The Death Trust

FIVE

I wanted to have a few words with von Koeppen’s PA, but it would have to wait. I bummed a lift back to my rental outside Roach’s hangar. At the security gate, I asked for, and was given, the dead general’s residential address. Before the soldier gave it up he checked my identity again and cleared it with Ramstein’s OSI office.

The drive back to Kaiserslautern was uneventful and it gave me time to think. I’ve been present many times when bad news has been delivered to the friends and relatives of murder victims. Von Koeppen’s reaction to the news was a terrific performance. Even though I didn’t like the man, I believed his shock was genuine. A high percentage of murders are committed by people close to the victim and that fact was going through my mind when I broke the news to him, my personal radar tuned in. But something didn’t feel right. I had expected to be grilled about where the investigation was, what Roach’s findings had been, whether Washington had been informed, who I would be interviewing, and so on. But there was none of that. He expressed his sorrow and surprise that Scott’s violent end had been the result of persons unknown, and then I was sent on my way. He seemed most concerned about Harmony Scott. Was that because she was a widow left alone by her loving husband, or because her father was America’s top head-kicker? Or some other reason? I gave a mental shrug. I still had no suspects. I also still had an exposed nerve in a left lower molar. I drove down the highway with my knees doing the steering while my hands searched for the packet of cloves. The dried herb worked wonders, especially when combined with chemicals from Pfizer. I thanked Masters’s granny and popped two of the little black stems into my mouth.

Not surprisingly, General Scott and his wife lived on the opposite side of town from where I was staying. The drive to their home took me past the entrance to the Palatinate Forest, one of the largest remaining contiguous forests in Germany, or so the tourist blurb on my map said.

I pulled up behind three camouflage-painted Land Rovers, each wearing the white star on blue of the NCMP — the NATO Combined Military Police. A purple Mercedes headed the column. It was a sprawling home with exposed wooden beams and red-painted stucco in the local style. Impressive and ugly. I left my vehicle and walked up the path that bisected an immaculate lawn punctuated by gardens full of brightly colored flowers. Beside the house, nestling up against it in taupe-painted board with a curved white stone-chip driveway leading up to it, was a three-car garage. Inside were two white Mercedes and a crystal blue 1968 Mustang sedan. At the halfway point between front gate and front door sat a large fountain with water gushing from the mouths of leaping bronze virgins cavorting with dolphins and heroically muscled Teutons. What else?

The massive oak front door swung open just as I was about to lift the heavy brass door knocker: an eagle hinged at its beak, a small deer skewered in its talons. Nice. Eight people stumbled out onto the covered porch, Masters among them. Each carried a brown cardboard document storage box. Masters had a laptop under an arm, protecting it like a running back shielding the ball. Everyone appeared to be in retreat, fighting a rearguard action. Snapping at their heels was a small, anorexic woman with perfectly coifed blond hair and makeup to match. She wore a black silk blouse with a tan suede skirt. What with the coloring, bone structure, and attitude I was reminded of a Doberman-whippet cross.

“Who are you?” she demanded when she saw me. Her accent was Boston with a touch of London fog. Before I had a chance to answer, she said, “I know who you are. You’re the ringleader of this insult to my husband. I’ve just spoken to General von Koeppen about you.” She read the name on my uniform. “Yes, Cooper, that’s right. Now, have my husband’s effects returned to his study immediately.” She spoke like someone used to being obeyed.

“As I explained to you, Mrs. Scott,” said Masters, jumping in, I suspected, more for my benefit than for the widow’s, “we are securing General Scott’s records as part of our investigation into his murder. Whoever killed your husband tried hard to make it look like an accident, ma’am. When the word gets around that we know what really happened, the killer or killers may get nervous, and bold. If there is any evidence contained in these records that may lead to their identity, and the murderer knows that, then quite possibly you’ll be in danger. Removing them to a more secure place puts you out of harm’s way.”

It was a good speech, but wide of the truth. Security was an issue, sure, but, more accurately, Masters had acted quickly to remove the general’s records from his house so that we could pick through them at our leisure, in a place of our choosing, rather than have Mrs. Harmony Scott continually hovering over our shoulders. A couple of seconds with the general’s widow told me Masters had done the right thing. And, as Masters said, just maybe we’d find something of interest among these records. I had to admit, it was a good piece of decisive police work.

“I want you to know officially that I object, and that I will do everything in my power to have my husband’s effects returned. I will also do my best to put a full stop on your impertinent careers.”

Mrs. Scott had a whiskey aura. It wasn’t quite midday and already she was into the sauce. Despite her unpleasant manner, I felt sorry for her on the one hand and thirsty on the other. Losing someone close was tough, but at least she had single malt to lean on. Whiskey was also my crutch of choice, with bourbon as the footstool. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Scott,” I said, “but I agree with Special Agent Masters. We have no leads on your husband’s killer. We don’t know who, or why. Removing his records might help remedy that situation. I will also be recommending to General von Koeppen that you receive twenty-four-hour protection.”

Harmony Scott stared at me with a cold ferocity in her pale gray eyes and I saw in them her father, the Vice President: Jefferson Cutter, the man often referred to as “Jeff the Cutter,” “the Ripper,” or “Toe Cutter” by the Washington press corps. At sixty-eight years of age, JC was getting on in life now but he was still supposedly the most powerful man in D.C. In fact, Cutter was also called the Ventriloquist, on account of that’s how far his hand went up the President’s ass. Harmony Scott’s stare was unsettling, the way a viper holds you before it strikes. But only her eyes held anger, danger. The rest of her face was completely devoid of expression, like it belonged to someone else, a mask of porcelain and just as cold. Botox. “You will do no such thing,” she said, taking a step toward me, getting inside my personal space — coiling — so that I had to take half a step back. Then she turned and went inside her home, slamming the heavy front door in our faces.

“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” I said. I had a bunch of questions I wanted to put to the widow, but they would have to wait until she was in a more amenable mood to answer them. “Where’s the hired help?” I asked.

“Let go,” said Masters as we walked down the stairs. “Fired months ago. She gets a professional cleaning company in once a week.”

“The woman’s in that big house alone? No friends or relatives?”

Masters nodded.

“What about her mother?” I asked.

“She doesn’t have one.”

“What, ever?”

“I believe her mother died in childbirth.”

“You’re starting to scare me,” I said.

Masters shrugged. Her cell began playing that KC and the Sunshine Band number. She answered it. “It’s for you.”

“Me?” I took the phone and stepped off the porch into the garden, and began to walk slowly back to the front gate.

“What in fuck’s name is going on there, Cooper?” snarled the voice through the speaker. “You’ve been there less than a day and already I’m being pressured to have you sent home.” It was General Gruyere.

“General, I’m just doing my job.”

“That’s not what I’m hearing.”

I glanced at my Seiko. I figured von Koeppen must have called her as soon as he got off the line with his president, a good forty minutes ago. It was just after 0600 back at Andrews. I sympathized with Gruyere’s mood. If someone woke me at that ungodly hour, I’d have to shoot them. “Also, I’ve been trying to ring you on your cell for the last ten minutes.”

“It’s in my coat in the car, General. The battery might have expired.”

“Why have you seized General Scott’s records?”

Seized was perhaps too strong a word. I explained that we had merely secured them and provided the reasoning for doing that, which Gruyere largely accepted, though she added a warning. “Do try to avoid getting that woman angry, Special Agent. She has powerful allies neither you nor I want to mess with. Now, tell me you’ve got the paperwork for this in order.”

“The paperwork in order?” I repeated, loud enough for Masters to catch.

I already knew the answer to that. Masters shook her head, confirming it. My heart sank. “Yes, General. Of course we have.”

“Bullshit, Special Agent,” said Gruyere, calling my bluff. The silence was pregnant.

“I will organize things officially from my end, but this is it, Cooper.” The general’s words were careful and deliberate. She was not impressed. “Remember what I told you before you left here yesterday.”

I remembered: It’s either the biggest case of your career, or the last. “Yes, ma’am.” I read her loud and clear.

“Now, tell me what you know,” she said.

I filled the general in on Roach’s findings.

“Damn it to hell…” she said. “And no suspects?”

“No, ma’am.”

“No leads?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Better get on with it, then, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said as the line went dead.

I took a couple of deep breaths. Out with the bad, in with the good, as a certain colonel used to instruct me and my wife in our relationship counseling sessions before I stopped going — before I caught him in the shower with said wife on her knees giving his erection a good scrub with the back of her throat. The cops were shuttling boxes into the trucks. Masters put General Scott’s computer on the front passenger seat of her car and locked the door closed behind her.

“Thanks,” she said as she walked over. “You didn’t have to do that.”

I handed back her cell. “Do what?”

“Cover for me.”

I wasn’t sure what to say, how to handle this apology. And not because I hadn’t received any positive feedback from the female of the species for some time. I was annoyed with Masters for racing off to secure Scott’s papers without at least warning me. Doing it without getting the proper clearances and authorizations also rankled. Did she think Scott’s widow would just pass his things over happily? It was also probably the sort of thing I’d have done myself had I thought of it. I gave in to my gentler side and said, “Forget it. Let’s just try to make this teamwork thing happen as the big cheese intended.”

“The big who?”

“Never mind. Where are you taking all this stuff?”

“We’ve got a spare office at OSI on the base. I’m going to set that up as an operations room. Do you know where OSI is?”

“No, but I’ll find it. The guy on the front gate and I are on a first-name basis now.”

One of the policemen mumbled something at Masters, saluted, and then headed back to the lead vehicle. The three trucks pulled away.

“I’m going to head back and get Scott’s things behind a locked door. You?”

“I want to talk to the captain who watched Scott’s plane go down. Then I’m going to talk to General von Koeppen’s PA. I’d like to know a bit more about their working relationship.”

“Whose? Between von Koeppen and his PA?”

“No, the relationship between Scott and von Koeppen.”

“Oh, right.”

“Anything more you can tell me about Herr General, other than he dresses in leather chaps and prances around his office with a feather duster?”

“Who said anything about a feather duster?” She laughed, and that surprised me. I’d been thinking that perhaps the scowl on her face was permanent. “Actually, I haven’t had much to do with him. He’s a bit of a ladies’ man, or so I’ve heard — base gossip. So…why don’t I catch up with you after you interview von Koeppen’s PA? That’ll give me enough time to get things organized back at the office.”

“Sounds good.” I liked this new era of cooperation. I was in a NATO facility, after all. It was a pleasant change to be in someone’s good books, even if I had to be chewed out by my boss to get there. Talk of von Koeppen’s reputation reminded me of Roach’s comments on Masters, but I thought, on the whole, it would be best to keep that knowledge to myself, at least while things were going so well between us.

“Okay, I’ll see you later,” said Masters, walking back to my rental.

“Where’re you going?”

She opened the passenger door, leaned in, and came out with my cell and pager. She thumbed them so that I could hear the “on” beeps, and then dropped them back onto the passenger seat.

“Yeah, I was going to do that,” I said.

“Sure you were,” Masters replied.

I got behind the wheel and the gadgets immediately started buzzing and ringing with stored messages. I was further distracted by an awful smell inside the car. Maybe Hertz had inadvertently left something decaying under my seat. I groped under it with my hand, which brought my nose closer to the source of the troubling odor. Me. I looked at myself in the mirror behind the sun visor. I hadn’t had a shower for close to forty-eight hours and my five-o’clock shadow was putting in overtime. On top of this I’d eaten nothing, unless two blister cards of codeine could be considered food, and my breath smelled of something rotting sprinkled with cloves. I was fast becoming a walking biological weapon.