This Enemy Town

CHAPTER 20

I watched through the window as the back of Chris’s dark blue coat disappeared west down Ninth Street. I fumed a bit, too, wondering why Murray hadn’t mentioned Chris Donovan yesterday, why he pretended that all the information Jack Turley told us about Chris was news to him. And if he’d interviewed the woman, he had to know that he was a she. Murray, I decided, was sometimes a class-A jerk.

As I mined for foam at the bottom of my cup with a plastic spoon, I amused myself by dreaming up punishments for an attorney who withheld critical information from a client, information that could have prevented her from making a proper fool of herself by pretending to be her own daughter. A New Yorker cartoon came to mind, a dominatrix, with a lawyer groveling at her feet:

– So, worm, shall I tie you up in litigation?

– Yes, please, and make it lengthy and expensive.

I smiled. Maybe I should listen to Paul and let the professionals handle this.

I decided a brisk walk might clear my head, so before heading back to the Metro, I called Paul on my cell phone, leaving a message that I’d be home around six and that if he didn’t want to wait for supper, there was leftover Chinese food in the fridge.

Just the mention of the Chinese food made my stomach rumble. Except for the coffee and crumbs of chocolate chip cookie I’d shared with Chris, I hadn’t had anything to eat since dinner the night before. I needed a snack to fortify me for the long ride home, but one that wasn’t fifty percent sugar. I was already so wired, another cookie might send me into orbit. I tossed my paper cup into the trash and went out the door to forage.

Perched on a doughnut-shaped planter in front of the coffee shop, the concrete chilling my buns, I looked around me and decided that the Virginia Square/GMU Metro stop was a misnomer. As far as I could tell, no square existed, and the GMU of the title turned out to be only a small branch of George Mason University in Fairfax, farther to the west. I hadn’t remembered seeing any restaurants in the vicinity, so I bopped back into Starbucks to quiz the barista who was cleaning off the milk foamer with a damp rag.

“Are there any places to eat around here?”

“There’s Pica Deli, just across from the Giant.” She checked her watch. “But you better hurry, because they close at three on Sundays.”

I followed the directions she gave me-north on Monroe and right on Washington Boulevard-looking for the “building with the cool murals.” It would have been impossible to miss. Pica Deli was a box-shaped, two-story building with a wide-eyed marmalade cat, a slice of Italian bread, and a fruit bowl painted hundreds of times larger than life on one side of the building, covering the siding all the way from roof to foundation. But the muralist hadn’t contented himself with that. I entered the restaurant through double glass doors to the left of a giant strawberry pie.

Pica Deli was the perfect spot for grazing. I strolled past gleaming glass and chrome cases containing salads and pasta, meats and cheeses. Pegs of chips, wooden bins of wine, and shelf after shelf of gourmet items filled the shop almost to overflowing. A seven-seat wine bar provided a place for those who preferred their snacks in liquid form.

At the deli case, I ordered a Velveteen Rabbit-cucumber, tomato, red onion, dill havarti, and sprouts on thick farm bread-grabbed a lemonade from the cold case and sat down at a table.

So, Chris and Jennifer had been an item. I chewed thoughtfully, wondering if Admiral Hart had figured that out, how many other people had, too. But so what? Would somebody have murdered Jennifer simply for being gay?

Yes, I decided. Such things had happened before. PFC Barry Winchell had been beaten to death with a baseball bat at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Allen Schindler was stomped to death on shipboard near Japan. Jennifer had died violently, too. A hate crime could not be entirely discounted.

When the sandwich was gone and I’d cleaned every last crumb from the plate, I decided I’d better get on home. I was eager to log onto the Internet to see if I could find any evidence that Hart had been diddling with the government contracts under his jurisdiction.

I left Pica Deli, looked both ways to orient myself, then headed off in the direction of the Ballston Metro, which, according to the little advertising map I’d picked up in the store, seemed to be the closest station to the restaurant. As I walked, the sun began to set in a lavender sky and darkness was just beginning to steal over Washington Street, a tree-lined avenue that ran through a residential neighborhood of family homes punctuated by small businesses like bakeries, thrift shops, and dry cleaners.

At Nelson, I crossed Washington to stroll along the boundary of Quincy Park, with its playgrounds, playing fields, and picnic tables. As I skirted the park, I counted off the names of people who probably weren’t crying into their pillows now that Jennifer Goodall was gone.

Me because of Paul.

Paul because Jennifer had tried to ruin him.

Dorothy because she thought Ted was screwing Jennifer.

Ted because Jennifer was going to spill the beans.

Emma, to keep from being outed.

Chris, for being jilted.

Maybe even Kevin, but I couldn’t think why. With every step I took, the list grew longer and longer.

To my left, leaves rustled. I glanced over my shoulder, but nobody was there. The park, in fact, was practically deserted. It was late on Sunday; Arlington residents were all in their homes, and the city workers wouldn’t arrive until morning. And yet, as I continued to walk, more quickly now, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed. I began to regret taking so much time for my meal. It would have been much wiser to start home before dark.

As I turned south on Quincy Street, I heard footsteps again, echoing hollowly off the concrete walls of the Montessori House. I spun around to took. Nothing. Maybe I was losing my mind. Nevertheless, I hustled in the direction of a lighted parking lot, hoping to reach it before the bogeyman got me.

A twig snapped, and this time when I turned, I caught sight of a shadowy figure among the trees. Heart pounding, I bolted toward the lights, instantly regretting the high-heeled shoes I’d chosen to wear that morning. They looked smashing with my outfit, but pinched unmercifully and were completely unsuitable for jogging. Ten steps, twenty, my feet pounded the pavement, each jarring step driving my leg bones painfully into my hip sockets.

Chest heaving, I clattered up the steps and into the welcoming arms of the Arlington Public Library. I burst through the door, leaned against the lobby wall for a moment, panting. After several minutes, when no homicidal maniac had crashed into the lobby to rape me, my heart rate returned to a reasonable facsimile of normal. I decided that my imagination (or the caffeine) was definitely working overtime. Yet, overactive imagination or not, I was reluctant to go back outside, into the dark unfamiliar streets, particularly not while the staff and resources of the Arlington Public Library System were waiting inside to welcome me. I called Paul and told him to definitely eat the leftover mushi pork and steamed dumplings. I was at the library and there was something I needed to do.

Arlington Library, bless ’em, had a Cyber Center, open until 9:00 P.M. on Sundays. Claiming that I was staying with a sister in the area, I produced my Naval Academy library card and used it to apply for one of Arlington’s own cards. Using the new card, I went to the automated sign-in station to request a terminal. Fortunately, one was available almost right away.

First, I checked my e-mail. Paul sent a silly animated card from BlueMountain, saying he hoped it would cheer me up. It did.

Moving on to Google, I was still smiling when I typed in fast tracking and learned that there was something called the Iraq Reconstruction Office, which processed thousands of fast-tracking contracts worth billions by holding what the website described as “hold-onto-your-hats” job fairs for prospective contractors in Washington, D.C. and London. What fun for them.

The General Services Administration had a “get it right” plan that purported to secure the best value for federal agencies and American taxpayers through an efficient and effective acquisition process, while ensuring full and open competition, and instilling integrity and transparency in the use of GSA contracting vehicles-blah blah blah-but that was for federal agencies, not Department of Defense.

Several clicks later I landed at http://www.defenselink.mil/contracts, where Army, Air Force, Navy, and Coast Guard contracts-if it was military, they had it-valued at five million dollars or more were announced each business day.

Now that was more like it.

A button to the right invited me to do a DOD Search, so I obliged. I typed in the largest company I could think of, Megatron Industries, and learned that the corporation had been awarded more than one thousand contracts with DOD, most of them in billions, not millions, of dollars. If I had been a slot machine, my eyeballs would have been spinning, eventually turning-ka-ching, ka-ching-into double dollar signs.

Hart’s office-Navy Weapons Acquisitions and Management-was not mentioned in the database specifically, but I could determine what was being done and for what price, where the work would be performed and by whom, the projected completion date and whether or not the contract was competitively procured. Many of the contracts, I noticed, were not. The list of projects went on and on: parachute deployment sequences, diesel engine noise suppression, midair collision avoidance systems. Who knew how many of the “contracting activities” might actually be divisions that reported to the admiral? It would take someone more knowledgeable than I, holding a copy of DICNAVAC, to sort through all the acronyms and figure it out.

I could have spent hours playing with the sophisticated DOD search engine, experimenting with various combinations of search terms-how many contracts were awarded to the Megatron subdivision in Providence, Rhode Island, in 2001, for example-but people were waiting in line to use the terminals, and Paul was waiting patiently for me at home. I jotted down the URL of the DOD website and signed off.

It wasn’t until I reached the front door that the heebie-jeebies returned. Was my stalker still out there? I loitered by the front entrance, casually reading the community notices, until a young couple joined at the hip breezed past.

I fell into step behind them and followed them onto the sidewalk. “Nice evening,” I said, thinking just the opposite.

“Yeah.”

“You students at GMU?”

They quickened their pace. “No.”

I had to hustle to keep up. “Going to the Metro?”

“No.”

Even though I was fairly well dressed, they probably thought I was one of those creepy bag ladies who seem to be drawn to public libraries the way my sister Ruth is drawn to garage sales. I dogged their tail until, with a quick glance at me chugging along behind them, they turned into the park, the guy’s arm looped around his girlfriend’s waist, guiding her along with a thumb hooked through a belt loop on her jeans. I watched until they disappeared into the shadows. No way I was going into that park, or back down the deserted street to the Virginia Square Metro station, either.

I pulled the little map out of my purse, checked it, then reversed direction and headed south. With one ear cocked for the sound of anyone on my tail, I made my way to the corner of Fairfax and Quincy, where someone, I swear, had built the next building just to creep me out: the Arlington funeral home, a two-story brick mansion with a pillared entrance and an American flag flapping away under a spotlight. I veered away from it, heading right on Fairfax, and hustled straight to the Ballston Metro Center and the welcoming lights of the Hilton Hotel.

I couldn’t get down the escalator fast enough.

Then the turnstile rejected my fare card. I swore softly and trotted back to the solemn rank of fare card machines, where I slipped it into the “Trade in Used Fare Card” slot. The card’s value-a buck twenty-five-flashed up on a tiny screen. It was off-peak hours, so I’d need to add a dollar ten before I could get me and my aching feet back to New Carollton. Still standing in front of the machine, I rummaged in my purse, but only managed to come up with two quarters, a nickel, and a Canadian dime. Why hadn’t I saved my cash by paying for my sandwich with a credit card? I was such a moron!

I rode the escalator up to street level and made my way to the Hilton, looking around for an ATM. I found one tucked away in a corner of the lobby, but it kept spitting out my ATM card. “Something wrong with this machine?” I asked a passing bellman.

“Out of order, ma’am.”

“Damnit!” I looked around until I found the tiny surveillance camera mounted in the ATM, faced it bravely and mouthed, “Why don’t you fix your damn machine?”

I turned back to the bellman. “Know of any other ATMs around here?”

He squinted up at the ceiling as if the answer was written there. “Over to Ballston Mall.”

“Thanks.”

Following, his directions, I made my way to the glass-covered pedestrian bridge that spanned Ninth Street, wound through the atrium of the National Science Foundation building at treetop level, and trotted across another bridge with colored glass insets that would have caught the sunlight in the daytime but now reflected the headlights from cars driving on Wilson Boulevard some thirty feet below.

At the mall, I found an ATM that accepted my card, whirred for a moment considering it, decided I wasn’t a deadbeat, and spit out two crisp twenty dollar bills. “Thank you!” I kissed the bills, tucked them into my purse, and headed back in the direction of the Metro.

I had almost forgotten about being followed until I heard the footsteps again, directly behind me. I stopped. The footsteps stopped.

I hurried along to the National Science Foundation, where I pretended to be fascinated by the sculptures and palm trees in the tropical wonderland below. Without turning my head, I skewed my eyes to the right. If someone had been behind me, they were gone now.

Walking quickly, I entered the next pedestrian bridge, at the end of which was an elevator that would take me down to Metro level. Suddenly, the footsteps were back, echoing hollowly along the glass walls, moving quickly and coming closer.

At the other end of the bridge a couple emerged from the Hilton, arms linked and laughing. Witnesses! It came back in a flash, something I’d learned in a self-defense class many moons ago. I spun around, raised both arms and confronted my pursuer. “Kee-yah! It’s an attack! Call the cops!” I screamed.

“I am the cops.”

It was Special Agent Amanda Crisp, dressed in blue jeans, a hooded gray sweatshirt, and well-worn tennis shoes.

I bent over, rested my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. “What the hell?” I panted. I squinted up at her through a fringe of damp hair. “You’ve been following me for days, haven’t you? Why?”

“You have a certain reputation,” she said. “We know about your background. We were afraid you’d go off on your own like V.I. Warshawski.”

“Afraid or hoping?” I snapped.

We stood on the darkened bridge, staring each other down.

“You okay?” The male half of the couple that had been coming out of the Hilton had arrived, cell phone at the ready. “I’ve dialed 911.”

“No, it’s okay,” I said. “A misunderstanding.”

Crisp flipped open her Nextel, identified herself and cancelled the 911 while the young man looked on, curiosity all over his face.

“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” I said, leaning against the wall. “Tell me your name?”

“Mick.”

“Thanks, Mick.”

“No problem.” He stole a quick glance at his date, who hadn’t budged from the protection of the Hilton. “If you’re sure…”

I nodded. “I’m sure.”

When they’d passed on, I turned on Special Agent Crisp. “So, why were you tailing me? You scared me half to death.”

“We wanted to keep an eye on you, and-”

I cut in. “Afraid I’ll skip town?”

She raised a hand. “Let me finish. Because of some new information we’ve received.”

“What? You think I’m in danger?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Best if you stayed home and let us run the investigation, Mrs. Ives.”

I had the childish urge to say, “Make me,” but counted silently to ten before answering instead. “I don’t intend to spend one more minute in a jail cell, thank you very much, so I want to go on record right now that I’ll do whatever it takes to find out who really killed Jennifer Goodall.”

“We want you to go home and stay put. Stop talking to people. You’re just going to screw things up.”

“How can I get any more screwed than I already am?”

Crisp sighed and seemed to be weighing her words. “Because you’ve just come very close to blowing a carefully orchestrated, multiagency sting operation.”

I stared at Crisp, my mouth hanging open. Literally. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Jennifer Goodall had been cooperating with us and with the Navy I.G. to bring the admiral and his accomplices down.”

“The I.G.,” I repeated, stunned by this information.

“Inspector General.”

“I know what the I.G. is,” I snapped. “So, you think one of them-whoever them is-killed Jennifer Goodall?”

“It’s certainly possible.”

The gaze I sent Special Agent Amanda Crisp was shot straight out of the gates of hell. “Let me get this straight. The NCIS and the FBI and the Navy I.G. have conspired to frame me for a murder I didn’t commit just so you can divert attention from the real target of your investigation, some rogue admiral?” I was shouting now, and I didn’t care who heard me.

“You clapped me in handcuffs, sent me off to that horrible place in Baltimore, you humiliated me…” I sputtered. My temper rose like mercury on a hot summer day. I could practically feel my red blood cells congealing. Any minute, I was going to have a heart attack. “You may have taken years off my life. How dare you?”

I spun on my heels and headed for the elevator. “That’s it. I’m out of here.”

By pure dumb luck, the elevator door opened the minute I pushed the button, and to my enormous satisfaction, it slid shut in Agent Crisp’s astonished face.

She caught up with me by the fare card machine. “We arrested you in good faith, Mrs. Ives. You have to admit there was probable cause.”

Sounding like a win at Dover Downs Slots, the change from my twenty-all quarters-tumbled down the chute. I stooped to gather it up. “I don’t believe you,” I said.

“Look, Mrs. Ives. Go home. Now. Chill out. You need to trust me. Trust that I’m doing everything I can to get you off the hook with the feds.” She paused. “All of them.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“It will have to do. It’s all I have to offer.”

I folded my arms and scowled at her. “So, what exactly are you doing to clear my name, Agent Crisp, tell me that? Aside from putting a tag-team tail on me.” I remembered some unexplained static on my landline and added, “And tapping my telephone, too, for all I know.

“And speaking of telephones, I haven’t had any phone calls from my lawyer telling me that the FBI has called to tell him that it’s all been a big mistake and that the charges against me have been dropped. For me, that’s the only acceptable outcome.”

“We know about your involvement with the Dunbar, Vorhees, and Tinsley cases,” Crisp said. “But I need you to back off now. This investigation could have serious, international repercussions.”

“Frankly, Agent Crisp, I couldn’t care less about international repercussions. I just want to be able to hold my head high in public again.”

“This case is much broader than little cases of domestic violence,” she continued.

“Little cases of domestic violence?” I repeated. “Little?” I didn’t realize I had been shouting until a woman standing at the fare card machine grabbed her daughter by the hand and, with a nervous glance in my direction, scurried off in the opposite direction. “Explain that to Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar! That little case of domestic violence, as you so crudely put it, cost them the lives of both their daughters.”

Amanda Crisp raised a cautionary hand. “I certainly don’t mean to trivialize those tragedies, Mrs. Ives, but I think it’s fair to say that if government contracts are compromised, particularly in wartime, thousands of soldiers and innocent civilians could die. We’ve spent over a year setting this up and I’m not asking you to go home, I’m ordering you to.”

I studied her face in the harsh Metro station lights and decided that in spite of myself, I believed her, but I was too angry to give her the satisfaction.

“You’re a long way from Annapolis,” she said. “Give you a ride home?”

I shook my head. “No thanks. I’d rather not.” I didn’t want to spend one more second in a police vehicle, even if I were sitting up front in the passenger seat holding a doughnut in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

I fed my fare card into the machine and pushed through the turnstile. As I headed for the train, I turned and called back over my shoulder. “And it’s Kinsey Millhone.”

“What?”

“Kinsey Millhone, not V.I. Warshawski. Nicer wardrobe. Cooler car.”