CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX

Washington, D.C.
Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam edged her way into the Old Ebbitt Grill. She stood by the hostess stand for a moment to get her bearings and quickly felt her ears start to ring. It was incredibly loud. Thursday night happy hour, and the place was packed. When she’d lived in D.C., Thursday was the night to go out. It was meant for singles, and new couples, a night to cast inhibitions to the wind and get gloriously, achingly polluted. Thursdays lasted well into Friday, the lines between the two blurring after too many pitchers accompanied by too many shots, and she’d spent more than one Friday morning in class hosting a wicked hangover. It had been well known in D.C. that Friday morning was not the time to schedule important meetings. She assumed that held true even now. Back then, this bar had been filled to the gills with people both important and wanting to be, and cigar and cigarette smoke hung thick in the air. It was a stone’s throw from the White House and political operatives had graced its hallowed halls for decades. Deals were cut in the red leather booths, leaning onto one of four long bars, on the stairs down to the marble bathrooms. Deals and assignations and every other kind of vice—Old Ebbitt’s was more than a legend. It was a king maker.

And now, the crowd was even larger and infinitely more hip: every third person was staring at their palm, where tiny devices connected them to the world beyond. The Information Age. Sam found it sad. There was no real sense of being anywhere anymore. Whatever world you were in, the world you could reach through your screen was much more enticing. Why bother going out with friends at all if all you wanted to do was talk to the people who were absent?

She’d had a friend like that once. A girl who was only around Sam when there was nothing better to do, no cooler, hipper places to go or people to be with. That’s exactly what this technological phenomenon reminded her of.

Sam miraculously found an empty stool halfway down the front bar and watched the women around her flirt with the men, and they in return, with interest akin to horror. It was lost on her, this sly byplay between a man and a woman: the slitted eyes with heavy-lidded, lingering glances; the engaging half smile, lips pouting so their fullness was accentuated, showing just a little teeth in a brief flash of white; hanging on every word as if it were the most important thing said on earth; the well-timed touch on the shoulder that screamed, Tell me more, and remember, I’m stunning, without making it seem too desperate.

She didn’t know how to do that anymore. The idea actually made her skin crawl. Which was sad, considering. She’d always been a sexual creature, at least until Simon died. Now she was shriveled up, completely uninterested in sex. Clinically, she wondered how long that would last. The body was biologically designed for pleasure, for the comforts of intimacy. In denying herself, what was she accomplishing?

No, she wasn’t really denying herself. She’d been in a fog for two years, a fog of grief and loneliness and horrifying emptiness. Sex was about the last thing she wanted, or needed.

But she was a realist. Eventually those urges would come back. Just thinking about it made her ache with longing, and disgust. She couldn’t even imagine being with someone other than Simon. Hadn’t, since he died. But being here, thinking of Donovan, she was increasingly unable to separate the memories of them out of bed from those of them in bed. Eight out of every ten conversations she and Donovan had were horizontal. It was part of the allure.

It had been a long, long time since she’d thought of another man’s body. And now, memories of both of the men she’d loved mingled in her head, each vying for attention. She’d done a psychiatry rotation, she understood what was happening. Acceptance. Accepting the fact that her grief was changing, becoming something less sharp to hold in her hands, to shield her from the world.

Her bed was cold and unforgiving now, but she missed being touched. She missed the soft caresses, the lingering kisses, the warm familiarity of sleeping next to someone.

Feeling lonely was a long way from wanting to flirt. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t even pretend that she was. Yet sitting in the bar at Old Ebbitt’s, she quickly understood that if she were ready, she’d have no shortage of choices. Men from three sides leaned in to see her, and a couple of women did, as well. The knowledge gave her the tiniest bit of comfort, even as she prayed to Simon for forgiveness. These weren’t appropriate thoughts for a widow.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. A short, muscular man, his mustache and eyebrows incredibly full and dark brown, with no hair on his head, was standing next to her, eyes darting around the restaurant. He looked like a miniature G. Gordon Liddy, who she’d seen plenty of times in this establishment back in the day. This must be the real Gino Taranto.

“I got a table over there,” he shouted. He jerked his head toward the back of the restaurant, started walking. Sam got up and followed him. He let her slide into the booth before he joined her on the opposite side. The din was manageable back here, a cicadalike buzz replacing the meat market’s squalling racket.

A server rushed over to greet them. Sam ordered a Lagavulin. Taranto looked impressed and asked for a Yuengling. The waiter dropped some bread on the table and scurried away. Now they were alone.

“So,” Sam said. “Why am I here? Why couldn’t you just meet Detec—”

“Shhhh!” Taranto glanced over his shoulder before leaning across the table. “You hot?”

“Not really. It’s a little stuffy in here, but I’m all right.”

Taranto rolled his eyes. “Lady, I ain’t talking about the temperature. Are you hot. Wired.”

It took Sam a second. “Oh. No. I’m not wearing a wire.”

“You’ll forgive me for not believing you. Slide the shirt down a little.”

She looked him straight in his beady little eyes. “I’ll do no such thing. I told you I’m not taping you. Either you believe me, or we’re done.” She started to stand and he grabbed her arm.

“Okay, okay. Just don’t use my name.”

“Why, exactly, can’t you talk to—”

‘“Cause I can’t be seen out talking to cops. It ain’t safe. I ain’t safe. I’m meetin’ you against my better judgment. But Mutant said you could be trusted, thought Chevy could, too. Remember that. No names.”

Chevy? Who the hell … Oh, Chevy Chase. Fletch. Chevy was Fletch. Clever. Mutant, she knew, was Alexander Whitfield. She wondered when she was going to get a code name. What would it be? Bones? Legs? More like Ass, hers was getting big enough for its own zip code. She hadn’t been working out a lot. She knew she was too thin, but all her muscle tone was gone. She’d gotten flabby. Things were spreading in all the wrong directions.

Sam, really.

She tried to refocus.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Taranto. Cloak and dagger isn’t exactly my strong suit. I’m a medical examiner, not a spy.”

“Jesus, I told you not to use my name. ‘Scuse my language. I know you’re a doc. That’s why I’m talking to you, and not them. You have no authority here.” The waiter sidled up with their drinks. They stayed silent, waiting for him to clear out before resuming.

“Okay. You’re a part of this now. So, listen up. I ain’t got all day.”

Sam took a sip of the scotch, let the nose expand. She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them to find Taranto looking at her in scowling amusement.

“Are you ready now?”

“Yes,” she said, then smiled with her lips closed. She knew her dimples showed that way. Flirting practice. It worked. Taranto loosened up a bit, his shoulders dropping an inch.

“All right. Here’s the scoop. Last month, chick comes to me, says she thinks her hubby was KIA by a friendly over in Jalālābād. We’ll call him King.”

Sam immediately sat straighter. King was the nickname Susan Donovan had used for Perry Fisher. One of the five men in the photo, the one who died in Afghanistan.

“What made her think that?”

“Apparently, she ran into a shaky guy at a mutual friend’s funeral. They had a few drinks, told a few stories. This guy got into his cups and let this bit of news slip. When she questioned him, he clammed up. She pushed and pushed until he said to talk to another guy. We’ll call him Orange. She did. Orange denied everything. Said that was crazy talk, that the shaky guy was a worthless drunk. Now, this lady knew her hubby liked the shaky guy, so she thought maybe there’s something else going on here. She happens to read my words, regular like, comes to me and tells me the story. I go digging. One thing is consistent with the military. The brass don’t like to share when they fuck up. ‘Scuse my language. Orange pushed back, and hard. So I back off him, all nice like. But I do what I do, and sure enough, what that shaky dude said rings true. You got me so far?”

He sat back in the booth and took a long sip of his beer.

Sam tried deciphering that load of information in her mind. Karen Fisher had seen William Everett—Billy Shakes—at a funeral. Billy was drunk and said some things he shouldn’t. Karen, concerned that she’d been denied the true story of her husband’s death, followed up, talked with someone named Orange. Sam made a mental note—find out who Orange is.

Then it hit her. Orange must be this missing Maggie Lyons Fletcher had mentioned. One piece of the puzzle solved.

Regardless, it didn’t seem like news worth killing over. She knew this wouldn’t have been the first time a soldier died by friendly fire, but maybe Sam was being naive.

“All right. I’m following. So according to Shaky, who killed King? And why hide it?”

“Sister, people are getting dead against their will. That’s good enough for me. I got my suspicions, but soon as I dove into it, I got some pretty nasty threats to back off. Normally I don’t listen to that kind of shit—’scuse my language—but the threats weren’t directed at me. They were directed at her.”

Sam thought this through for a minute. “So King’s wife was threatened by Orange to get you to back off the story.”

“Exactamundo. If I didn’t back off, she’d bleed. And the kids. Story wasn’t worth getting someone dead for. This time, I backed off for real.”

“But let me guess. She didn’t.”

“No. Didn’t know what was good for her. She starts talking to anyone she can find that might know what went down. Gets a coupla different stories, little details changed here and there. Realizes someone’s gotta be lying. Next thing she knows, people start dropping like flies.”

“Why didn’t she go to the police?”

He drank some more of his beer. “Well, see, that might have been the smart thing to do. But this chick, she’s grieving. And she’s angry. Angry she got lied to, and angry she’s being pushed. You know how bees will leave you alone if you leave them alone, but you start trying to fight them off and they just dive-bomb your head? She’s a real fucking bee. ‘Scuse my language.”

“Where is she now?”

“I can’t say.”

Sam sighed deeply and took another sip of the scotch. Let it roll around on her tongue.

“You don’t know? Or you have her hidden?”

“Hidden, for her own damn good. She finally got the message after Jackal bit it.”

Hal Croswell. Apparently Donovan hadn’t been a strong enough message. “And you’re certain she wasn’t the one doing the killing?”

“Hundred percent. No way. This chick is looking for answers, and she knows her questions are what got a bunch of people in trouble. She’s scared to death she’s next.”

“Have you ever heard of a woman named Maggie Lyons?”

Taranto crossed his stubby arms on the table.

“What if I had?”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Nope. Pinky swear. But I know where she’s been.”

“And that would be …?”

“Not that. Who.”

“Who? Oh. Wow, you really have been into this story. You must have spoken to the husband. He claims the child isn’t his. Do you know who the father is?”

“Think so. Which is another reason I need to keep King’s old lady away.”

Sam took a moment to think, finished her scotch. It all started to make sense.

“King is the father.”

Taranto snapped his fingers.

“Mr. Taranto—”

“Again with the names. Jesus, lady, you trying to get me killed?”

“Sorry, you never told me what I should call you.”

“Ralph.”

“Ralph. Of course. Silly of me not to draw that conclusion on my own. So, Ralph. You really expect me to believe that you’re not working this story now?”

It was his turn to smile. “Maybe I got a few things cooking. Be crazy not to at least make a few nudges, take some notes. Thing is, something like this, I get the feeling it’s big. Real big. And there’s heroes to think of. Dragging names through the mud, fucking with benefits—’scuse my language—with awards and stars and all that jazz, isn’t my cup of tea. I may hate why they’re there, but I respect the gig.”

Sam didn’t think the two were necessarily mutually exclusive, but now wasn’t the time for a debate.

“Who’s your contact inside?” she asked instead.

“Whoooooo, I ain’t telling you that, girlie. Nice try, though.”

Sam stared at him for a few moments. “I think you’ve got more than a few notes. I think you’re about to bust something wide open. Why play with us like this? I’m sure De … that Chevy could help. He could bring to bear the full might of the D.C. police on your clandestine investigation.”

Taranto laughed, a choking, chortling sound. “As if. Thing is, I’m not ready to go out wide yet. But you and your buddies started poking around, and suddenly my pan’s too hot and I gotta scramble some eggs instead of making the omelet. I just need the fire turned down a bit, so I can get some more info together.”

“I doubt I can do anything to help, but I’ll pass along your request.” Sam had a thought. If Taranto was pushing to find out the details of the story … “You didn’t happen to be anywhere near McLean in the past week, have you?”

“Time to go.” He stood briskly. Sam grabbed his arm.

“If you try walking out now I’ll announce who you are in front of this whole bar.”

He stopped. “You wouldn’t,” he whispered in horror.

“I most certainly would. I’ve got nothing to lose. Sit down.” She used her best get-to-work voice, one she learned as a resident, corralling med students, and used on the techs when they started screwing around.

It worked. He sat.

“Now. Tell me the truth. Did you break into the house? And leave the baseball cap on the bed?”

He started to hum, and look at the nails on his right hand. Okay. Plausible deniability. He wouldn’t tell her, but he wouldn’t stop her from guessing.

“Who went to the school?”

He just raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, that was Karen. She was the decoy. Get Susan to the school, so you can go in and check things out. What were you looking for?”

“You got a devious mind, ya know?”

“Yes. Too much time spent among people like you. What were you looking for?”

“Words.”

“The journal.”

He tapped his finger to his nose. Now that she’d caught on, he gave her more to work with.

“The missus she said she got in touch with Doc a few weeks back. Thought her questions might trigger his imagination. But the pages were already gone. Someone beat me to it.”

Donovan, you sly dog. You did tear them out yourself. So where did you hide them? You knew you were in trouble. The note—”Do the Right Thing”—was … She stared across at Taranto. Manipulative little shit.

“Hey. You sent that note to Doc and Jackal, didn’t you? Trying to get them to give you information for your story. That’s low, man.”

“I … Yeah, I did. So what? They needed a push.”

“You pushed them, all right. Right into a grave. They’re dead because you pushed them so hard.”

Taranto had the good sense to look abashed. “That was never my intention. Those fuckers—’scuse my language—are the ones who did it. They’re to blame, not me. I’m just trying to figure out what in the world went down then that’s worth dying for now. And why the situation wasn’t mopped up over there, before they took it home.”

Sam wanted to know the answer to that, too. “Your actions, Mr. Taranto, are unforgivable. What do you expect me to do now?”

“You don’t take instruction well, so just keep them all occupied. You can tap dance, right?”

“Not for very long. As soon as we’re done here, I’m heading to see Mutant. I hope.”

“Good. Take this.” Taranto slid a folder under the table. She felt it knocking at her knees, took it in her hand. “Be careful with it. I’m calling you my insurance, now. They come for me, I tell them someone else has the info. They come for you, well, try not to give me up, okay?”

Sam nodded. She was dying to see what the folder contained.

“You go first. I’ll see you around, Scotch.”

She slid out of the booth and headed toward the door without a backward glance. She finally felt useful. She had earned a nickname, after all.