A Slow Walk to Hell (7 page)

I let the dig pass. “I’m not going to talk about General Baldwin.”

“Oh, goodee.”

“I’m serious, Amanda. I won’t discuss him.”

She sighed. “Tell you what, Marty, I’ll make you a deal. You keep your mouth shut and so will I. Now quit screwing around and let’s get going.”

Of course I didn’t believe her.

But by the time we turned into the Pentagon’s cavernous south parking ten minutes later, she hadn’t made a peep. I didn’t get it. This had to be the reason why Simon had arranged for Amanda and me to ride together. He wanted her to grill me about General Baldwin. Yet she never asked a single question.

All’s fair in love and homicide investigations, and I knew Amanda hadn’t remained silent because she’d given her word. That told me there had to be another reason. Could she and Simon have guessed the answer?

Some of it.

I rolled to a stop by the pedestrian bridge which led to the Corridor Two entrance. The Pentagon’s massive limestone walls loomed dark and ominous against the moonlit sky. Despite the late hour, the parking lot was moderately full, reflecting the heightened demands on the military since 911. In order to support the war on terrorism and Iraqi occupation, a number of offices were forced to burn the midnight oil.

Amanda stepped from the car and paused, looking at me with a strangely amused expression.

Here it comes.

But when she spoke, she said, “There’s something I forgot to mention, Marty. Chief Tisdale and I are going to search
two
offices.”

“Oh?”

“Simon phoned Congressman Harris, asked him about the message. You remember the part where the caller said Harris screwed him over…”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Harris said the accusation was absurd. When Simon pressed him, he did mention someone who’d threatened Talbot recently.”

I waited for her to say the name. She didn’t. She just kept looking at me with that amused expression.

I sighed. “You’re not going to tell me who it is, are you?”

“It’s a name you’re familiar with.”

I squinted at her. “What? Are you trying to say it’s General Baldwin?”

She batted her eyes innocently. “I don’t know. Am I?”

Christ.
“Amanda, knock off the games. This is important. I need to know if—”

“Gee, not much fun, is it?” With a sardonic smile, she shut the door and walked away.

T
he Mayflower Towers apartment building was one of a line of seemingly identical glass and chrome high-rises that defined Crystal City. Ten minutes after leaving the Pentagon, I swung under the entrance’s concrete awning and parked in a space reserved for guests. Going up the steps to the glass doors, I thumbed the intercom button and peered into a marble lobby, focusing on the security desk. A large black man in a guard’s uniform was seated at it, flipping through a magazine. He looked over with disinterest before reaching to his desk.

“Help you?” the speaker cracked.

After I gave him my name, there was an extended pause and I thought maybe General Baldwin had conveniently forgotten to pass on my name.

Finally, the door buzzed and I entered the lobby, heading for a bank of elevators at the back. General Baldwin lived on the thirty-second floor, where the penthouses were located.

Not many two-stars could afford a Crystal City penthouse apartment, but Baldwin had the benefit of a trust fund established by his father, a retired full general. As I intimated, the military was the Baldwin family business. Every Baldwin male was expected to join either the Army or Air Force—for some reason, none had ever served in the Navy or Marines—put in a career, then retire with their preordained one to four stars. Occasionally, a Baldwin topped out at full colonel, but that was rare. As with a civilian organization, the military’s promotion system was predicated upon connections and the Baldwins had those in spades. While they didn’t get rich during their active duty tenure, they made up for it later, usually by sliding into high paying management or lobbyist positions in a variety of defense-related industries.

The elevator deposited me into a quiet hallway with pile carpeting. General Baldwin’s apartment was the third one on the right, and as I approached the twin oak doors, I detected faint music and the murmur of conversation. Someone laughed out loud.

I rang the bell.

Baldwin had always been big on entertaining. Like the rest of his family, he considered cocktail or dinner parties crucial to fortifying relationships. He approached golf and bridge similarly. As long as I’ve known him, he’s played both regularly, but rarely with people he considered friends.

“What you have to understand, Marty,” he once told me, “is that competency in your job is only part of the promotion equation. The rest comes down to the social game. Not only how well you play it, but if you even want to play at all. A lot of guys don’t and I don’t blame them. Sucking up to people is a pain in the ass.”

“I don’t want to play.”

Disappointed, he shook his head. “You’ll never get a star, Marty.”

Tell me something I didn’t know.

The door opened and a slight Hispanic man in a tux peered out. Since General Baldwin didn’t have hired help other than maid service, I concluded the guy was associated with a catering company. “Mr. Collins?” His accent confirmed he’d answered the phone when I’d called.

I nodded and eased inside.

“The general asked that you wait in the study, sir.”

“I know the way.”

I cut across a large living room done all in pale cream. The furnishings were minimalist and elegant, modern art work on the walls adding splashes of color. Several Asian artifacts tastefully accented the decor, softening the sterile feel. From hidden speakers came the sound of soft classical music.

As I angled toward a hallway, more laughter erupted and I glanced past a Chinese screen into the dining room.

A full house.

Ten people, six men and four women, spaced around a stunning glass table that appeared to be suspended in midair. A blond man in a tux hovered over them, refilling coffee cups from a silver decanter. General Baldwin was seated at the head, his back to me. Since this was a social gathering, he had on a dark suit instead of his medaled Air Force uniform. I recognized two of his guests. The red-faced man doing all the laughing was a former Virginia congressman with a reputation as a military hawk. The severe looking woman across from him was the secretary of the Air Force.

General Baldwin said promotions came down to how well you played the social game. He played it well.

He glanced over and we exchanged a look.

Continuing down the hallway, I entered a masculine study lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Most senior officers had an I-love-me wall and Baldwin was no exception. His was filled with plaques and photographs highlighting his career as a fighter pilot and military stud. Several Civil War–era rifles also were mounted above his desk. They were part of the general’s impressive collection of military guns, many of which had been used by his predecessors in war.

My eyes fell on a picture on the wall, which was larger than the rest. It showed General Baldwin as a young major, receiving a silver star for his heroics during the first Gulf War. The beaming full general who was pinning the medal to his chest was Baldwin’s father.

“My second favorite photograph,” a deep voice said behind me.

Sam Baldwin entered the room, drawing the door closed behind him. Even in a suit, he still resembled the college basketball player he once was. At forty-six, his six-five frame was spare and hard, and his close-cut brown hair showed no signs of gray. Only his facial lines reflected his age. Numerous and deeply etched, they hinted of a life filled with more than its share of stress.

It wasn’t easy, making general.

“Is that your favorite, Sam?” I nodded to a silver-framed photograph sitting on his desk. An attractive woman in her late thirties stood beside a teenage boy with a remarkable resemblance to Baldwin.

“Yeah.” Sam walked over to the desk and stared at the picture, smiling faintly. “Ryan just got accepted to the academy. Class of 2007.”

I heard the pride in his voice. The legacy was continuing and another Baldwin would serve his country. “Congratulations.” I added, “How’s Ann?”

“She remarried last month. Even sent me an invitation to the wedding.”

“You didn’t go?”

“No. It would be…awkward.”

It didn’t surprise me his ex-wife had invited him to her wedding. Even though they had divorced ten years ago, they’d remained very close.

“Ann’s one in a million,” I said.

“Don’t remind me. You know we spoke at least once a week. It’s true.” He was quiet, a suggestion of sadness moving across his face. “I’ll miss our talks.”

A reference to the fact that Ann now belonged to someone else.

With a sigh, he eased down behind his desk. I settled into an armchair across from him. After contemplating me for a beat, he said, “I wish I could say I’m glad you’re here, Marty.”

“So do I, Sam.”

“I assume there’s been a murder…”

I nodded. He knew I worked homicides for the OSI.

“With some connection to me?”

“The victim worked in Manpower.”

He waited for me to say the name. When I didn’t, he said irritably, “You going to tell me who it is?”

I intended to, but at the moment I was reminding myself I had to ignore our friendship. I was a cop with a job to do.

I said, “The name won’t be released for another hour, so I’ll need you to keep it under your hat…”

“Give me the fucking name, Marty.”

“Major Talbot.”

“My God.” He popped upright. “When? How?”

As I recounted the details, Sam progressed from a series of disbelieving head shakes to open-mouthed shock, finally settling on tight-lipped anger at the suggestion that someone who worked with Talbot might be responsible. By the time I finished my account, I concluded that his reactions communicated the appropriate levels of surprise and disgust.

Still, something about them bothered me.

“Who?” he demanded. “Who do you think is responsible?”

“Don’t know. There was a threatening call on Talbot’s answering machine. It came from a male. We’re trying to ID him.”

“Hell,” he grunted. “That could be anybody. You must have a reason to believe the caller worked in Manpower.”

“Major Talbot had two phone lines in his house. The message was on the one that he reserved for his work.”

Sam shook his head. “I can’t fucking believe this. I really can’t. I suppose you want to know if I’m aware of anyone who might have hated Talbot enough to kill him.”

“Yes.”

“The answer is no. If Talbot had problems with someone, I wasn’t aware of it. Nobody reported anything to me.”

“So you’re not aware of anyone who might have threatened Talbot?”

He blinked at me. “Of course not.”

It wasn’t unusual that Sam would be in the dark about personal conflicts among the people in his directorate. As a general, he wouldn’t be privy to worker-bee gossip.

I asked him if Talbot might have been working on a classified project. Something which could have led to his killing.

Baldwin snorted even before I finished. “Get real, Marty. We’re not talking about the National Security Agency here. Manpower is full of bean counters.”

Essentially what I’d told Simon.

Now came the hard part and I braced myself for his response. I’d run across people with a shorter fuse than Sam, but not many. Keeping my voice casual, I said, “How well did you know Major Talbot?”

“Not very. I got over two hundred people in the directorate. Most I still don’t know. Like I said, I’ve only been the chief for a couple months. I’m familiar with Talbot because he’s briefed me several times.” He shrugged.

“I need you to be more specific on your contacts with him, Sam.”

He frowned. “More specific?”

There didn’t seem any way to sugarcoat the question, so I asked him straight out. “Have you ever had a personal conversation with Major Talbot?”

“A personal conversation? Why would you care—”

He stopped. It dawned on him what I was really asking. In an instant, his jaw muscles knotted and his nostrils flared. I knew what was coming and tried to head it off by saying, “Easy, Sam. I had to ask because—”

Too late.

At that instant, he erupted in a dramatic fashion. He shot forward in his chair, his face twisted in rage. “You fucking son of bitch. You’re disgusting, Marty. You really are. You think you can walk in here and accuse me without cause. Just because of something that happened twenty-five years ago. Well, fuck you. Of all people, I can’t believe that you…”

His voice rose with every word. He wasn’t shouting, but he was close. I said, “Sam, take it easy. Your guests might overhear—”

“Screw easy.
After all I’ve been through. After all it’s cost me. You think I would…that I actually could…” He struggled, trying to form the words.

In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do so and slumped back into his chair. He sat there, panting like he’d run a race, eyes fixed blankly on his desk.

“Sam,” I said quietly. “I had to ask. It’s my job.”

No response. He wouldn’t look at me. His breathing rate slowed and he continued to sit like a mannequin. I knew better than to say anything else.

His eyes crawled up and I saw his hurt. “We were good friends once, Marty.”

“We still are.”

He seemed about to respond, then reconsidered. In a thick voice, he said, “You’d better leave.”

“I still need answers, Sam.”

His jaw hardened again and I anticipated another explosion.

Instead, he regained control with a deep breath. “I didn’t have anything to do with Talbot’s death.”

I produced my notepad, saw him tense. “Relax. No one will see your comments but me.”

He eyed me sullenly, unconvinced.

“Where were you between four-thirty and five-thirty this afternoon?” I asked.

“My office till four. I slipped out to the POAC for a workout. I was back before five. You can check with my exec, Major Tenpas.” The Pentagon Officer Athletic Club was located on the east side of the building.

I made a note, feeling a twinge of hope. While this wasn’t an ironclad alibi, it was close. It would take Sam ten minutes to walk to his car and another ten to fifteen to drive to Talbot’s. Round trip, we’re talking forty to fifty minutes.

And the killer took a lot more than twenty minutes, torturing and murdering Talbot.

“Can anyone verify seeing you at the POAC?”

He shrugged. “It’s not very crowded then. The guy who checks IDs might remember me. There were also a couple men in the locker room. I don’t know who they were.”

“You got Major Tenpas’s home number?”

He opened a desk drawer and produced a Palm Pilot. After I jotted down the number, I asked him when he last saw Major Talbot.

“Hell, I don’t know. His office is only two doors down from mine. The last time he briefed me was over a week ago, if that’s what you’re asking.”

It sorta was.

I said, “And that’s the last time you spoke with him at any length?”

He glowered in disgust.

I took that as a yes and moved on, asking him if he’d ever visited Talbot at his home.