Midas

18

The doorbell rang at exactly 6:30 A.M. Justin knew that Leona would be prompt; he’d planned on opening the door with a flourish seconds before she was due to arrive. But his timing was off. He chalked it up to a combination of the early hour, the icy chill that permeated his house, and the half a bottle of scotch he had consumed the night before. He hadn’t been able to sleep. He chalked that up to the phone conversation he’d had with Marjorie Leggett, in which he’d told her not to worry, that he’d tell her everything she wanted to know real soon; to the fact that he spent much of the night trying to force himself not to call Reggie Bokkenheuser, whose house he could see from one of his living room windows; and to the scotch. At some point he’d had the choice of sleeping or drinking. Sleep wasn’t nearly as delicious as the single malt.

“You look like hell,” Leona said as she stepped inside.

“It’s not my best time of day.”

“What is your best time of day, Jay?”

“Good point.” He shrugged. “I guess I don’t really have one.”

Leona Krill stood by his couch but didn’t sit. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Are you going to want every detail of what I’m doing? ’Cause I don’t really work too well that way.”

“The town’s paying for this trip, I assume. Don’t you think that gives me the right to ask?”

“I’ll submit my expenses. If you don’t want to pay them, I’ll pay myself.”

“You’re an arrogant bastard sometimes, aren’t you?”

“I’m an arrogant bastard most of the time, Leona. It just comes out more when I have to get up before dawn. Plus I’ve got a few things on my mind.”

She shook her head. “Did you make coffee?”

“And bought skim milk.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, came back a moment later with a mug. Steam curled out of the top.

Leona thanked him, took a sip of the coffee, and said, “I don’t know anything about murder investigations, Jay.”

“No reason you should.”

“But I’m the mayor. And whatever happens, I’m going to be responsible.”

“Feel free to shift the blame to me. If that’s why you’re here, I give you my permission.”

“I’m here because I want to make sure that you know how to handle a murder investigation. Because if you don’t, I can get help.”

He held back the laugh that wanted to come out. But he couldn’t hold it back entirely. “Leona, I don’t think you’re going to find anyone who’s gonna be much help on this one.”

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s a lot more going on than you should know about. I wasn’t really kidding about taking the blame. If I’m right, this is gonna get messy and dangerous. If I’m wrong, at least you can say you didn’t know anything about it.”

“And you don’t think maybe you could use some support? Some help?”

“Probably. But I’m not asking for any.”

“You know, I was meeting with Jimmy once and I asked him about you.”

“Was this before you decided to switch teams?”

“I was asking about you professionally, not personally. You want to know what he said?” When Justin shrugged, she took another sip of coffee and said, “Jimmy was a fairly solid guy. Nice, he cared about things, not exactly a philosopher. But what he said struck me as smart, not the kind of thing I ever would have thought of. He told me he thought you were the most trustworthy person he’d ever met. I said that was quite a compliment, and he said he didn’t really mean it that way. So I asked him what he meant and he said that most people were honest because they thought they’d get caught if they weren’t. If someone found a suitcase full of cash, and no one was around, he’d usually keep it. But if someone else was there, if someone was watching and could tell on him, he’d do the right thing and turn it in. Because he’d be afraid of what might happen to him if he didn’t. But Jimmy said that you didn’t care if anyone was watching. You’d do what you thought was right no matter the situation. If you thought it was right to keep it, you would. If you thought it was right to give it back, that’s what you’d do.” She took one more long sip of coffee. “He said the reason was you didn’t care about getting caught. He said you didn’t care at all about what happened to you. That’s why he said he trusted you. Because you’d tell him what you were going to do with that suitcase, and he knew you’d be telling the truth. Because you didn’t care. Interesting, don’t you think?”

“Well, like you said, Jimmy was a pretty good guy. He wasn’t a genius, though.”

Leona started to put the mug down, looked for a coaster, couldn’t find one, so she got up and took it to the kitchen sink. From there she went straight to the front door, stopping only to say, “Thank you for hiring Regina. I appreciate it.”

“I hired her because she’s good, not because you asked me to.”

“Okay, then I don’t appreciate it. Check in with me when you get back.”

“Yes, boss,” he said.

“Don’t forget it,” she told him.

Justin tried to pay attention. But it was almost impossible. For one thing, he was thinking about what Leona had told him, what Jimmy had said about him. For another, the woman across the desk from him would not stop talking.

She was not unattractive, although she did her best to downplay any hint of a feminine side. She was probably in her early forties, her skin was clear and smooth, her dark brown hair drably cut, absolutely straight with no faddish layering. She wore a Nancy Reaganish red wool business suit-jacket buttoned nearly up to her neck and a matching skirt that came down to mid-calf. Shiny, trim brown boots with a thin two-inch heel rose up to meet the hem of the skirt, leaving no room for even an inch of skin to show through. Underneath her jacket was a dark blue shirt. The only thing left open in her outfit was the top button of the shirt, which allowed perhaps two inches of her neck to be exposed. She wore delicate and tasteful pearl earrings; other than that her only jewelry was a simple gold watch clasped around her right wrist on an equally simple gold band. As a package, it added up to something that was very conservatively marketed, refusing to draw attention to itself, insisting that the viewer concentrate on the substance rather than the nonexistent glitz.

Her voice was another thing altogether.

It was nasal and too high-pitched and did nothing but draw attention to itself. It lacked confidence and firmness and was just a shade too quiet. Mostly it was empty. It belied her substantive appearance and did little more than timidly whisper that underneath the surface there was absolutely nothing.

Justin Westwood wondered which half of this woman was for real-the substance or the emptiness. If he had to bet, he knew which way he’d go. She was a bureaucrat. Bet empty.

Justin was not, for the most part, prone to self-analysis. He did not usually care to examine the reasons he acted the way he did, because, with rare exception, he had little interest in acting any other way. Jimmy had definitely been right in that regard. When Justin mourned, it was because he wanted to mourn and had no interest in overcoming his grief. When he retreated from the world-which he’d done, in his own way, for quite a few years after Alicia and Lili died-it was because there was no desire to come out of hiding. When he got drunk or stoned, it was because being high felt better than not being high. And when he was sober it was because it seemed right to be anchored to reality and any ensuing pain was worth the effort. He might not like what he was doing at any particular moment but whatever he was doing it was because he liked the alternatives even less.

He rarely questioned himself when he took a stand, and it was even less rare that he cared about pissing someone off. He probably could have handled the few relationships he’d had after Alicia a lot better than he had, but even that didn’t worry him much. If he’d wanted them to last-really wanted them to last, not just superficially-then he knew he would have handled them better.

He did not put much stock in other people’s morals or values, only his own, because it was his morals that he trusted. Jimmy had been absolutely right about that. Justin knew that he did not even hold the law particularly sacred, even though he’d become a cop. He was much more interested in justice than the law. And justice, he understood, came from within. It was a belief, not a prescription for how to behave.

But as Justin sat across the desk from Martha Peck, in her impersonal, glass-encased Washington, D.C., Federal Aviation Administration office overlooking 1st Street NW, he was seriously questioning himself. As she droned on, he was wondering why it was he so detested bureaucrats. He could have a calm conversation face-to-face with a serial killer but one phone call with an employee of the phone company could drive him straight over the edge. There was no problem staying calm when some drunk in a bar was furiously trying to rearrange his face, but trying to convince a bank manager to change the mailing address on a tax form was enough to bring forth visions of the apocalypse. It was that bureaucratic condescension. That awareness that you needed them, that there was no place else to go. Maybe that was it-Justin liked alternatives. He believed in alternatives. For bureaucrats, choice was nonexistent. There was one way and one way only-the system. As the nasal voice went on and on, Justin felt himself relaxing. The simple act of understanding his disdain calmed him down. And he understood that, when dealing with an implacable system, anger was self-defeating. So he sat quietly, pushing any traces of ire away, and forced himself to listen to the administrator of the FAA as she told him that it was not possible that anyone in her area could possibly have done anything wrong. Certainly not willingly.

Justin had three people to see during the twelve hours he was planning to spend in the D.C. area. He’d thought that Martha Peck would be the easiest to deal with and probably the most productive. Based on the conversation so far, he sure as hell hoped he was wrong about that.

“Ms. Peck,” Justin interrupted. “Let’s forget the question of wrong or right, for the moment, okay?”

“As a police officer, I would have thought that was your most important question.”

“What I really need to know is why you removed Hutchinson Cooke’s file from your Oklahoma City office two days before his plane crashed.”

The woman behind the desk chewed on her lower lip for a moment, her subtle shade of red lipstick rubbed off on her front teeth. “I was told that if you came here I wasn’t to talk to you.”

“I’m sure you were.”

Her eyes widened just a bit. “That doesn’t surprise you?”

“The same person-or at least someone from the same organization-came to my station and told me not to pursue this.”

“So why are you?”

“Because someone was murdered in my town. And whatever else is involved, my job is to find the son of a bitch who did it.”

“You’re not afraid of the FBI?”

“Hell, Ms. Peck, I’m even afraid of you. But I’m not going to stop asking questions. And I don’t get frightened off my cases, no matter who’s doing the blustering.”

Now she used her tongue to wipe the lipstick off of her teeth. She hadn’t looked in the mirror so Justin wasn’t sure how she knew it was there. Maybe it was just a nervous habit. “What makes you think Hutchinson Cooke’s file was removed?” Martha Peck asked.

“Because it’s missing. It was electronically removed. Everything about Cooke and the plane he was flying is gone.”

“Files do go missing all the time. I sincerely doubt there was any intent to mislead or obstruct any kind of investigation.”

“Fine. If you didn’t do it, just tell me who else has the authority to remove a file. I’m happy to talk to him or her.” When Martha Peck didn’t answer, just began nibbling around the edges of a very red fingernail, Justin said, “Ms. Peck, I’m sure you can make my job extremely difficult. You and your bosses can hire lawyers and block subpoenas and all sorts of things you government people are really good at. But here’s the thing: I need to know who took the file and why it was taken. If you want me to guess, I’d say someone from the FBI came to you or someone else here and you or whoever it was buckled in the face of a badge and a few words about national security. If that’s the case, I don’t blame you. I probably would have done the same and I’m not looking to nail you, not at all. But I need to know who owned the plane that Hutchinson Cooke was flying the day he crashed. And, on top of that, I’d like to know who in your office had direct contact with Martin Heffernan. I’ll get that info somehow. Believe me. I will. I’m one of those annoying cops who sinks his teeth in and won’t let go. You’d be a lot better off telling me the truth and getting me out of your hair.”

“That’s the first thing you’ve said that makes any sense to me.”

“Good. Then you’ll give me what I need?”

“I mean the annoying part.” She straightened up the few pieces of paper on her desktop, which was already tidy and clean. “Do you truly think that someone in the FAA is involved in a crime?”

“Most likely murder.”

“I just don’t believe it.”

“At the very least, whoever took that file is guilty of covering up a murder. It’s still good for serious jail time. Unless I get some cooperation.”

“Martin Heffernan certainly didn’t take it. He was a mid-level management person. The equivalent of an insurance salesman. He was harmless.”

Justin sensed that she was weakening. She clearly hadn’t liked being bullied by the FBI any more than he had. He’d been hoping to fly under the radar for a while longer, but what the hell, he knew that was a pipe dream, so he shook his head and bit the bullet. “He stole the dead man’s identification,” he told her. “And wiped the plane clean of fingerprints, trying to make sure I wouldn’t find out Cooke’s identity.”

“Oh my God. Are you absolutely certain of that?”

“Everybody starts out harmless, Ms. Peck. But it’s amazing, somehow prisons still manage to fill right up.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “I don’t think for a moment it starts and stops with Heffernan. Mid-level management guys don’t make the kinds of decisions he made. Someone was making them for him. That’s the person I want to find.”

“I wish I still smoked,” she said. “This is a very disturbing conversation. Although it wouldn’t do me any good, would it? This is one of those damn smokeless buildings.” She sighed. “Do you have the tail number of the plane?”

He gave it to her, made sure she wrote it down correctly.

“If something was taken,” she said, “someone might have had a perfectly good reason for taking it.”

“Will you give me the information?” he asked. “I promise to let you know the minute I find any perfectly good reasons.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Right,” he said, and started to stand. “Should I leave my card or should I just go fuck myself?”

She stared at him silently. And then, miracle of miracles, she smiled. Her lips-not as red as the nails but still a tad too red-parted. A little of the red had managed to scrape onto her teeth but it was a welcome sight because it was indeed a smile. She was human. He smiled back at her.

“You’d think I’d have dealt with a lot more policemen in my job. But I haven’t. Not directly. I’m mostly involved with policy so I spend my day with committees and politicians.”

“So you spend more time with the criminal element.”

She smiled again. And this time she licked the lipstick smudge off her teeth. “Do you really think Heffernan and this missing file are connected to your murder?”

“I know it,” he said.

“Then leave me your card,” she told him. “But if you want to go fuck yourself, too, that’ll be fine with me.”

Justin always thought that he was someone who’d had more opportunities than most to sample the various experiences that life had to offer. He had seen rich and he’d seen poor. He’d experienced the ultimate in pristine lifestyles and he’d been in the midst of unimaginable violence and depravity. He’d been in love, he’d lost love, he’d been loveless. He’d been both wildly undisciplined and fanatically ordered. There was little, he felt, that could surprise him. Or make him feel uncomfortable and out of place. But one thing he had no experience with whatsoever was military life. He’d never come close to combat, he’d known few soldiers, he’d never, in fact, been on any kind of military installation until he was ushered in to the office of Colonel Eugene T. Zanesworth. From the moment he’d driven past the armed guards who manned the gates to Andrews Air Force Base, he realized that this was a separate world. A world about which he knew nothing. And was likely to learn nothing.

For one thing, everyone he passed stood ramrod straight. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of fat on anyone within the entire compound. Even sitting in his rented Grand Am, Justin did his best to sit upright and suck in his gut. It depressed him just a little to realize that there probably wasn’t one person-man or woman-on the entire base that he could take in a fair fight. He cheered up slightly when he realized it didn’t really matter, since he would never fight fair.

The resolute politeness with which everyone dealt with him also made him uncomfortable. It began just outside the main gate at the Visitor Control Center. The soldier at the reception desk in Building 1840 called him “sir” four times as he phoned to verify Justin’s appointment, took his driver’s license and registration card for his rented Grand Am, and issued him a restricted area badge and vehicle sticker. At the gate, he was called “sir” six times as his car was searched and he was patted down. After he parked on the base in his assigned spot, the person who escorted him to the colonel’s office addressed him as “sir” twice. The woman at Zanesworth’s desk-Justin wasn’t sure if a sergeant also was called a secretary-called him “sir” three times. Everyone’s voice was at the same modulated, calm level and delivered in the same brisk manner. Justin realized that he would never have made it as a soldier. Military life was all about restraint and learning to survive by taking and accepting orders. The idea was that at some point-when we were at war-everyone would know what to do and, more importantly, do it, even though the restraints were no longer in place. A well-trained soldier was supposed to equal a soldier who functioned well. Justin thought it was a little bit like taking an electric dog collar off a dog. As long as the collar was there, the dog would stop before leaving the grounds. Take the collar off, he might stop once or twice, still expecting the electric shock, but at some point, he’d realize the fence no longer existed-and he’d be chasing a squirrel with no thought to the dangers that might lie in waiting ahead of him.

At the same time, there was something uniquely moving about being on this military base, Justin thought. Actually, there were many things that were moving. The youth he was surrounded by. The fact that everyone he saw might be called to battle. The fact that everywhere he looked was someone who was willing to go to battle for something he or she believed in.

Of course, everyone believed in his own side of a war. That’s why wars were fought. To prove that your country was right or your God was right.

Justin decided he was lucky he had very few beliefs. His wars were private and personal. In the long run, a lot less dangerous than the wars facing these kids. And in the short run. . well, maybe not as inspiring, but in some ways, more satisfying. He didn’t have to take orders. He didn’t have to operate under restraints. He didn’t have to fight fair.

Of course, there was one serious drawback to his position. He was beginning to think that he might not have the opportunity to fight at all. Not after two entire minutes in Colonel Zanesworth’s presence.

“I’m not sure I understand why you’re here,” the colonel said when Justin was ushered into his office.

“I’m not a hundred percent sure either,” Justin said. He didn’t know if he was supposed to call the older man “Colonel” or not. Justin didn’t put much stock in titles. He didn’t call doctors “Doctor.” And he never understood why sportscasters on TV called guys like Bob Knight “Coach,” as if it were some anointed attachment to their names. But in this instance he figured it couldn’t hurt. People were people-they liked to be shown respect. He wasn’t there to make a point, he was there to get information. “To be honest, Colonel, I’m conducting a bit of a fishing expedition.”

“What are you fishing for?”

“Information about someone who was stationed here for several years. Hutchinson Cooke.”

“I understood that much. That’s why I pulled his file. I’m curious as to why you’re fishing for it.”

“It’s relevant to a murder investigation.”

“Hutch Cooke’s murder?”

“That’s right.”

“According to the reports I’ve seen, Captain Cooke wasn’t murdered. They call it an accidental death.”

“I’d love to get a look at any paperwork you’ve seen, Colonel, but I’m not sure any of that’s accurate. As far as I know, I’m the only person investigating and I haven’t written any reports yet.”

“Anytime a serviceman is”-Zanesworth hesitated, not sure where to go with his phrasing-“involved in anything of this nature, we immediately check things out.” The colonel tried a brief flicker of a smile. “The military is all about reports, as I’m sure you know. They’re standard and, in this instance, inconsequential.”

“I don’t really know, Colonel. But even so, at the very least I’d like to talk to the person who prepared them.”

Zanesworth coughed into his hand. He looked unhappy. “If what you’re saying is true about Captain Cooke, of course we’ll do everything we can to help. But I will be your contact here. I’m afraid it will be too disruptive to just. . how shall I put it. . let you loose on the base.”

“If anyone else has begun any kind of investigation, it would really be better if-”

“What information are you looking for?”

Justin knew he’d been effectively cut off. It was Zanesworth or nothing. At least for the moment. “Okay. Let’s begin with this: I’d like to know what Cooke was doing the past eighteen months.”

“You’re going to have to be a lot more specific than that, son. Doing where? And in what capacity?”

“According to the reports I’ve seen, Captain Cooke was away from the base for that period of time. In fact, he didn’t seem to be filling any official Air Force function.”

“Now you’ve got incorrect information. I was his commanding officer for that period. And I probably didn’t write those reports you read.”

“So he was stationed here for the past year and a half?”

“Here and nowhere else.”

“Did you know he was drawing a salary from a private company during that same period? Something called Midas Ltd. You ever hear of them?”

“No. No, I didn’t know he was getting paid by them, and no, I’ve never heard of them. But there’s certainly nothing illegal or even suspicious, even if it’s true.”

“He was stationed here the whole time?”

“He was in the Air Force, son. This was his home base.”

“And what were his responsibilities during the past eighteen months?”

“The same thing he was responsible for over the past eighteen years. Serving in the Air Force and serving proudly and well.”

“Can you be more specific, Colonel?”

“Captain Cooke was a member of the 89th Airlift Wing and, as such, he was part of SAM FOX.” When Justin shook his head blankly, Zanesworth went on. His words were in even more of a monotone than seemed usual, as if he’d offered this explanation thousands of times, which Justin realized he probably had. “SAM FOX was originally used as an aircraft tail number; it formed a radio call sign to identify Air Force aircraft that were transporting high-ranking VIPs, usually on a foreign flight. SAM is Special Air Mission, FOX for Foreign.”

“That’s what Cooke was doing? Piloting VIPs?”

“Captain Cooke. And yes. That’s our primary mission at Andrews. We transport the president of the United States and worldwide airlift for the vice president, the president’s cabinet, members of Congress, military leaders, and other dignitaries of the appropriate stature.”

“Do you keep flight logs for all your pilots?”

“Of course.”

“Could I see his? Captain Cooke’s?”

“I’m afraid not. You don’t have the clearance to see that kind of information.”

“And I suppose there’s nothing I could do to get that kind of clearance?”

Zanesworth didn’t bother to respond to that one. He just let his lips spread into the thinnest of smiles.

“Did you know him, Colonel? Captain Cooke?”

Zanesworth waited an appropriate length of time-two or three seconds-before nodding his head and saying, slowly, “Of course I knew him. There’s no one I don’t meet under my command. But I didn’t know him well, unfortunately. We had very little interpersonal contact.”

The man was lying. It was a strange lie to tell and there was no real reason for it. But Zanesworth stumbled over the words and his eyes shifted just slightly when he spoke. Up until now he’d been difficult and obviously resisting any kind of probe. But now he was definitely lying. Of that Justin was certain. He just had to try to figure out why.

“Funny. I’d think you’d make it a point of knowing the people who fly heads of state.”

“Captain Cooke wasn’t flying heads of state. At least our head of state. And there are twenty thousand people living and working at Andrews. I wish I knew them all, but I don’t.”

“So he never flew Air Force One?”

“No.”

“You know that without checking?”

“I know who flies the president. I know everyone who flies the president.”

“Did he ever fly the vice president?”

“It’s possible. I’d have to look at his flight records over the years.”

“Would you mind doing that?”

“Yes, I would. I don’t see the relevance.”

“There probably isn’t any. It’s just that, you know how it is, once you start snooping it’s hard to stop.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know how that is, Mr. Westwood. But unless you can show me the relevance, I won’t be revisiting the records.”

“Okay. Then let’s try this one: When did you hear about Captain Cooke’s death? What day was it?”

“I assume it was the day he died. Possibly the morning after.”

“Really? That soon? Because somebody went to a lot of trouble to hide his identity. I didn’t know who he was the day he died. Or the morning after.”

“It was probably the day after that, now that I think about it. Or at least I assumed it was that close to his death. I certainly could be off by a few days.”

“Who called to tell you?”

“I. . um. . I’m not sure. One of my aides. The police must have called and he took the call.”

“The thing is, Colonel, I’m the police. For some reason, that doesn’t seem to be getting through. But I’m the only one who could have called that soon. And I didn’t.”

“Then maybe it wasn’t the police who called. Maybe it was Captain Cooke’s family. I’ll talk to my aide and see what he says. He’ll have all that information.”

“How about if I ask him?”

“He’s not on base today. I’ll talk to him when he’s back and let you know his response.”

“Can I have his name?”

“I’ll get back to you with all the information.”

Justin cleared his throat and twisted his neck to the right. It was stiff as a board. That was because since he’d set foot on Andrews Air Force Base he felt as if he were carrying around a thousand-pound weight on his shoulders. “How long have you been on the base, Colonel?” he asked.

“What relevance does that have?”

Justin exhaled a deep breath. It wasn’t a happy exhale and he made no attempt to hide his dismay. “Have you ever conducted an investigation, sir?”

“On a small scale.”

“I’m not talking about stealing a quart of strawberries here. I mean something on the level of a multiple-murder investigation.”

“No, of course not.”

“Then let me give you a little lesson, just in case you ever find yourself in my position. You know. . investigating. The first thing you have to keep in mind is that my questions don’t necessarily have any implicit belief or disbelief to them. I’m just trying to get to the particular information I need to solve my problem. So, for instance, if you didn’t know Hutchinson Cooke well, my question doesn’t necessarily mean that I think you’re lying. It could mean that I’m trying to find out if there’s someone else I should be talking to. Your predecessor, for instance, who might have known him better. And had some interpersonal contact.”

“I’ve been base commander here for eleven years.”

“And Captain Cooke was here for. .?”

“Eight years.”

“Huh. Out of those twenty thousand who live and work here, how many are officers who serve under you?”

“We’re here to talk about Captain Cooke, Mr. Westwood. I’m not going to discuss anything about other men and women.”

“Chief.”

“What?”

“Chief Westwood. As long as we’re doing the whole title thing. I’m the chief of police, actually. Of the town where Captain Cooke was murdered.”

“Are there any other questions, Chief Westwood?”

“What was Hutchinson Cooke doing in East End Harbor when his plane crashed? Why was he there?”

“He was on official leave. He had a few days off. I can’t tell you what he did during his private time.”

“Was it his plane?”

“Again, private information. I don’t have any idea whether or not he had his own plane.”

“Not curious?”

“The man’s dead. It doesn’t strike me as relevant whether he was flying his own plane or borrowing someone else’s. The man was a pilot. He preferred being in the air to walking on the ground. As most of us do.”

“Any idea where he was coming from? Or flying to?”

“No.”

“Is there anyone who might, Colonel?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Justin made no attempt to hide his exasperation. “What was he, a hermit? Eight years on this base and he didn’t have any friends he might have talked to?”

“I’ve asked anyone here I thought might be helpful, in anticipation of your arrival. No one had answers to any of the questions you’ve asked.”

“So you already anticipated all my questions?”

“It doesn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes to come up with this list.”

“Would you mind if I asked them myself? To the people who didn’t have any answers when you asked?”

“Yes, I would mind. I’m afraid that won’t be allowed.” Colonel Zanesworth stood. A not very subtle sign that the interview was over. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Justin nodded slowly. “Here’s one question I can’t quite figure out the answer to,” he said. “And you probably didn’t anticipate this one because it wasn’t on my list.” The colonel’s expression didn’t change. There was only the slightest flicker in his eyes to reveal his anger. He was better at covering up anger than he was at lying. “One of your men died in a plane crash. An expert pilot, so I was told. And someone who worked for you. . well, that’s not the right term, but you know what I mean. . for eight years. Suddenly, someone comes into your office and tells you this officer didn’t die accidentally, that he might have been murdered. . ”

“So far I haven’t heard a question in all of this.”

“The question is, Colonel: How come you don’t seem to give a shit? How come you’re not saying to me, ‘What makes you think what you’re saying is true and how can I help?’ That’s my question. Well, I guess it’s two questions, if you want to get technical.”

Zanesworth still showed no outward signs of anger or discomfort. He stared at Justin for a long time, as if he were used to winning such staring contests. “I don’t know who you are, Chief Westwood. I’m going to make a point of finding out, however. And when I do, my guess is that this is what I’ll learn. That you’re a smart-ass, small-town cop who’s decided to cause trouble for God knows what reason. It’s not that I don’t give a shit about what happened to my officer, it’s that I don’t give a shit about you. I’m in the Air Force. That’s where my loyalty lies, that’s who I answer to. Not to an arrogant little turd like you. Does that answer your question? Or questions?”

“Not exactly. But I have a feeling that’s as close as I’m going to get.”

“I’ll have Lieutenant Grayson show you to your car.”

Justin stood up. Neither man made any attempt to shake hands. But before Justin moved, he pulled a piece of paper from his wallet, dropped it onto Zanesworth’s desk. “That’s my card, Colonel. If you decide to go for the truth instead of all this bullshit about loyalty, feel free to give me a call.”

“How long have you been a police chief, son?”

“Why?” Justin asked. “Think I need to work on my technique?”

Colonel Eugene T. Zanesworth’s only answer was a quiet snort, followed by, “I think you need to start looking for a whole new line of work.” Then he closed the door firmly behind Justin, who didn’t say a word until he and the lieutenant escorting him reached the Grand Am and the lieutenant was holding the driver’s door open.

“So did you know Captain Hutchinson Cooke?” Justin asked as he was climbing in behind the wheel of the car. “Did you ever meet him?”

“Have a nice trip, sir,” the lieutenant said, closing the car door.

“Thank you. That’s damn polite of you.”

“No,” Lieutenant Grayson said. “Thank you, sir.”

When Justin pulled up to the gate, about to turn out of the complex, he glanced in his rearview mirror. In the reflection he could see the lieutenant, still standing in the same spot, seemingly at attention, unmoving, staring straight ahead. It wasn’t until Justin was a couple of blocks away and picking up speed that he realized he was breathing normally and that his hands had unclenched. He took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and called the station house. He heard Reggie’s voice on the other end of the line say, “East End Police.”

“Hey,” he said.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“Great. Couldn’t be better.”

“You sound kind of funny. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I just needed to talk to somebody normal.”

He heard her laugh and then say, “Things must be tough if you’re using me as the standard for normal.”

“You have no idea.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Silver Spring. Outside of D.C.”

“You need me to do anything?”

“I’m just going to go try to charm a woman and see if I can get her to talk to me. I should be able to manage on my own.”

“You sure? I’ve seen you turn on the charm. You probably could use the help.”

“You got anything for me on Lockhardt?” he said.

“Not a thing.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “I’m trying, Jay. But there’s zip on the ballistics and nobody saw anything. The only possible lead that’s come up at all is a car that was parked about a quarter of a mile away from the airport. Looks like it was parked there at the time of the murder and moved sometime not that long after. But the witness didn’t see the driver. Just the car pulled off to the side of the road. And his ID on the car is pretty tenuous.”

“All right. Keep on it.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Tonight. Catch a seven or eight o’clock shuttle, I hope.”

“Well. . if you’re hungry. . or something. . feel like talking. . you can knock on my door. I’m sure I’ll be up.”

“What a good neighbor,” he said.

“You can even borrow a cup of sugar,” she told him.

They hung up and Justin headed for Silver Spring, Maryland, blaring the Lou Reed CD, Magic and Loss, he’d brought with him. It was the perfect music for his mood. Quiet and harsh, and all about love and loss and bewildering, incomprehensible death.

Justin found the house without too much trouble. Sense of direction was not his best thing, so he made several wrong turns, went too far going one way, went too far again coming back, finally stopped and asked directions, made one more wrong turn, then he was there. Not too much trouble compared to his usual treks.

There was a car in the driveway and there seemed to be movement in the house, so he knocked on the front door. It was a decent-sized two-story colonial, and when no one answered, Justin figured it was possible that whoever was home had gone upstairs and hadn’t heard him, so he knocked again, this time louder. He waited one full minute, knocked one more time, then forced himself to wait two more minutes, timing it to the second on his watch. He decided enough was enough, that something was wrong, so he tried turning the doorknob, confirmed that the door was locked, took two steps back, swayed his weight onto his back right foot, lowered his left shoulder, took one very deep breath. . and then the door slowly swung open. Justin didn’t move for what felt like a very long time, long enough for him to feel extremely foolish, hunched over, ready to try to ram the door open. He coughed awkwardly, stood up straight. There didn’t seem to be anyone on the other side of the door so he stepped forward, gently pushed the door a few inches farther open with two fingers. He heard a quiet breath, then another, but didn’t see anything until he lowered his gaze. That’s when he saw them: two large brown eyes at about the level of his waist, peering up at him from behind the door. Justin let a little air seep out of him.

“You’re Hannah, I bet,” he said. When the little girl nodded shyly, Justin asked, “Is your mom home?”

The girl nodded a second time. “She’s in the bathroom.”

“Would you do me a big favor?” he asked.

“What?”

“Would you go tell her that I’m here?”

The little girl pondered the request quite seriously, then nodded again and went scurrying up the stairs. Justin stepped farther into the small foyer, peered into the living room. The house was spotlessly clean. Everything was obsessively dusted, waxed, and shiny and there was the pervasive odor of Lemon Pledge everywhere. Odd for a house with two kids. It was too clean. Seemed like there were very few personal possessions or touches, too. It was all rather barren and antiseptic. Like a movie set meant to parody a suburban, middle-class house.

Justin turned around when he heard footsteps on the stairs. The woman coming toward him was probably in her early fifties, tall and bony, with her dark hair pulled into a tight, severe bun. She looked stern, not particularly attractive, but as she got nearer he saw that she had probably been quite attractive. And she wasn’t nearly as old as he’d thought. She could have been in her mid- to late thirties, but fear or worry or sadness had both aged and hardened her. As he took a few steps in her direction, he saw that she was shaking. Her cheek was twitching and the veins in her neck were taut. Her fingernails were bitten down to the quick, but that didn’t stop her from chewing on her cuticles. As she walked, her fingers were in constant motion, and the only way she seemed to be able to keep them still was to pick and scratch at them. He saw that the areas around her nails were bleeding and that her fingertips were picked red and raw.

“Mrs. Cooke?” he asked. “Theresa Cooke?”

“That’s right.” Her voice was as twitchy as the rest of her. He got the feeling that if she didn’t bite off each word, keep each syllable short and terse, she’d just open her mouth and scream as loud as she could. Scream until she couldn’t make another sound. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Justin said. “I’m a policeman. Police chief. Justin Westwood.”

“The police chief of Silver Spring?”

“No, ma’am. I’m from a town in Long Island, New York. East End Harbor.”

She practically wrapped her arms around her chest, as if she were now physically holding herself together. “That’s the town where my husband was killed.”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”

She seemed to age several more years right before his very eyes.

“What. . what. .” She had to lick her cracked, dry lips to get the words out. “What is it you want?”

“I’m just looking for some information.”

“What kind of. . of. . information?”

Justin lowered his voice to a near whisper. He looked the woman directly in the eye and did his best to give her a gentle smile. “Is there something you’re afraid of, Theresa?” When she didn’t answer, just stared back at him, he said in the same even tone, “You can tell me. What are you so afraid of?” he asked.

“Afraid of?” she whispered back. And when he nodded, she said, “I’m afraid of everything.”

“Then let me help you.”

A laugh escaped through her lips, but there was no humor in it. It was a harsh, crackling sound.

“Then help me,” Justin said. “Help me find out who killed your husband.”

“They said it was an accident.”

“But you know it wasn’t, don’t you?”

She stared with her hard, almost lifeless eyes, and then she said, “Yes. I know.”

From upstairs, the sound of the television filtered down. Justin heard frenzied, silly music. The girls must be watching cartoons.

“Do you mind,” Justin said very slowly, so carefully, “if I just sit and have a cup of coffee?”

Another long silence. The woman’s neck was stretched so taut he didn’t think it was even possible for her to speak. Her fingers moved even faster, picking deeper into her own skin, and he could see her shiver. She was like a fragile piece of glass and he was afraid to speak; she’d flinched at his words as if each were a rock being hurled directly at her. But the silence ended when she turned back to the stairs and yelled, “Reysa! Hannah! Stay upstairs and play! I need some quiet so I can talk to this man. Do you hear me? Stay upstairs!”

Justin heard two voices yell down, “Yes, Momma,” and then Mrs. Cooke spun on her heels and headed toward what he assumed was the kitchen. He waited a moment, watching the woman walk, her spindly legs looking as if they were going to snap after each step. When she disappeared around a corner, he emerged from his reverie and realized he should follow. It looked like he was about to get what he’d come for.

Justin sipped the hot black coffee, served in a delicate cup and saucer. He raised his eyebrow to let her know that it was good.

“I’ve lost twelve pounds since my husband died,” she said. “I haven’t been able to eat. Or sleep.”

“Have you been talking to anyone?”

She shook her head. It didn’t move more than an inch in either direction.

“Is there anyone who’s been coming in to help with the children?”

Now she recoiled as if slapped. “You think I don’t know my responsibilities?” she snapped. “I know my responsibilities!”

“I’m sure you do. That’s not what I meant. I was talking about making things a little easier on you, that’s all. You’re under a lot of strain. And you’ve suffered a loss. Everybody needs help in that kind of situation.”

“My husband! Hutch had responsibilities but he didn’t care!”

“I’m sure that he did.”

“No! He didn’t! And now my babies don’t have a father!”

Justin kept his voice soft and soothing. “What was he doing, Mrs. Cooke? What was he doing that made someone rig his plane and cause a crash?”

She didn’t seem to hear the question. She wrapped her arms even tighter around her chest. “Where is he now?”

“I don’t know.”

“They took him, didn’t they? Those bastards! We don’t even get a real funeral.”

Justin nodded. “Do you know who ‘they’ are?”

“No. Not really.”

“But you have an idea.”

“Maybe.”

That was as far as she was willing to go, at least for the moment. She tried drinking some coffee but she only managed one sip before putting the cup down.

“Theresa, do you know-”

“Terry. People call me Terry.”

“Okay. What was your husband doing over the past year or so, Terry?”

“Flying. Flying like always.”

“But not for the Air Force.”

“No. Special people.”

“What kind of special people?”

“Scary people.”

“Like who?”

She shook her head again. This time it might have swung two whole inches from side to side.

“People at Midas?”

He could see the fear run through her. It left her eyes and seemed to rip through her insides like an insidious, all-consuming disease.

“Can you give me the names of any people at Midas, Mrs. Cooke?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “A phone number? An address?”

The fear was clamping her jaws shut. Justin waited until he knew she wouldn’t-or couldn’t-respond.

“I spoke to your husband’s commanding officer,” he said finally.

The fear let go of her throat and allowed her to speak now. “Zanesworth?”

Justin nodded and said, “He told me your husband was stationed at Andrews the last eighteen months, that things were done just as they’d been done in the past.”

“That’s not true.”

“Do you have any idea why he’d lie?”

“Because somebody told him to. Because he’s scared, just like me. Or at least he should be.”

Justin wished he’d brought a flask with him. He’d sneak into the bathroom, have a long pull, and feel a lot better than he felt at this moment. But it was just wishful thinking. Something he didn’t have much time for. “Who did your husband fly when he was in the Air Force?” he asked, when he finally got away from the image of nice, warm alcohol flowing down his throat. “What kind of passengers?”

“Everyone.”

“The president?”

“No. Everyone but him.”

“The vice president?”

“Sure.”

“He piloted the vice president? Vice President Dandridge?”

“Yes.”

“Who else?”

“Lots of them. Secretary of state. Defense secretary. Everyone had their territories. Hutch had the Middle East a lot. That was his route.”

“He never left the Air Force, did he?”

“No.”

“They just let him take time off from his duties to do something else.”

She nodded.

“The people he was working for, they must have been pretty important to arrange that.”

She nodded one more time. He was beginning to wonder if he’d hear her speak again.

“During the time off, did he fly some of the same people he was flying for the Air Force?”

Another nod. Then, “I think so. Yes.”

“Was he still flying to the Middle East?”

“Yes. I mean, I was never sure where he was. He said it was usually better for me not to know. But he forgot sometimes, and told me things. They slipped out. Or else he’d give me hints. It was kind of like a game. Once he called me up from a hotel and I asked him how he was and he said, ‘I fell down the tower,’ and I didn’t know what he meant but it sounded bad so I got all concerned, but he was just laughing and told me to think about it. After we hung up, I figured out what he meant. He was saying Eiffel Tower to let me know he was in Paris. I think he flew the secretary of state there for some secret conference. No, it was the vice president, because after that he flew him to Saudi Arabia. I remember because Hutch brought me back this little veil thing, like Arab women wear, and he said that Dandridge was making fun of him on the flight back. Whenever he had time, Hutch always tried to bring me back something from one of his trips.”

She laughed now, at the memory, then started to cry. She was starting to break down, so he asked her a question quickly, wanting to get her to focus again. “Where else did he fly, Terry, while he was flying these special people? Over the past year and a half.”

“Florida.” Suddenly she jumped up, ran over to the kitchen counter, brought back a bottle. “This was from his last trip there, that’s how I know where he was.”

Justin looked at the bottle. The label said it was Havana Club rum, aged fourteen years.

“This is Cuban, Terry. Not from Florida.”

“I know. Hutch said they sold it in Florida ’cause there are so many Cubans there. Refugees.”

“Where else did Hutch fly?”

“Texas. A lot of times to Texas. I don’t think I can keep talking,” she said. “I think I’m going to start to cry again.”

“You’re entitled to cry,” he told her. “Can I just finish my coffee? I won’t talk about Hutch anymore.”

She nodded. He took another sip. It was cold but he pretended not to notice.

“I heard that you’re selling the house.”

“Yes.”

“How come?”

“Because they told me to.”

Justin put his coffee cup down. “What? Who told you to?”

“The people who bought it for us.”

“Who was that?”

“The people Hutch was working for. That was one of the reasons why he did it. They said they’d buy him a house. This house. And they did. Now they told me to sell it. They said I could keep all the money. But they said to sell it and move away.”

“How did they tell you this?”

“On the phone.”

“When?”

“The day Hutch died. They called to say that his plane had crashed, that he was dead. They said I should sell the house, that I could keep all the money, they’d take care of it, not to worry about the mortgage. They said I should just take the money and use it to go somewhere else.”

“Who called you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Justin closed his eyes for just a moment. When he opened them, he said, “Terry. If you tell me who called you, then maybe I can find out who killed your husband.”

“And maybe, if I tell you what you want to know, they’ll also kill me and my little girls. I think you better leave. I shouldn’t have talked to you at all.”

Justin tried to think of something else to say, to prolong his stay, but no words came. He stood up, stretched his stiff back, and let Terry Cooke escort him to the door.

“I don’t want any trouble,” she said. “I just want to get out of here, forget everything that’s happened.”

“Where are you going? I mean, when you sell the house.”

“My parents live in New Mexico. I thought we’d go out there. It’ll be good for the girls. Maybe I’ll be able to eat and sleep out there.”

“I bet you will.” He reached for the doorknob. “Can I just ask you one thing? Did Hutch own his own plane?”

“No. He never needed one, really.”

“Whose plane was he flying?”

She didn’t answer.

“Terry, why was he in East End Harbor? Why that airport? Why that town?”

“You think it’s because of the bombing, don’t you? The Harper’s bombing.”

“Yes. That is what I think.”

“My husband was a pilot. All he did was pick people up and drop them off. He wasn’t political. He didn’t even like the Air Force all that much, they just let him fly. He was just a good guy who liked to fly.”

“Why East End Harbor, Terry?”

“Did you see him?”

“What?”

“Hutch. My husband. Did you see him. . after the crash?”

“Yes.”

“Was it. . was it bad?”

“I think it’s always bad when someone dies who doesn’t have to.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. With them still closed she said, “He was going to stop, you know.”

“Hutch? Stop what?”

“He was going to stop working for these people. He didn’t like what they were doing.”

“He told you that?”

She nodded. “He just flew them. And it was exciting at first. Glamorous and fun. And he made a lot of money. But he said he thought he was working for the good guys. Only it turned out they were the bad guys. That’s what he told me. So he was going to stop.” She sniffled, holding back another barrage of tears. “Well. . he did stop working for them, didn’t he? He just stopped a little too late.”

“Why East End, Terry?”

“I don’t know. I guess even bad guys have to live somewhere, don’t they?” When he nodded tentatively, she took his hand. Not shaking it, just holding it for support. Or simply to have some human contact. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Things are just so muddy. That’s what Hutch would have told you. Things are muddy. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Justin said, then he gently released his hand, thanked her for talking to him, stepped outside. She closed the door behind him and he heard the click of the lock turning inside. He walked to his car that he’d parked in the thin gravel driveway. Muddy, he thought. A strange phrase but an accurate one. Things were definitely muddy. Thick, slimy, filthy, and muddy.

He got behind the wheel, started the ignition, glanced in his rearview mirror. . and there were those eyes again. The big brown round saucer eyes that he’d seen peering out at him from behind the Cookes’ front door.

“You know, it’s dangerous to get into strangers’ cars,” he told the little girl.

“You’re not a stranger,” she said. “You know my mom.”

“Hannah, right?”

“My sister’s Reysa.”

“I have to go now, Hannah, so you’d better go inside. I don’t want your mom to worry.”

“My mom’s not worried. She’s afraid.”

“I know she is. But you don’t want her to worry, too, do you?”

“No.” But the little girl didn’t make any move to leave. “Can you help her stop being afraid?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to try. But I don’t know.”

“Sometimes she’s too afraid to take us to McDonald’s. Yesterday, Reysa cried because she wanted a Big Mac but Mommy wouldn’t take us.”

“Sometimes,” Justin told her, “when people are afraid it makes them not act like themselves. But you know what? It always changes. People change back to the way they were. And they act just like they used to. You and your sister have to try to be really nice to your mom while she’s nervous and afraid. That’s what she needs. And pretty soon she’ll be just like she used to be.”

“And she’ll take us to McDonald’s?”

“I promise.”

Nine-year-old Hannah Cooke thought about this for a moment, then she decided to continue the conversation from the front seat. She pulled herself up over the top of the passenger seat and plopped alongside Justin. As she landed, something fell out of her hand. Something small and shiny.

“What’s that?” Justin asked.

The girl reached down, picked it up with her right hand, then opened the palm of her left to show him what she had.

“Jacks,” he said quietly. “Are you a good jacks player?”

“Uh-huh,” she told him. “I play all the time. Are you good?”

“I haven’t played in a long time.”

“I know. That’s what happens to grown-ups. They stop playing.”

“Can I ask you something, honey?” She nodded, so he said, “Do you know what your mom’s so afraid of?”

“The men.”

“What men?”

“The men Daddy brought to the house.”

“Do you know who they were?”

Hannah shook her head. “One was scary. I didn’t like him.”

“Do you remember anything about him?”

“Uh-huh. He was a general.”

“A general? Like in the army?”

“I think he wasn’t a real general. Just an assistant general.”

“An assistant general? Like a colonel?”

“No. He wasn’t a colonel. He was an assistant general. And he was mean to my daddy.”

“How about the other man? Was he mean, too?”

“No. He was nice. I liked him.”

“What did you like about him?”

“He played with me. The general talked bad to my dad but the nice one played with me. For a long time.”

“Hannah,” Justin said, and suddenly the inside of the car seemed very quiet and still. “Did he play jacks with you?”

“Yup,” the little girl said. “And guess what?”

“What?”

“He was really, really, really good.”

He was back in his house by a few minutes before ten, happy to be in East End, happy to be away from soldiers and bureaucrats and widows. By ten, he was at his living room window, looking at the house across the street, catty-corner from his. Reggie’s lights were on. She was awake. Go on, he told himself. She told you to come over. So go. Go. But he stayed, one knee on the couch, his arms leaning on the backrest, looking at the stillness of her front yard.

Justin’s eyes slowly grew accustomed to the darkness outside his window. He could make out the edges of the telephone wires across the street. And the hedges that sat below them. He thought about the little girl’s jacks, the way her soft hands curled around them, and it made his stomach hurt. He thought about Martha Peck, not knowing whether or not she’d come through as promised. And the colonel; his fierce and misplaced loyalty. Again, he could see Hannah Cooke’s hand curl around the jack, and now he closed his eyes and he was back inside Harper’s, walking through the bombed-out remains, and Chuck Billings was pulling a jack out of the wall. A tiny children’s toy, embedded in the wall. A toy stained with dried red-brown blood.

He opened his eyes. Saw-or maybe just felt-some kind of movement in Reggie’s house. Maybe she’d noticed his car. Maybe she was coming over. He waited but there was no further movement. Just silence. And shadows.

Things are muddy, he thought. Things are muddy.

He looked at his watch. Ten-twenty.

He walked over to his computer, turned it on, waited for it to boot up. When it was ready, he went to his “Shared” folder, where he kept his downloaded music. He turned the volume on his computer all the way up, clicked on a Tim Curry song from the early ’80s, “I Do the Rock.” He let the music wash over him, its hard, staccato rhythm and its cynical obscure lyrics. In a crazy world, the only thing that still made any sense was to do the rock. Forget ideology. Forget growing old. Stay away from fame and politics and philosophy. Just do the rock. Justin agreed. It was about the only thing that still made sense to him, too. But his job was to make sense of things he didn’t understand, so, music blaring, he went to the folder he’d cleverly labeled “MI” for “Murder Investigation” and began to update his list. The first column he went to was “Connections.” There he found the link he’d initially marked as so tentative-Vice President Phillip Dandridge-between Bradford Collins and Hutchinson Cooke. He had typed in several question marks his first go-round. Now he deleted every one of them. He didn’t know what it meant, but he had a firm connection. Dandridge definitely knew both men. Justin stared at the fact, couldn’t make anything new of it, glad in a way that he couldn’t because what the hell was he possibly going to do to the vice president of the United States if it ever came to that, so he began typing again, adding everything he’d learned in D.C. Not a hell of a lot, he realized as he typed. But small bits and pieces. In the space he’d allotted for Hutch Cooke, he added, “Daughter plays with jacks,” and to the right of that he put in “Connection to bomb?”-and then he typed in all the question marks he’d just removed from link number one. He also wrote down just about everything he could remember that had come out of the mouth of Theresa Cooke. He even wrote down, “I fell down the tower-Eiffel Tower.” It seemed idiotic, but he’d learned never to dismiss anything. It meant that Cooke was a game player, he liked puzzles. Info that somehow might prove relevant since this was as complicated a puzzle as Justin could imagine. When he’d entered everything he could recall, he was about to shut down the computer, stopped, went back into the file, and added one more thing: “Everything’s muddy.” It seemed fitting.

Then he turned the computer off, took the half bottle of single-malt scotch left over from the night before, and went back to his lookout spot on the couch.

Reggie’s windows were dark now. She’d gone to bed.

Justin decided he’d better do the same.

His visitors would be arriving at nine in the morning. It was going to be a long and interesting day. He had to stay sharp. He’d have to be alert because he was going to need to absorb a lot of information.

Yes, he decided. Definitely time for bed.

One last look across the street.

Nothing but darkness.

Everything’s muddy.

He went to his computer, clicked on an illegally downloaded version of Eric Clapton’s “Cocaine,” and cranked it up. It was the perfect song.

A half a bottle of scotch and three-quarters of a thick, hand-rolled joint later, Justin Westwood was sound asleep.