention to you?”

“Let the record show that Midshipman Markham’s attorney considers Agent Branner’s last statement a threat and has therefore decided to terminate this interview.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. I withdraw that statement. It’s just-”

“Next substantive question?” Liz said, keeping her hand on Julie’s arm.

Branner sat back in her chair and slowly tapped her pen on the edge of the table. She glanced at her notebook. “You are on the women’s varsity swim team?”

“Yes.”

“Was Midshipman Dell connected in any way with the swim team?”

Liz cocked her head at Julie, then nodded. “Yes,” Julie said. “He was one of the managers.”

“Managers?”

“It’s not like in pro sports,” Julie said. “All midshipmen are required to participate in intramural sports, and they are encouraged to try out for varsity sports. Plebes, too. If you try out but eventually get cut, you can sometimes stay on with the team as a manager, a helper bee. They carry equipment bags, act as timers, unload luggage from the bus, stuff like that.”

It looked to Jim like this was all news to the lady lawyer, who was taking notes for the first time.

“Would you have had contact with Dell in his capacity as a manager on the swim team?”

Liz nodded. “Not really,” Julie said. “He would be helping out with the plebe swimmers, not the upperclassmen. Besides, he was a diver, not a swimmer.”

“Does the team travel as a group to away swim meets?”

“Yes.”

“But you had no contact with Dell?” This from Thompson.

“He was a plebe. I’m a firstie, a senior. I might talk to or coach another plebe swimmer who swam my own event, but not plebe managers.”

“Would he show up for practice sessions here at the Academy?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Does the team practice every day?”

“During the competition season, yes.”

“So it would be fair to say that you had daily contact with Midshipman Dell during the competition swimming season?” Branner asked, a tiny gleam of triumph in her eye. But the lawyer was ready.

“Don’t answer that,” Liz instructed. Julie said nothing.

“Why not?” Branner asked.

“Because I didn’t like the way you phrased that, Agent Branner. Plus, she’s already told you that she had little or no contact with Dell, that he helped out with the plebe members of the team, not the seniors.”

Branner started to say something, tapped her pencil three times, and then Thompson picked up the questions. Definitely rehearsed, Jim thought.

“Is the swim team a close-knit organization?” he asked.

Liz nodded. “Fairly close,” Julie said. “I mean, we all cheer one another on during the various events. We practice two, sometimes three hours a day, early in the morning and again after class. Swimming is extremely competitive, both within and among the teams.”

“Do the women on the swim team tend to hang out with the men on the swim team?”

Julie looked at Liz, who hesitated but then nodded. “Some do,” she said. “But most midshipmen date outside of the Academy.”

“How about you?”

Liz told her not to answer that. “That’s not germane here,” she declared.

Thompson, unlike Branner, appeared to take that in stride. “Okay. Do you know if Dell formed any close associations on the swim team?”

“No,” Julie said before Liz could give her permission.

“No, what? No he didn’t, or no, you don’t know?”

“No, I don’t know. He was a plebe. He wouldn’t have much time for dating in any event. And never an upperclassman.”

Thompson consulted his notes. Liz tapped Julie on the arm and pointed to her previous note about answering questions. Julie nodded and mouthed the word sorry.

“Are plebes allowed to date upperclassmen?” he asked.

“No.”

“Are plebes allowed to date anybody?”

“Dahlgren dates on Saturdays,” Julie said. “There are lots of rules. You really have to want to be with someone.”

“Did Dell date anyone that you know of?”

“Don’t know,” Julie said. “He was a plebe. Unless he was in my company, I wouldn’t know and wouldn’t care.”

Thompson nodded equably. “I’m done,” he said, looking to Branner.

“I’m not,” she said. “Midshipman Markham, are you involved romantically with anyone here at the Academy now?”

“She’s still not going to answer that, Agent Branner.”

“I think it might be pertinent to our investigation,” Branner snapped.

“Then go find out by yourselves,” Liz replied. “But based on the tone and drift of this interview, I’m assuming certain things about your view of my client.”

“Such as?” Branner snapped.

“Meaning that I think you’re investigating her, not Dell. So from now on out, there won’t be any more of these interviews. Is that understood?”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Branner said, her voice rising. Jim watched with growing interest. “We have the authority to interview Midshipman Markham anytime we please, as long as we execute the Article Thirty-one form. This is military law we’re talking about.”

“Fine,” Liz said. “You can, of course, interview her all you want, but she’ll have nothing to say, will she? Nor can you draw any inference from her silence, to which she is entitled under American law. As for now, this interview is concluded.”

Liz stood up and nudged a surprised Julie to do the same. She retrieved her recorder and indicated to Julie that she was to follow her. Neither agent said anything as the two women left the conference room. Jim saw Julie start to speak, but Liz put a finger to her lips until they had walked out of the commandant’s office area. Jim got up to stretch while Branner spoke into the recorder, stating that the interview was concluded. Then she turned it off. Branner swore.

“Wasn’t all that bad,” Thompson said.

Branner tossed her head impatiently. “Goddamned lawyers,” she said. “Mr. Hall, what was your take?”

“My job doesn’t involve real police work,” he said. “The only interviews I’ve seen are on television. That said, I think you hit the old blue-and-gold wall.”

“Is that like the cops’ big blue wall?” Thompson asked. “Like when Internal Affairs comes around?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Jim said. “I mean, I can’t feature one mid killing another for any reason. But there’s always been a cops and robbers atmosphere here, what with all the regulations, rules, laws, procedures. You ever heard the expression, You rate what you skate?”

“No,” Branner said, interested now.

“Well, it means basically that you can do what you can get away with. Usually applies to the chickenshit end of the book, as opposed to honor offenses and the serious stuff. And there’s a serious taboo against bilging a classmate. You know, ratting out.”

“She was a very uncooperative witness,” Branner said.

“For what it’s worth, I think the lady lawyer was right,” Jim said. “You kinda made it sound like Markham was a suspect, not a witness. There was one point, though-when you asked if she’d been in her room all night. I thought she hesitated.”

“Thought you said you hadn’t done interviews?” Branner said.

“You said you wanted my impressions. You just got one.”

Ev heard the phone ringing as he went up the back walk from his boat dock, but it went to voice mail before he got into the house. He’d gone out rowing on the Severn again to take advantage of an almost-perfect afternoon calm. The Academy’s varsity eights had swept by in a glorious echelon formation, but he hadn’t even tried to keep up. There was a message from Liz to please call her. He showered, changed clothes, and then made a drink. He called her back from the study. She told him that there had been another short-notice interview that afternoon, which is why she hadn’t had time to alert him beforehand.

“Interesting. So, how’d it go?”

“Just fair,” she said.

That got his attention. “Only fair?”

“Well, it was definitely adversarial. Part of that was a function of my MO when dealing with police interviews: I try real hard to control the flow, and I can be abrasive about it. Part of the problem was that Agent Branner. She came in with a pretty big chip on her shoulder.”

“But what were they looking for?”

“As I anticipated, some connection between Julie and Dell. Something besides the underwear thing. Julie did get it on the record that he could have obtained the underwear in a laundry mix-up. Apparently, that happens.”

“That’s true. Or it did in my day. Although they usually just lost it, period. Or sent it back full of holes. Is this a homicide?”

“They’re acting like it, and yet I’m not sure they’re sure.” She reviewed the questions and answers, and explained why she’d shut some of the questions off. “Based on some of the questions, I think they’re case building.”

“Against Julie?”

“Against whoever emerges out of the fog of evidence. With some cops, it’s often a toss-up as to whether they want to find the truth or just close the case. The latter outcome is often preferable.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Look, you said you wanted to help.”

Ev put down his drink. A mission. “Shoot,” he said.

“I learned some things today that neither you nor I knew. For starters, Dell was a manager on the swim team. Which means that Julie could have had daily contact with him during the competition season.”

“Wait a minute. He would have been working the plebe bench, so she-”

“Yes, Julie explained that. But in their words, she could have had daily contact with Dell. It is possible.”

“But hardly likely.”

“You understand that; I understand that. But a jury might not understand the system, the fact that plebes and firsties don’t associate, other than in the Sturm und Drang of plebe year.”

“O-kay, I guess I can see that.”

“You’re thinking like a human, Ev. I’m thinking like a lawyer.”

He chuckled. “Got it,” he said. “And my assignment?”

“I want to know more about Julie’s love life, if she has one.”

“Why don’t you just ask her?”

“I intend to. But I’d like you to corroborate and elaborate.”

“Well, as you observed, I might be the least informed in that area, and I don’t exactly pry. She is an adult, about to be a commissioned officer.” He moved his appointment book to make room for his drink, knocking the book off the table in the process.

“I know, Ev, but she talks to you. I’m just asking for some backup here.”

There was some frustration in Liz’s voice. Ev reached down to retrieve the book while he considered it. “Sure, Liz, I’ll try,” he said. “There’s Tommy Hays, of course, but I think he’s on the outs right now. I can make up a list of the kids she’s brought back here on weekends this past year. But I’m going to guess the swim team is the place to look. They’re together for hours a day in practice, and then at the away meets, long bus rides, parties after the meets in away towns.”

“Do they practice a lot?”

“Oh, hell yes. Actually, I was on the swim team when I went through. That’s where Julie gets it, probably. We used to get up before reveille, zero dark-thirty. Hit the pool until zero six-fifteen, then went back to our rooms for regular reveille and morning formation, then did it all again after class.”

“Really,” she said, and he heard something in her voice.

“What?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to bring this up, but they asked her where she was when Dell died. She told them, asleep in her ‘rack,’ as she called it.”

“Rack, right. Mids love their racks.”

“Then they asked her if she’d been there all night.”

Well, of course, he thought. Then he understood. “Ah. And she said?”

“She said yes.”

“But you had the sense that she would have preferred not answering that question.”

“Right.”

Ev thought about that. “Well,” he said slowly, “if she’d gotten up for swim practice, then technically she was not in her room all night. Oh, I get it: If she wasn’t in her room, then she could have been what-throwing him out a window?”

“I know, I know, it’s ridiculous, but visualize the interview transcript being read into evidence: ‘Were you in your room all night?’ ‘No, I wasn’t. I was-’ ‘Thank you, Midshipman Markham, you’ve answered my question.’”

“Holy shit!”

“Cops. Case-building cops. That’s how they do it, Ev, which is why potential suspects do not go to interviews without their shysters.”

“Damn. Does she fully understand that?”

“I think she got a glimmer today, although she’s still resisting it. I told NCIS there wouldn’t be any more interviews. They can, of course, tell me to pound sand. If they detected what I detected, they’re going to pull the string on the early-morning swim practice routine. I’d like to know in advance.”

“Well, that’s easy enough. I’ll find out if there was early practice, and if she was there. I can do that through the Athletic Department. Although, the season’s over. And she’s graduating. I would guess they’re not doing that anymore.”

“I need to know, and then I’ll sort it out with Julie. And Ev? Let her call you. Let her tell you about the interview. I’m going to go through all of this with her. What I need from you is-”

“Right, ‘corroborate and elaborate.’”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. “If you’re uncomfortable with this, I can do it on my own,” she said.

“Hell yes, I’m uncomfortable, but I want her protected. You’re the protector. It’s my job to help you.”

“Thank you. I do understand how you feel.” She paused. “There’s this eight-hundred-pound gorilla that’s beginning to materialize in the back of the room, isn’t there?”

“You do have a way with words, counselor,” Ev said wearily. “But yes, there is. You’re saying Julie, in some fashion or other, might be involved in this mess after all.”

“I’m sorry, Ev.”

“Thank you. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

“Hold that thought,” she said, and hung up.

At ten o’clock on Friday evening, the two investigators met in back of Mahan Hall, by the grating entrance. Jim indicated the map. “I propose to take you down the way I went the last time. Show you the main tunnels, the access points. See what you think about catching this turd.”

“Let’s do it,” Bagger said.

Jim took Bagger into the main tunnel that ran under Stribling Walk, heading back toward Bancroft Hall this time. He showed the agent the main utility vaults, the access flap doors to the big storm drain, and the branches leading to the various academic buildings. The closer they got to Bancroft Hall, the more pronounced was the hum of machinery and electricity.

“This system is supporting all eight wings of Bancroft Hall, and the four thousand people inside,” he said. “Heat, lights, potable water, sewer, telephone, electricity, computer networks, and, pretty soon, chilled water for air conditioning. Every dorm room has water, steam heat, computer lines. Group heads for men and women. It’s big.”

“Yeah, it is,” Bagger said, speaking softly. Something about being in the tunnels had them lowering their voices. “Can they get directly from Bancroft into any of these tunnels?”

“I don’t think so, not without knocking a hole in a basement wall, which, of course, somebody may have done. When I ran the tunnels, I did it from one of the grates, although that one’s been moved. You know, diggers and fillers.”

They came to a three-way junction, where only one branch was man-high; the other two were filled with utility lines and narrowed down to what were basically crawlspaces. The smell of steam leaking through lagging was strong. “And they run why, again?” Bagger asked.

“It’s a game, mostly. The Academy is all about discipline, uniformity, maximum conformity. Some guys like to show a little outlaw attitude.”

“That you?” Bagger asked, looking doubtful.

“Nope. I was chasing late-night skirt.”

“Yeah, that would be me. What’s that archway down there? That looks old.”

They followed the main tunnel as it bent around to the right and then back to the left in a gentle S-turn. They came to a section of the tunnel that wasn’t made of concrete, but of huge granite blocks. On the left, or bay, side of the tunnel was a recessed alcove, which contained two arched doors side by side. They appeared to be made of very thick oak, reinforced with three-inch-wide cast-iron straps. Bagger played his light over the surface of the left-hand door.

“This area is the old part, the really old part,” Jim said. “The Academy was started in 1845 on the grounds of an army fort, Fort Severn. There were underground ammunition magazines in this area, and these tunnels ran from the nineteenth-century seawall guns back to the ammo. No utilities in there. Of course, what had been the seawall in 1845 is now buried in the landfill that created the ground for the seventh and eighth wings.”

“Yeah, but look,” Bagger said, hunching down into a squat. “Bright metal scratches around the keyhole.”

Jim squatted down. Bagger was right. He pushed on the door. The lock held. He looked at his key collection, but he didn’t have a key to this door. They checked the other door, but there were no signs of recent entry.

“Where are we?” Bagger asked. “In relation to what’s on the surface?”

Jim stood up and studied the map. The lights in this branch of the tunnel were yellow and weak, so he had to use his small Maglite. The map showed that the two doors led to separate tunnels. The left one branched toward Bancroft Hall. The right one branched more toward the entrance to Annapolis harbor. “I’d say we were just to the right of the second wing. The right-front side of Bancroft Hall if you were standing out in Tecumseh Court and watching the noon meal formation. The supe’s quarters are back over our shoulder that way, maybe a hundred yards.”

“And where does this tunnel go?” Bagger asked, pointing to where the concrete tunnel picked up again.

“There’s a service tunnel to the captains’ quarters along Porter Road. Eventually, it doglegs down at the end of the row and goes out into town, to the eastern King George Street utility vaults. Double steel doors. I’ve got keys.”

Using his own flashlight, Bagger studied the map. Somewhere back down the tunnel, there was a soft clang of metal, followed by a sustained hiss of either steam or compressed air, which shut off after ten seconds. They looked at each other.

“Company?” Bagger asked softly.

They stood there and listened. Indistinct sounds bounced down the concrete walls, but there was no way to tell how far away they were. Or what they were. They both switched off their flashlights and listened.

Another soft clang of metal, then a sound they couldn’t identify. Because of the S-turn, they couldn’t see back down the main tunnel, and every sound was being distorted by the background hum of power lines and water pipes. Jim thought he felt a slight change in the air pressure. Bagger had his eyes closed, listening.

Another noise, unrecognizable. Then a sputtering sound. Jim tried to place it. Sputtering. Like a…fuse? Bagger heard it, too, and was looking at Jim, who mouthed the word fuse, saw Bagger comprehend it, and then there was an explosive roar from the main tunnel, a roar that was approaching very quickly.

Before they had time to react, a red glow lighted up the tunnel and the roar doubled in volume as a rocket of some kind came around the corner, ricocheting low off the walls and then blasting right at them, spinning wildly, chest-high. They barely had time to dive to the deck plates before the thing went blasting over their heads, screaming down the tunnel, where it slammed into the flat concrete wall of the next turn, some fifty feet beyond them. There was a flash of bright green light and a loud bang when it hit. The tunnel disappeared in a cloud of dense white smoke that stank of sulfur, and they had to stay down on the deck plates just to find breathable air. From somewhere behind them in all the smoke, they heard a nasty laugh echoing through the smoke and then the pronounced clang of a metal door.

“What the fuck!” Bagger muttered, trying not to cough as the dense trail of smoke drifted down toward the deck plates.

Jim had pulled his Glock. He crouched just beneath the thick layer of smoke, waving it out of his face. “Fireworks,” he said. “Some fucker set off a Fourth of July rocket and sent it down the tunnel.”

There was definitely a change in the air pressure now, a sudden feeling of release, and, amazingly, the smoke began to retreat, almost as if it were alive, back down the tunnel from which the rocket had come, like a film being run in reverse. Jim saw a blinking red light pulsing through the smoke from just around the corner.

“Smoke detector,” he said. “The smoke-evac system’s fired up. We’re gonna have firefighters next.”

They stood up as the smoke shrank back around the corner like a fleeing ghost. They followed it. Just beyond the three-way junction, an exhaust fan in the ceiling was running noisily at high speed, sucking the air from the tunnel and now beginning to squeeze their ears. Another red light was flashing on a sensor panel high in the tunnel ceiling.

“Let’s go get the rocket,” Bagger said. “Before the firemen show up.”

They turned around and went down to the end of the passageway. The rocket body was crumpled up against the door of a telephone equipment vault. It appeared to be made of thick cardboard, two and a half feet long and two inches in diameter, with badly charred fins at the back. The lower part of the rocket body was blackened, and what was left of the front end was smashed flat and also burned. The stink of sulfur was almost overpowering. Jim picked it up and promptly dropped it.

“Yow! Hot motor scooter,” he said, waving his hand in the air. “Gunpowder?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen these. Commercial fireworks. You saw that green flash.”

“Still do,” Jim said. “Every time I blink.”

“How do midshipmen get their hands on commercial fireworks?”

“Brigade activities committee maybe. You know, for football games. They’ve got that touchdown cannon. I don’t know, though. First spray paint, now this. That thing would go right through someone, going like that.”

“No shit,” Bagger said, examining the simmering tube. “I think we’ve flushed our sick puppy.”

“I’d prefer the vampire scene to being impaled by that damned thing. I think I hear the fire brigade. Let’s go tell ’em what happened.”

“You better put that away,” Bagger said, pointing with his chin at Jim’s Glock. “Unless you think Drac’s still back there somewhere.”

“He’d better not be,” Jim growled.

A single fire truck had shown up on the street above the grate in front of Mahan Hall, and a team of three respirator-clad firemen came down into the main tunnel. Most of the smoke had been evacuated by then. Jim identified himself and explained that someone had set off some fireworks in the tunnel. He produced the still-smoldering rocket tube. The firemen, used to midshipman antics, secured the alarm system and took the tube with them to add to their collection of crazy mid memorabilia.

Jim then took Bagger back down the main tunnel and out to the King George Street utility vaults closest to St. John’s College. On the way, they passed the original shark tag Jim had defaced with his own pictogram and the words Hall-Man-Chu. At first, Jim thought it was unchanged, until he saw the addition of two small black letters to his own signature: Hall-Man-Chu-mp.

“Our boy offends easily,” he said.

“Not bad work for an ex-Jar-head,” Bagger said, examining Jim’s tag.

“I cheated; got it from a tattoo parlor downtown. There’s a bigger one closer to the King George Street doors.”

The second tag remained unchanged. Bagger studied it for a long time.

“The shark motif is consistent,” Jim said. “That fish with serious teeth. I don’t know who WD is, or why the shark is about to bite him.”

“This is a white guy,” Bagger said.

“How can you tell that?”

Bagger just looked at him. “Trust me. This is a white guy,” he repeated. “This the way out to town?”

Jim took him to the utility interchange with the city’s vaults. He showed Bagger where they were in relation to the Academy’s steam plant across Dorsey Creek. “I’ve even been under your building,” he said, pointing to the location of the old postgraduate school building on the map. “Those are some old tunnels. Date back to the 1920s. Still in use, though.”

They stood in front of the steel doors as a large truck rumbled overhead out on King George Street. The tunnel walls were all smooth concrete, but the lightbulbs trembled in their sockets and the steel pipe hangers rattled with the vibration of the passing truck.

“Hate this shit,” Bagger muttered. “Don’t like being underground.”

“Can you imagine working down here all the time?” Jim said, unlocking the door. They stepped through, and Jim closed the door behind them.

“How far to the ee-gress?” Bagger said in reply, and Jim detected some real anxiety in the man’s voice. He took him down the King George Street leg and up the sloping tunnel to the grate on the St. John’s campus. Two more doors and they were sticking their heads up into the cool night air. Bagger shrugged out of his backpack and wiped perspiration off his forehead.

“Better,” he said. “Much effing better.”

Jim grinned. “What’s not to like?” he said. “Nice wall art, fireworks, the sweet sound of sewage gurgling beneath your feet.”

Bagger shook his head and then looked around as if checking for rockets. “I could use a drink,” he said.

“Let’s hit that Irish pub on Maryland Avenue,” Jim suggested. “It’s only two blocks away.”

They drew some stares from the college kids when they came in wearing jumpsuits and carrying backpacks, but not for long. The singer, an anorexic-looking blonde whose lank hair mercifully hid most of her face, was wailing something about Celtic dreams as she plunked on a much-abused guitar. They squeezed into a tiny booth at the other end of the narrow barroom.

“So what makes it an Irish pub?” Bagger said.

“Fresh Guinness on draft, for one thing,” Jim replied. “Never been here?”

“Not exactly a homie place,” Bagger said, looking at the small sea of white faces. “And what’s a Guinness?”

The bartender, a loudly cheerful Irishman in his forties, took Jim’s shouted order for two stouts from across the room. The singer shot them both a hurt look.

Jim nudged Bagger’s knee under the table and pointed with a lift of his face over the agent’s shoulder. Bagger casually turned around. In another booth halfway down the long, narrow barroom were three girls dressed all in black clothes. They looked to be of college age, although it was hard to tell because of their bizarre makeup. Bagger turned back around.

“Crabtown Goth posse?” he asked.

“Local cops said there were three of them, probably Johnnies. This place is a Johnnie hangout.”

The bartender brought two pints of glistening black Guinness stout. Jim dropped a twenty and the bartender left to make change. Bagger tried some and nodded approvingly. The singer gave up her dirge, to the visible relief of most of the patrons. The bartender immediately turned up some Irish background music, and the noise level in the bar went up pleasantly. He brought Jim his change and told them that the kitchen was closing in thirty minutes, if they wanted any food.

Bagger, who had been examining the table menu, ordered a Reuben. Jim said no, but then he asked the bartender about the back-in-black coven three booths over.

The bartender, who recognized Jim as a sometimes regular, laughed softly. “Call themselves Goths. They’re harmless. They come in here on slow nights, usually order coffee, and then sit there for hours, trash-mouthing all the straights. Freak show.”

“They ever pick up guys?” Bagger asked casually.

“I-don’t-think-so,” the bartender intoned, rolling his eyes. “I wish a crowd of real Goths would come in one night. You know, those guys with the long hair and horns on their helmets? Bet they’d know what to do with that lot over there.” Then he went back to the bar.

“Heard that,” Jim muttered. One of the girls might actually have been attractive, but the other two were decidedly dumpy. But with their white-to-pink painted faces, black-rimmed purple lipstick, double lashings of mascara, top and bottom, they looked like vampire mimes taking a break. One of the plain ones had seen him looking and was now whispering to the other two. Jim concentrated on his Guinness to avoid eye contact.

“So, what do you think of the Guinness?” he asked Bagger.

“Ain’t half-bad,” Bagger said, taking a substantial hit.

“You guys getting anywhere with that suicide?” Jim asked as casually as he could.

Bagger drained the remainder of his Guinness and wiped his lips. “Branner had to go up to DC for a meeting on it. NCIS brass and reps from the SecNav’s office. The ME’s report raised some questions. Bruising indicates the kid’s arms were pinned, which is weird. Navy staff told Branner to go through the motions of a homicide investigation, but more like to rule out murder. Then they’ll decide between DBM and a suicide ruling.”

The attractive Goth girl had turned sideways in the booth so that she could fiddle with the laces on her witch boot. She wore a studded dog collar around her neck. “I guess a homicide would be tough to prove,” Jim said, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “I mean, there’re three thousand upperclassmen who have a duty to make life miserable for the plebes for the entire year. Where the hell would you start?”

The girl raised her knee to get a better grip on the laces and her dress parted, revealing a breathtaking length of thigh dressed up in shiny fishnet stockings. Jim tried not to stare, because it had been a very deliberate move. “We start with the girl whose underwear he had on,” Bagger said. “Man, what are you looking at?”

The girl put her leg down, slid a seductive smile on and off through all the heavy makeup, and turned back around. “Goth girl putting on a little leg show. Part of the act, I suspect. ‘You straight guys all think we’re beyond weird, but we can still make you look.’”

“They can all make me look,” Bagger said, lifting his empty glass so the bartender could see it.

Jim wondered if he should caution Bagger on the alcohol content of the Guinness. “That girl today, the midshipman, I mean, she was pretty damned good-looking,” he said. “Maybe the Dell kid was in lust.”

Bagger nodded. “She was okay, nice rack an’ all, but I was diggin’ that slick little lady lawyer, sexy legs right up to there, phone-sex voice, definitely old enough to know how. You probably noticed-Branner hated her, naturally, but I was being nice as I could be.”

“Bet you pulled the wool right over her eyes, huh?”

“Oh yeah.” Bagger laughed. “Must have taken her, oh, two, maybe three seconds to see right through my insincere ass. But still. That interview today with Markham? Lady mouthpiece walked all over Sugar Britches.”

Jim grinned. “Sugar Britches-that would be Branner?”

“On account of her famously sweet disposition, yeah. Comes with that red hair, I suppose.”

Jim still had warm memories of the sight of Midshipman Markham in her spray-on competition swimsuit. The possibly pretty Goth bore a faint resemblance to her, but then he realized, no, it was just those gorgeous wheels. The bartender brought Bagger’s Guinness and the sandwich. As he walked back by the Goth booth, one of the girls stopped him and whispered a question. The bartender looked back over his shoulder for a moment at Jim and Bagger, then shook his head and walked on. Jim continued to watch them out of the corner of his eye, still not wanting to make eye contact with them. They’d be just the type to set up something embarrassing in a public bar. As the Academy security officer, he didn’t need that hassle.

He wanted to ask some more questions about the Dell investigation, but he decided to let it go for the moment. He didn’t want Bagger to suspect he was being pumped for information.

“Man this is a damned good Reuben; you ought to get you one.”

“Still trying to preserve my girlish figure,” Jim said, finishing his beer. “I’m thinking of getting some motion detectors. Chief knows this guy here in town, does security equipment? Put a series down there in the tunnels, use a timer to turn them on after hours, see how much traffic we’ve got down there.”

“You mean whether this is one dude or maybe a crew?”

“Exactly. Then up the ante a little. Wire the detectors as hunting cues, so when they get a hit, I can be waiting somewhere, like between him and the appropriate exit hole.”

“And then?”

“Whack him upside the head with a baseball bat, strip him, tie him up naked to a tree on the Johnnie campus, and then spray-paint his face for him.”

“Tut-tut,” Bagger said. “And you a federal officer. That would be serious brutality. The tree part anyway.”

“Actually, you’re the federal officer. I’m just a Navy civilian employee.”

“With a sock Glock.”

“Well, that’s mostly habit.”

“And a carry permit, I hope. Damn. This Guinness stuff grows on you. I’m gonna do one more.”

“Then don’t drive for a while,” Jim warned. “Only thing the Irish are serious about is their alcohol.”

The pretty Goth girl was fixing her other shoelace. This time, most of the men in the bar were ready for the show, and she did not disappoint them. She gave Jim a fairly direct look, almost as if she recognized him, and then huddled back down with her two acolytes. The bartender brought Bagger his refill. Jim realized he would either have to leave or join Bagger in some serious drinking. He decided he wasn’t in the mood, and from the looks of it, he wasn’t in Bagger’s league as a booze hound, either. Plus, that Goth girl might now know he was with the Academy and be planning some bullshit scene.

“I’m going to secure,” he said. “I think the bartender told those Goth girls that we’re with the Academy. Don’t want a scene in a public bar. Nice legs, though.”

“How nice?”

“Really nice, you get all the fetish rags and greasepaint off.”

A slow grin spread over Bagger’s face. He looked five years younger with the sudden gleam in his eye. He turned around very deliberately to stare at the three girls. The pretty one stared right back, then flicked her tongue in and out of her red-and-black mouth like a snake. Bagger flashed her a smile and turned back around. Jim saw her look back in their direction once, then get up and slink along the bar toward the bathrooms in the back. Standing, she looked ridiculous in the costume.

“Hey, look,” Jim warned. “Don’t let those freaks lead you anywhere-that’s how that vampire mugging shit’s been going down.”

“Oh, hell,” Bagger said with an elaborate shrug.

Jim repeated his warning and then slid out of the booth. “I’ll let you know when I have the motion detectors set up. Maybe you could join me, help me control my bad temper. And watch that Guinness.”

“Absolutely,” Bagger said. “But make sure it’s a metal bat. Lots easier to clean.”

Jim laughed and left the bar. He hoped Bagger was mostly posturing about making a run on the Goths. There had been three girls, and usually two marks who followed them out into the dark alleys. Bagger could probably handle it if it was a setup, as long as he quit the Guinness at three. He stopped a block away from the bar. Should he go back? Make sure? Across the street, a woman opened her front door to retrieve a cat and gave him a wary look. He smiled and resumed walking down Maryland Avenue toward the Academy’s front gate.

Hell with it, he thought. Bagger’s a big agent now. Jim was going to concentrate on catching his rocket man.

Ev was reading Andrew Gordon’s amazing history of the naval battle of Jutland when the phone rang. He glanced at his watch-it was almost midnight. He picked up. It was Julie.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re up late.”

“I’m on my cellular. The passageway phones are secured.”

He thought he could hear the sound of wind blowing into the microphone of the cell phone. “You in your room?”

“Not exactly,” she said.

“Tell me you’re not up on the damned roof.”

“Well…”

He sat straight up in his chair, the book spilling onto the floor. “What the hell, Julie? Are you nuts?”

“Chill, Dad. Dudes come up here all the time. It’s kind of a firstie rate. There are even chairs-you know, those lawn chairs without legs? It’s safe.”

“Is that a fact? Recommended by the Brian Dell family?”

“I’m not going to fall, Dad. And no one can see me. I’m way back from the edge, on the bay side. It’s just a cool place to hang out.”

“Is there anyone with you?”

“No,” she said. “We had an interview today. With those NCIS people. I think Lawyer Liz is pissed at me.”

“Why would she be pissed at you? You’re the client.”

“She doesn’t believe me about Dell. I don’t know why. And she was really hostile to those people. Then they started talking like they were coming after me. Dad, I didn’t do anything!”

The wind blew across the cell phone again, making a ruffling noise. Liz wanted him to probe Julie’s relationships at the Academy. Here was a way in. “Have you told anyone else what’s going on?” he asked.

“No,” she said miserably.

“How ’bout Tommy Hays? Or is that permanently off?”

“Tommy’s, well…”

“He’s what?”

“He’s mad at me, too. Everything’s ending here, and he’s resisting reality.”

“How so?”

“Basically, he’s going surface line, which means he goes to Newport, Rhode Island. I’m going aviation, which means Pensacola, Florida. Long way apart.”

“He want to get married or something?”

“He wanted some kind of long-term commitment. I won’t have time for that, what with flight school and all that.”

“College romance confronting graduation day.”

“I guess. Tommy’s a great guy. Swim team kept us together. But now…”

Ev thought of what Liz had said about the swim team. “So the swim team thing is done? No more eight hours of practice every day?”

The wind blew against the cell phone. When she answered, there was a touch of reserve in her voice. “I still swim every day, but it’s for exercise. The coaches are mostly working with next year’s team. I do some coaching in the freestyle.”

“Well, at least you don’t have to get up at zero dark-thirty anymore.”

He heard Julie sigh. “She asked you to ask me that, didn’t she?” Julie said. “Didn’t she?”

Ev thought about playing dumb, then decided against it. After all they had been through in the two years since Joanne had died, Julie could read him like a book. “Yes, she did. She does think you’re holding back, Julie. That you do know something about this Dell case. She can’t protect you if you hold back on her.”

“Then to hell with her,” Julie snapped. “I don’t need her. I haven’t done anything wrong. I want to clear the air with those people. I’m not going to have some damned plebe’s problems screwing up everything I’ve worked for these past four years. No damned way!”

“Now, Julie, listen-” he began, but then stopped. He thought he heard the sound of a car going by over the phone. She was on the damned roof.

“Look, Dad, I had nothing to do with what happened to Dell. I’m sorry he’s dead. But I’m a big girl now, and if those NCIS people want to talk to me again, I’ll waive my rights and tell them whatever they want to know about me, because I had nothing to do with Dell.”

Ev tried to think of something. “So you really want me to pull Liz off the case?”

“Yes. I don’t need Liz, ” she said. “I think maybe you need Liz more than I do.”

Ev tried to suppress the spike of anger he felt, but failed. At least now he knew what some of Julie’s antagonism was all about, no matter what she’d said to Liz on that tape. “Tell you what,” he said as evenly as he could. “I’ll tell Liz to stand down. I’ll tell her what you’re going to do, against her advice, of course. But you didn’t hire her. I did. So you can’t fire her. And I won’t fire her. Which is not to say she won’t fire you as a client.”

Julie didn’t say anything. Ev gave her a full minute. He heard another car go by over the cell phone. “So call me if your grand plan doesn’t work out,” he said finally. “In the meantime, I think you’re out of your depth.” Then he hung up before she could reply.

Man, what a great night. Perfect night. Caught those two cops down in my tunnels, snooping around. They just happened to come past while I was on my way to see the girls. That security officer and some black guy. Waited for them to get far enough away, then retrieved one of my toys, a game victory rocket. I keep some shit like that down there, hidden in my stash. Set it on the deck plates, ignited the fuse, and watched her go, down that tunnel at the speed of fucking heat. And smoke? Man, was there smoke. Then I had to boogie because the fire trucks came to see what set off the smoke detectors. Taught those two who owns those tunnels, and it’s not the Dark Side, not by a long shot.

Better than that, I scored another vampire strike out in town. Had to use Krill, and you know she’s not much in the bait department, except for those amazing breasts. Hope that doesn’t offend you. But I needed to do it again. Hell, even vampires have needs, right? Better yet, I got the same black guy who’d been fucking around in my tunnels earlier. He thought he was chasing skirt. He ended up chasing me. Big fucking mistake. You’ll hear all about it-soon. Or maybe you won’t.

Dark Side’s gonna be really pissed about this one, and you know how they get when there’s a really big fuckup, right? They get real quiet, don’t they? No foursquare ethics for them, are there? As if we won’t find out. We always find out. They’re so pathetic with all that morality and ethics shit. I guess it’s just for the classroom, right? They’re running scared about lots of shit just now, so close to hat day. Problem is, I’m really liking this shit, you know? They’re so helpless, especially if they think those two clowns they sent down last night are going to catch up with my ass. Never happen, baby, not down there. And, actually, now there’s only one, isn’t there? But you haven’t heard about it yet. Let’s see if you even do.

Krill was perfect. Got the dude to trail her out of the bar, just like before. I’m slinking along in the shadows, across the street. Eased into Penfold Lane, where there’re no streetlights, only those fake gas lights every fifty feet. Nice and dark. Then she slows down, backs up against a building wall, and then-this was so cool!-She lifts the top half of all that black bag fabric, and suddenly she’s bare from the waist up. I mean, this is a great scene. The black dude, he is focused, man. Hell, gotta admit, I was focused. Krill is a regular Humpty-Dumpty, but she is something up top. She lets him look, and then, when he gets close, she squats down, starts undoing his belt, rubbing the side of her face up and down against the front of his pants, and he gets all groany and moany. While the vampire Dyle approaches from behind. Dude’s so hot by now, I thought I was gonna have to say something, but then, just as she’s tugging his zipper down with her teeth, he detects me. Turns his head, but his body doesn’t follow, ’cause Krill’s still working him up. I do my thing-the big hiss, the roar, the whole bit. Guy freezes, mouth open wide, dinner-plate eyes, total shock. I can smell the booze on him. Then Krill jerks his knees forward and he goes down backward like a ton of bricks, cracks his head on the concrete before I can do a thing. Starts to bleed, man. It looks bad, but then I remember head cuts bleed a lot. Anyway, we book. Get back to her pad for some afterglow. Krill’s so excited, she-well, I guess I don’t have to describe it in detail. Let me just say it was worth the trip, all around, even with Krill. Especially if that guy was some kind of cop, which I think he was, going down in the tunnels with that security dude. I’ve never done a cop, but he was scared shitless, just like all the rest. Something about the brain seeing something it fears and freezing up the part that thinks. Something to remember when I get to do this shit for a living. Minus the cape and the makeup, of course. I really love this Jekyll-Hyde shit. Superstraight by day; Dyle the cop-banger by night. It’s dangerous, it’s exciting, and the girls get so hot, I can’t believe the things they want to do afterward. You know. And nobody around me suspects a thing-not my classmates, not my company officer, not the faculty dweebs, nobody. Only you know the truth, and you have no reason to tell anyone, do you? Because then I’d stop telling you these things. Admit it, now, you’d miss that. I know you’d miss that. I know you better than you think.