Service Dress Blues (18 page)

There weren't any questions.

“Okay! I'll come here to get you about ten minutes before the national anthem. It'll be, like,
really
good if you already have your caps and gowns on, okay?”

Okay.

She exited. Three more “blond” dancers came in, at least two of whom had clearly used the magic of chemistry to assist nature in its hair-coloring endeavors. One of them immediately went to the far wall and sat cross-legged beneath a sign sternly warning, “
DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT SMOKING IN HERE
.” She rested the backs of her forearms on her knees with her hands slightly cupped, closed her eyes, and apparently floated off into her own universe.

“Don't touch those things,” the first entrant said to the beer-server, who was fingering what looked like translucent plastic tubes with pistol grips lined up vertically on a shelf next to the microwave over the refrigerator. “Beer and carbon-dioxide don't mix. And where's Dani?”

“I don't think she's gonna make it,” the reprimanded dancer said with a winsome pout. “Better call one of the subs, 'cause a five-girl line doing the splits could look kinda lame.”

Melissa began opening the large cardboard box that held her cap and gown. As she did so, she prayed silently but fervently for the national anthem.

***

Around the time the brunette in the blazer was wrapping up her Ask the Professor symposium, Rep was walking past a souvenir shop about two blocks from the main pedestrian gate of the Naval Academy. Among the dozens of bumper stickers and wall plaques displayed in the window, one jumped out at him:

TO ERR IS HUMAN, TO FORGIVE DIVINE

NEITHER IS UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS POLICY

He felt a little belly drop as he read the message, a premonitory tease suggestive of the don't-open-that-door music in a horror movie. But he didn't think anything about it.

Chapter 24

At six-fifty-eight Rep passed through the Visitors' Center Gate at the United States Naval Academy. He showed his passport to a marine who seemed impossibly young and very alert. The marine checked Rep's name against a list. Then he checked it again. After the second check he waved Rep through the gate. Seven minutes later, Rep was shaking hands with a white-haired man who had a cross on the collar tabs of his khaki uniform shirt.

“Thank you for arranging this,” Rep said.

“If Frank Seton asks me to do something, I try to do it,” the chaplain said. “He's a by-the-book guy, but whenever he's been here I've been able to count on him. Besides, it was getting to be about time for a chaplain's conference anyway.”

“Are meetings like this a regular thing?”

“Somewhere between semi-regular and highly irregular. We can get away with them about twice each term. Stress is part of the training here, but when it looks like some of the plebes are at their limits we call one of these just to give them a night off. This is the only place at the Naval Academy besides the firing range where
no one
can yell at a plebe.”

A midshipman, tall and rail thin and with his hair cut so short you couldn't tell whether it was blond or light brown, approached hesitantly.

“Did you want to see me, Father?”

“Yes, Mr. Lindstrom. I'd like you to meet Reppert Pennyworth. He's a lawyer from Milwaukee, working with the attorney who's handling your case. He'd like to have a word with you.”

“Uh, sure, I guess.”

“You can use my office, if you like.”

“Office” was a bit generous. The enclosure the priest pointed to in the far corner of the basement room might have passed for a walk-in closet. Rep and Lindstrom headed for it. They passed knots of plebes who weren't doing anything special—lounging on Naughahyde couches, talking desultorily, flipping through old copies of
Sports Illustrated
—but seemed to bask in idleness itself as an unutterable luxury. Lindstrom looked earnestly at Rep as soon as they slipped inside the office.

“When I called Aunt Lena last Sunday she seemed pretty spaced out. Just, like, flat. No life in her voice at all. How is she doing?”

“Well, it's pretty rough for her right now. You know she's out of jail, so that's good, but she's still facing the possibility of a murder charge as a result of Ole's death. She's afraid they'll just keep dithering. She wants the whole mess behind her in time for her to come out here for the end of plebe year.”

Rep hoped that this comment had heartened Linstrom a bit, but it was hard to tell. The change in the mid's expression was microscopic. Rep closed the door and sat on one of the spartan guest chairs. Lindstrom perched tentatively on the other. Rep leaned forward, forearms on his knees, trying to signal that they could talk some more about Lena if Lindstrom wanted to but that Rep was ready to move to the main purpose of his visit. The politely stoic mask meeting Rep's gaze told him that Lindstrom wasn't going to say another unprompted word.

“Did Ole ever talk to you about using you in campaign material?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Tell me about that. What did he have in mind?”

“He didn't really get into specifics too much. He just asked when my summer duty tours would be and when I'd have leave so that he could set up a shoot when I got back to Wisconsin. He told me to be sure to bring a set of whites and a set of service dress blues, so he could see which one worked better. ‘Which one the camera liked better' was the way he put it.”

“Do you know how Lena felt about that?”

“She didn't like it, I know that. She hated the idea of him using me for window dressing—that was how she said it—but it was more than that. She was afraid he was trying to set me up for a political career of my own after I leave the Navy. Thing is, I plan on taking my commission in the Marines and staying twenty-five years. That'd make me a little old to run for the Sylvanus County board.”

“Lifer, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. Of course, that was my plan last December, too, when it looked like I was gonna be six months and out. I'm guessing last December is what you really want to talk about.”

“That's right. I know you've been over it a dozen times with three or four different people, but maybe you could just tell me about it.”

“Sure. But it's gonna take awhile.”

“I have plenty of time.”

***

At about that moment, six-sixteen
P.M.
in Milwaukee, Melissa gamely followed her fellow professors from the first row of box seats to the roof of the Brewers' dugout. The perky brunette and a guy in a Brewers uniform were already up there, the former offering a megawatt grin that Melissa chose to interpret as encouraging. Most of the fans who'd made it into the park so far were ignoring them, which was fine with Melissa. Even before she got her second foot on the roof, though, hoots and whistles burst from the upper deck of the grandstand where students from the four participating colleges sat in sharply discounted seats.

Seconds later the student cheering morphed from good natured and laid back to sharply competitive. A whisper of apprehension fluttered through Melissa's gut. No longer was this just a mildly embarrassing lark. The collegians assembled in the grandstand, many no doubt amply lubricated with the beverage that gave Miller Park its name, were suddenly taking the thing very seriously. Melissa realized that the UWM contingent, barking defiance at their peers from rival schools, would expect her to hold her own against the other professors. She swallowed hard.

The brunette explained to the crowd how the trivia game would be played. She introduced the Brewer on the dugout roof as “Coach Dale Sveum,” who got wild and sustained applause because as interim manager he had taken the Brewers to the playoffs last year. Then, after a dramatic pause and a deep breath, she said, “Now let's play round one of Ask the Professor!”

They all turned to the message board to see the first question, while the p.a. announcer read it aloud:

Thank Heaven, an easy one to start off
, Melissa thought. She turned back toward the grandstand while fumbling for her B paddle. A run can't score after the third out in an inning, so the answer had to be two. She confidently raised her paddle, noting with a tincture of disappointment that all of her colleagues had also chosen B.

She heard derisive laughter and dismayed groans. Puzzled, she looked at her paddle. Her heart sank. In her nervousness she had held up the wrong side. Instead of B she had shown a blank to the crowd.

“Three out of four got it right!” the blonde said. “Pretty good!”

Koehler stepped forward and gestured for the microphone. The blonde obligingly tilted it toward him.

“Strictly speaking,” he said over the crowd's buzz, “Professor Pennyworth's answer is the correct one. A sacrifice fly can be scored on an error as well as an out. If the left-fielder drops a fly ball on the warning track with less than two out and a runner at third scores, the play is scored as a Sacrifice Fly/Error-Seven, and the hitter is credited with an RBI and not charged with a time at-bat. Technically, then, there is no theoretical limit on the number of sacrifice flies a team can get in one inning, and the correct answer is ‘None of the Above,' as Professor Pennyworth said.”

Ear-splitting cheers and angry obscenities from the upper grandstand greeted this exposition. They flummoxed the brunette for only a second. She swung the microphone toward Sveum, who looked like he would much rather be trying to decide whether to call for a sacrifice bunt or a hit-and-run in the bottom of the ninth.

“Your call, Coach!”

Sveum jerked his thumb toward Koehler.

“What he said.”

“All right!” the brunette said. “Everyone scores a point in round one of Ask the Professor!”

“Thanks,” Melissa whispered to Koehler as they completed their descent from the dugout roof.

“What can I say? I'm a showoff. Believe me, the pleasure was all mine.”

***

“…Next thing I know I'm naked on the lobby floor getting mouth-to-mouth from gunny.”

It was seven-thirty-eight (eastern time), and Rep's last twenty-two minutes with Lindstrom had gone pretty much like that. Once he got to the December incident, Lindstrom talked as if he were dictating telegrams. He made a generic comment and then he stopped speaking. If Rep wanted any specific details or concrete facts, he had to pry them out with painstaking questions in a process that reminded him of digging muddy pebbles from between the sole-treads of winter boots in late March.

“Do you remember anything about the girl, except that she had long, black hair?”

“Just that. And that she was hot, I guess.”

“How old would you say she was?”

“I don't know for certain. I mean, older than me, for sure. Her hair made it look like she was trying to seem younger than she was, but it didn't. She wasn't real old, like sixty or like that, but she wasn't just out of college, for sure.”

“Could the hair have been a wig?”

“Coulda, I guess. Her hair wasn't really what I was looking at.” Lindstrom accompanied this comment with a blush instead of a smirk, glancing hurriedly downward in becoming embarrassment.

Pulse racing a bit, Rep took out his Dictaphone.

“Did the girl's voice sound anything like this?”

He thumbed the knurled switch to
PLAY
. He had recorded Gephardt's clipped, disdainful voice off of his hotel room phone, and it now began to resonate in the tiny office. Lindstrom listened through the end of the message and then emphatically shook his head.

“No way. The girl's voice wasn't anything like as clean as that one.”

“What do mean by ‘clean'?”

“You know, kind of well-shaped tones, like a newscaster or someone that you might hear on television. The girl who took me had a kind of edge to her voice, kind of raspy, and she didn't have that kind of high class pronunciation. More like party girl, if you know what I mean.”

Rep turned off the Dictaphone as he felt his interest in the interview begin to seep away. His theory wasn't doing so well. Whatever Gephardt had done, it didn't look like she was the one who had enticed Lindstrom into a motel room and drugged him. Still, he felt he should follow up on Lindstrom's last comment.

“I'm not sure I do know what you mean,” Rep said. “What does party-girl pronunciation sound like?”

“Oh, you know. Like real breathy, and kind of come-on, you know, like ‘let's get it
on
' and ‘I want it
now
' and ‘I want some
ack
-shawn.'”

Rep refocused on Lindstrom and looked intently at him.

“‘
Ack
-shawn'? That's the way she pronounced ‘action'?”

“Oh yeah.”

Oops
, Rep thought.

***

Round Two of Ask the Professor began at six-forty-five (Milwaukee time), after the top of the second inning. Melissa saw a lot more people in the stands now. Fans who had lingered at their tailgate parties in the parking lots through the first inning had now made their way into the stadium and were filling the seats. Melissa and her colleagues turned toward the message board to read the question for this round:

Melissa couldn't believe her luck. The question came like an answered prayer. She had actually read this esoteric bit of baseball arcana in a very obscure mystery from the early 'nineties. She could still remember (approximately) the New York tough-guy argot wrapped around the information: “Five. Like the number of the amendment you plead in front of grand juries.” She found her C paddle and this time made sure she had it facing the right way.

As they turned around, she heard Koehler muttering to himself in obvious doubt as he counted on his fingers: “Walk. Hit-by-pitch. Catcher's interference. Passed ball on a third strike.”

“There's a fifth,” she whispered to him.

“Catcher's balk!” he answered. “You're absolutely right! If the catcher steps on or in front of home plate without possession of the ball during an attempted squeeze or steal of home, the batter is awarded first base.”

Koehler held up a C to match hers.

“Thanks!”

“We're even,” Melissa said.

The other two professors hastily switched answers as they saw Koehler's.

“The correct answer is C!” the brunette said. “Everyone scores again!”

“Shame on you two,” Koehler tsked to other professors as they made their way back to the stands. “You looked at your neighbor's work.”

“Guilty as charged,” Watkins said. “But I don't think you have standing to complain about it.”

“Law professor,” Koehler said to Melissa, shaking his head in mock disapproval as he gestured toward the professor from Marquette.

Melissa didn't think to turn her cell phone back on until there were two outs in the bottom of the second. She saw that she had missed a call from Rep and dialed him back.

“My theory about Veronica Gephardt is wrong,” he said. “A much better candidate for femme fatale is Laurel Fox.”

“Where are you now?”

“About halfway between the academy and the bar and grill Frank suggested, Federal House. I'll get something to eat and then go back to my room and wait for another call.”

“Another call? Why would you be getting another call?”

“Someone claiming to be Wolf's uncle left a message for me about how maybe he could get me in touch with Wolf and maybe he couldn't and said he'd get back to me.”