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Authors: Patrick A. Davis

Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #General, #Suspense, #War & Military

A Slow Walk to Hell (3 page)

BOOK: A Slow Walk to Hell
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So she must have made the changes for someone else.

 

By the time we reached I-395 twenty minutes later, Amanda was still giving me the silent treatment. This was ridiculous. Turning down the radio, I said, “Look, we’re both professionals. We should be able to handle this situation.”

She concentrated on her driving. “I am handling it.”

“By not talking to me.”

A shrug. “We’re talking now.”

“You know what I mean.” I hesitated. “General Hinkle told me you wanted to be removed from the case.”

“I thought it would be best.”

“Why?”

“You have to ask?” Her eyes still focused on the road.

“Actually, I do. Any history between us shouldn’t affect our ability to do our jobs. We should have enough self discipline to—What?” I caught a shake.

“Take my word for it. You don’t want to get into this, Marty.”

“Why not?”

The only response was the humming of the tires on the road.

“Amanda…”

Still nothing. She wasn’t going to tell me. I was about to give up when she said softly. “You couldn’t stand the answer.”

The implication stung. I retreated, looking outside.

“Marty.” Her voice was soft and sympathetic. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s not what you’re thinking.”

I continued to gaze into the dark. “What? That you find my presence…offensive?”

“That’s not it at all. I’m…I’m trying not to hurt you.”

As the statement drifted toward me, I shifted toward her. She was finally looking at me. In the semidarkness, I sensed rather than saw her sadness. I said, “Hurt me?”

“Jesus…” She hunched forward and gripped the wheel hard. “I didn’t want to get into this now. I wanted to wait. I wanted to a figure out a way to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

She struggled for a reply. “Last night, he asked me. Bob. He asked me to marry him.”

I felt a sudden, stabbing sensation. Even though I knew the answer, I had to ask. “And?”

No response. She sat there with an anguished expression.

As if with great effort, she slowly lifted her left hand. In the glow of oncoming headlights, I caught the glint of a diamond.

“I’m so sorry, Marty,” she whispered.

“I’m not,” I heard myself say. “I think it’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

At that moment, my facade crumbled and I had to turn away.

3

T
he remainder of the drive was difficult for both of us. Amanda was wrapped up in self-recrimination for causing me pain and I was struggling to accept the reality that she would never become a part of my life. As a defense, we withdrew into our private worlds, to lick our emotional wounds. There was no eye contact and no conversation.

This couldn’t go on. We had a job to do; we had to bridge our hurt and find a way to work together.

Could we?

I had my answer when Amanda turned into an upscale North Arlington neighborhood and simultaneously extended directions that she’d downloaded from the internet. “You mind?”

“No.”

Flipping on the map light, I concentrated on the directions. At a four-way stop, we turned left and followed a winding street up a hill, passing increasingly larger homes, some that qualified as mansions.

“This explains why an Air Force major needed a housekeeper,” Amanda said.

I nodded, glancing up from the paper. Here within the Beltway, anyone from a lieutenant colonel on down usually resided in apartments or townhomes, since that was all they could afford.

“What do you think these places run?” Amanda said. “A couple million?”

“At least.”

“So Congressman Harris must be footing the bill,” she said. “Generous uncle.”

“He can afford it.” Congressman Harris had a fortune in the tens of millions, courtesy of his grandfather who’d founded a department store chain. I added, “Besides, Major Talbot was probably like a son to him.”

“You know that Major Talbot is Mrs. Harris’s sister’s kid. He’s not related by blood to the congressman.”

“So what? The congressman raised Talbot. He obviously loved him—”

“That just it, Marty. They weren’t close. Harris never even formally adopted him.”

I gave her a look.

“I downloaded a couple articles on Talbot,” she explained. “Got them in my briefcase.
The National Enquirer
had the most interesting account—” She caught my scowl. “Hey, a lot of what they write is true.”

“Like J-Lo having an alien baby?”

“Look, you want to hear what I found out or not?”

“Can’t wait.”

She was glowering. It was an encouraging sign. Maybe we could quit walking on egg shells and resume a normal working relationship.

“According to the article,” Amanda said, “Talbot moved in with the Harrises when he was eleven and had serious problems adjusting. He ran away constantly. When Talbot was twelve, he took off for an entire summer. Harris finally sent him to a military school and that apparently did the trick. Talbot got into the military lifestyle and has been a model citizen ever—” She stopped, frowning hard.

I waited. “Yes?”

“I think the article said…I’m sure that’s where he went to college. Talbot’s one of your fellow alums, Marty.”

“He went to Virginia Tech?”

“Yeah. He was also in the corps.”

This spoke well of Talbot. During my four years in the corp of cadets, I’d never met anyone who came from the kind of wealth or influence that Congressman Harris represented. As a rule, the rich and powerful don’t fight wars; the poor and middle class do.

We crested the hill and turned left at another stop sign. Here the homes qualified as palatial, each nestled on several wooded acres and surrounded by an assortment of intimidating fences and walls.

“Jeez,” Amanda said. “Look at the size of these places.”

I was. Impressive.

“Doesn’t figure, Marty. Even if the
Enquirer
article was wrong and Talbot and the congressman were close, what uncle shells out millions for his nephew’s house?”

A valid question. Talbot was a bachelor and a relatively junior military officer. Why would he need to live in a mansion?

I sat up and pointed. “It should be the next house on the right. The one with the iron fence.”

 

We rolled to a stop in front of an ornate wrought iron gate. A sign attached to it said in big black letters,
PRIVATE PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
. And below:
DANGER. ELECTRIC FENCE
.

“Interesting,” Amanda said.

I nodded. Another inconsistency. Why would an Air Force major feel the need to have an electrified fence?

Peering through the gate, we saw an elegant hacienda-style home, sitting at the end of a crescent drive lined by light poles. The grounds were expansive and immaculate, and included a guest house, a tennis court, and a small pond.

“You sure we’re at the right place?” Amanda said.

I’d felt similarly perplexed and was comparing Amanda’s downloaded address against the one I’d written down. I clicked off the map light with a nod. “They match.”

“So where is everyone?”

It was a mystery. This was supposedly the scene of a brutal murder. There should be police vehicles and cops everywhere. But there was nothing—not a person or a vehicle of any kind.

I said, “Charlie Hinkle did say they’re trying to keep the killing quiet.”

“This
quiet?”

I studied the main house. It was a sprawling, white adobe structure with a two-story center section and single-story wings fanning out on either side.

“A light just came on,” I said. “Someone’s home.”

Exiting the car, I headed toward the intercom affixed to a gatepost. After a couple steps, I was suddenly bathed in a bright light. Glancing up, I saw that a spotlight attached to the top of the gatepost had come on.

“Video camera,” Amanda called out. “Two o’clock.”

I blinked, trying to focus through the light. I located the camera attached to the right gatepost, peering down on me. It moved fractionally.

Then from the intercom, I heard the crackle of a familiar voice.

“We’re opening the gate now, Martin.”

 

As I returned to the Saab, Amanda said, “That sounded like Simon.”

“It was. He wants us to park around back.”

She shifted into drive as the gate bumped against the stop. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yeah. This could be a short investigation if the killer is on videotape.”

“Someone’s coming,” she said.

 

As we rolled through the gate, we watched the approaching car. It was a red BMW convertible and as it went by, I caught a flash of silver hair.

“Looked liked Harry,” I said to Amanda.

“The guy who sometimes drives for Simon?”

I nodded.

“Wonder why he’s leaving?”

Following the curve of the driveway, we swung around to the rear of the house and found it ablaze in light. Close to a dozen vehicles were parked against the fence that surrounded the pool. Except for the coroner’s van and an ambulance, all the vehicles appeared unmarked, no doubt in an attempt to prevent the media from learning of the killing. This would prove to be a futile exercise. Police departments always had leaks. In a killing this big, someone would talk.

Amanda nosed in beside a gleaming black stretch limo that was parked at the end of the line of vehicles. Among the sedans and vans, it seemed glaringly out of place. It wasn’t.

Some of Simon’s fellow cops resented the fact that he cruised around in a chauffeured limo; they assumed he did it to flaunt his wealth. Not true. Simon used a limo because he had pathological fear of driving. When he first told me this, I thought he was kidding.

Then I saw him drive. His hands shook and he broke out in a sweat. He was genuinely terrified.

They say geniuses tend to be eccentric and Simon is no exception. Included among his many idiosyncracies are an aversion to handshaking and a compulsion to wear the same suit. I don’t mean the
exact
same suit, I’m actually talking about identical-looking suits. Specifically, Simon has a closet full of dark blue Brooks Brothers suits, which he wears with a razor-pressed white shirt, a red carnation in the lapel, and a wild bow tie. The only variation to his dress is the bow tie, which he cycles depending on the day of the week. Even though the ties are hideously ugly, they get your attention. That’s the idea; no one forgot meeting Simon.

Amanda and I got out of the car and took in our surroundings. By the pool, we could see two burly men in suits—probably plainclothes cops—standing on the decking, smoking cigarettes. Neither looked familiar. Several uniformed officers armed with flashlights angled past us and disappeared down the slope of the hill.

“Neighbors probably didn’t see much,” Amanda said, pointing out the heavy woods on the property.

“No…”

She’d gestured with her left hand and I was staring at her ring. In the darkness of the car, I never had a chance to appreciate its size.

The diamond was huge. It was the biggest rock I’d ever seen. It had to be five or six carats.

Bob, it seemed, had money. A lot of money.

“Company,” Amanda said.

I followed her gaze toward the pool. One of the cops had detached from his buddy and was walking toward us. His suspicious squint suggested he hadn’t been briefed about our arrival. Leaning over the short fence, he casually fired his cigarette butt to the ground and not so casually asked, “Can I help you?”

When I told him we were with the OSI, nothing registered on his fleshy face. Obviously, he hadn’t graduated at the top of detective school.

As Amanda and I passed him our credentials, a voice sang out, “They’re okay, Richie. Simon’s expecting them. We got the green light for you and Ben to interview the neighbors. Be cool. Don’t let on that Major Talbot is dead until we get the okay.”

Looking toward the rear of the house, Amanda and I saw a man emerge from the French doors and hurry toward us. He was slender, medium height, with wavy dark hair and movie-star good looks.

As usual Enrique Garza, Lieutenant Simon Santos’s chauffeur, was dressed like a Vegas headliner. He wore a purple Armani suit, a dark blue shirt, and a purple tie. From his ears dangled looped gold earrings that had to be an inch in diameter. On anybody else, his flamboyant getup might look cartoonish, but Enrique could pull it off. He could wear a leisure suit to a biker convention and still exude cool.

“Okay, Enrique.” Richie returned our credentials without bothering to look, then motioned to his friend and lumbered toward a gate at the back of the pool fence.

You wouldn’t expect a homicide detective to take orders from a chauffeur, but then Enrique wasn’t a typical chauffeur.

A former Navy SEAL, Enrique had been a homicide sergeant in the Arlington PD until last year, when he got canned because he almost killed a child killer during an arrest. In Enrique’s defense, the other guy swung first and Enrique simply reacted. Normally, that shouldn’t have been a problem, but Enrique used some kind of a ninja punch and drove the guy’s nose cartilage into his brain, turning him into an eggplant.

Anywhere else, Enrique would have probably gotten a medal. But this is America, the most litigious country in the world.

The killer’s family got a big-time lawyer and sued the city, claiming Enrique
intentionally
tried to kill the man. No one thought the family had a chance of winning the case, but the city decided they just might. After all, Enrique
was
a highly trained SEAL and should have been able to control his punch.

So the city settled the case out of court. In addition to whatever money they paid to the family, they also agreed to fire Enrique.

I’d once asked Enrique why he didn’t sue the city for his job back. No jury in the world would punish him for turning a child-killer into a drooling slab of meat.

“It’s not worth the hassle, Marty,” Enrique said. “Besides, I got me too good a gig now. Simon pays me three times what I made as a detective and I get the added benny of assisting on his investigations. Hell, it’s like still being on the force, only without having to put up with the horseshit.”

He was lying. Later, Simon told me the real reason that Enrique never sued for reinstatement.

Enrique knew the trial would turn into a circus and had no desire to become a poster child for other people’s agendas. He also didn’t want to play the discrimination card. According to Simon, Enrique believed that his firing was justified; he’d made a mistake and lost control.

By discrimination, Enrique wasn’t referring to bias against his Hispanic heritage. Rather he was talking about his sexuality.

Besides being a former SEAL and arguably the toughest cop in the Arlington PD, Enrique also happened to be gay.

I suspected that fact explained his presence here tonight.

BOOK: A Slow Walk to Hell
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