Catch Her If You Can Read online

  “Huh?”

  I heard arrival sounds and delayed an explanation. “I’ll tell you about it at confab. We’d better grab a refill before Pen dumps the coffee and boils up some milk-weed and chrysanthemums or something.”

  Noel was already on his feet. We managed to snag fresh cups before a tch-tching Pen did her thing with the canisters and coffeemaker. When everyone had squeezed into my office for our morning session, I informed them that the perpetrator of yesterday’s electrical blowout had flown the coop.

  “Charlie had a couple of visitors last night. One came after us with a lead pipe. The other arrived a few moments later and . . .”

  “Whoa! Back up a sec, Geardo Goddess!”

  Dennis thumbed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. He was wearing all black today. Black high-tops, black jeans, black T-shirt displaying an ornate, medieval-style chess piece tipped on its side. Abstruse metaphors and symbols usually go right over my head but even I grasped that he was in mourning for his ruined Garry Kasparov poster.

  “Someone attacked you and Charlie?” he echoed, bug-eyed. “With a pipe?”

  When I nodded, Pen clucked her tongue in dismay. “You weren’t hurt, were you?”

  “I wasn’t, but Charlie took a nasty hit. So did my Sebring,” I added glumly.

  I gave my team the details as I knew them. No one seemed particularly surprised to hear Charlie owed big bucks to the Mob. Or that he’d hoped that I would bail him out with a cut of the reward money.

  The reason he’d gone into debt earned another tongue cluck from Pen and raised brows among the men. Particularly when I told them Brenda Baby had descended on the scene all hyper and scared and carried Charlie off with her even before the cops arrived.

  “They left you holding the bag?” Noel said.

  “The bag and his truck.”

  “Huh. I kinda liked Charlie, but they shouldn’t have skipped on you like that.”

  I chose not to remind him this wasn’t the first time my ex and Brenda had done wrong by me. I was more interested in getting my team’s opinion of Junior Reporter’s post-incident speculation.

  I was hoping they would collectively pooh-pooh the idea that I might have been the target of the attack, not Charlie. To my chagrin, the possibility produced an assortment of worried frowns and pursed lips.

  “There could be a connection,” Rocky said slowly. “Did the man who attacked you say anything?”

  “Just ‘get in the car.’ I figured he mistook me for Brenda and planned to hold me as surety until Charlie came up with cash. It didn’t occur to me to wonder if Pipe Guy could be connected to the Duarte mess until Cub Reporter DeWayne suggested it.”

  “Have you discussed this possibility with Mitch?”

  “Not yet. He’s out of town and we didn’t connect last night.”

  “How about your friend at the FBI?”

  “I guess I could call him,” I said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

  “Do it,” Rocky urged with a nervous twitch. His thin shoulders hunched under his short-sleeved shirt. “You don’t want to take unnecessary—”

  He was interrupted by the jangle of my cell phone. I eyed the number on caller ID and groaned.

  “Oh, Lord. It’s Dr. J.”

  My team cleared out with the same speed they’d displayed the day a spotted skunk meandered through the open door of our D-FAC. Bracing my shoulders, I flipped up the phone.

  I did my best to assure my boss that I had matters fully under control at this end. He almost choked on that one but eventually agreed the preliminary damage estimates weren’t too heart-stopping. Still, he hung up with promises of dire retribution if I didn’t submit the official reports on time and in proper format.

  After that inauspicious start, my day went from crappy to god-awful. I made the requisite calls to EPPD to request a copy of the police report and to my insurance agent to alert her of a pending claim. She and I have come to know each other well in recent months. Not by choice on either side.

  I then called the Chrysler service department to set up an appointment for a damage estimate. The service manager and I are on a first-name basis, too.

  While I was talking to Hal, the deputy post commander’s secretary beeped in with word that Colonel Roberts would like to see me in his office at fourteen hundred, if that was convenient. It was—mostly because I couldn’t think of any way out of what I knew would be an uncomfortable session.

  Rescheduling my missed JAG appointment was next on my to-do list. The receptionist was a bit snippy about my no-show yesterday afternoon until I explained the reason for it. She then grudgingly agreed to slip me in.

  “Can you come right now? Major Burke is with a client but should finish within the next ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m on my way!”

  THE Office of the Staff Judge Advocate occupies one of Fort Bliss’s most historic buildings. Every time I drive past the 1890s-era two-story cavalry barracks, I can almost hear a bugler sounding assembly and the thunder of booted feet answering the call.

  All I heard today was the sound of my own boots as I went up the front steps. Once inside, I consulted a directory with a bewildering array of information. For those of you who’ve never had to use the services of a JAG, they provide advice to both commanders and individual troops on civil and criminal matters. Their areas of expertise range from executing wills to paternity suits to claims for damages by civilians whose property was accidentally damaged by artillery fire to murder and mayhem.

  When I’d called for the original appointment I wasn’t sure where collecting a reward from a non-DOD agency might fall. Neither was the receptionist. After some consultation, she’d steered me to the Civil and Administrative Law Division. I’d subsequently checked the CALD out on the Fort Bliss website and knew it consisted of the chief, an NCOIC, two military attorneys, and three civilian attorneys.

  My appointment was with a big, bluff, ruddy-faced major who looked like he might have played defensive tackle for West Point or Notre Dame. He was ushering out his previous client when I arrived, so I got ushered right in. Waving me to a seat in front of his desk, the major folded his impressive frame into a high-backed leather chair.

  “I heard about you on the news, Lieutenant Spade. Nasty stuff, that business with the severed heads.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I also heard you helped take down the alleged killer.”

  “Me, and Staff Sergeant Noel Cassidy. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Why?” Interest sparked in his blue eyes. “I know you can’t believe even half of what you hear on the news, but it sounded like justifiable homicide to me. The civil authorities aren’t trying to say otherwise, are they?”

  “No.”

  Not according to my last conversation with Sheriff Alexander, anyway. I added a follow-up call to make sure to my mental checklist.

  “The FBI had a substantial bounty out on the, ah, alleged killer. I don’t know if Sergeant Cassidy and I can claim any of it, given the military’s rules against accepting gifts or gratuities. I’m hoping you can tell me if rewards fall into that general category.”

  “Were the two of you on duty, conducting official business at the time?”

  “We were.”

  “I’ll have to research this further, but the only restriction I’m aware of pertains to the Rewards for Justice program. It offers monetary rewards for information leading to the capture and arrest of international terrorists.”

  “Like bin Laden,” I said, nodding. “I read about that program.”

  “This guy you helped take down? He wasn’t a terrorist, was he?”

  “Just your common, garden-variety contract killer.”

  “Okay, let me check into this and get back to you.”

  “Thanks, Major.” I had started to leave when a belated thought surfaced. “We were testing a device sent to us for evaluation by a civilian. The device was what led to the discovery of the heads an
d subsequent shooting, so there may be proprietary issues involved, too.”

  “That could certainly complicate matters.” His mouth curved. “You don’t do anything by half, do you, Lieutenant?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  I left the JAG offices and decided I needed a decent lunch to fortify myself for my afternoon session with the deputy post commander. A quick call to my troops had them saddling up to meet at the Applebee’s not far from the base. I have a fatal weakness for the restaurant’s Triple Chocolate Meltdown, but consuming one is a team sport.

  Despite my preparatory measures, my meeting with Colonel Roberts did not go well. An artilleryman born and bred, he used his office to showcase his collection of spent shells from every weapon in the Army’s arsenal. Nothing like a display of 155mm shell casings to intimidate all comers.

  Not that Colonel “Iron Butt” Roberts needed additional props. He was thin to the point of desiccation and lacked anything remotely resembling a sense of humor. He began our session by reminding me of the fire out at our test site last year—as if I could forget it!—and wanted to know why FST-3 hadn’t taken the necessary precautions to preclude a recurrence.

  “Respectfully, sir, the previous fire was caused by an arsonist. This one was caused by . . .”

  “Your ex-husband,” he snapped.

  “I was going to say faulty wiring.”

  He brushed that aside. “Mind telling me what a civilian was doing on post, in your office, playing with an experimental device?”

  I stuck to the truth, such as it was. “He was in El Paso on business, sir. I brought him on post to show him where I work.”

  As you might surmise, my response didn’t particularly sit well with the colonel. It didn’t sit well me, either, but was the best I could do. I said another fervent prayer of thanksgiving that I’d followed proper procedures and checked Charlie in before Iron Butt delivered a stiff warning that he would personally review the reports of damage to determine culpability.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s all, Lieutenant.”

  Any junior officer with half a thought to making a career of the military would have beat a strategic retreat at that point. Since my future in the military was iffy at best, I figured I had nothing to lose.

  “Actually, sir, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about the renovations I’ve requested for our building.”

  “Lieutenant . . .”

  I ignored the warning growl.

  “The engineers worked a temporary fix to the electrical wiring, but they said they’ll have to reassess the entire system.”

  Thunderclouds gathered in the colonel’s eyes.

  “The electrical wiring in that building is up to code, Lieutenant Spade. I wouldn’t allow you or anyone else to work there if it wasn’t.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. But the HVAC system sucks and the fort’s original occupants must have carted the toilets out here with them in covered wagons. As long as the engineers are working in the building, you could have them take a look at the plumbing and air-conditioning, too.”

  The colonel’s chair scraped the floor. His fists balled on his desk. If looks were 155mm howitzer shells, I’d have a hole the size of the Chunnel bored through my midsection right now.

  “For the last time, Lieutenant, the improvements you’ve requested are under review by our Facilities Management Board. They’ll evaluate your submissions and, if approved, prioritize them against all other requirements to be effected if and when funding becomes available.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “You Are Dismissed.”

  Most folks, my mother included, will tell you I’m somewhat lacking in the self-preservation gene. Yet even I take heed when someone speaks to me in Capital Letters.

  I saluted, executed a semi-respectable about face, and got the hell out of Dodge.

  THE only saving grace to my whole crappy day was the phone call from Mitch later that night. To my relief, he’d smoothed things over between Jenny and her mom and planned to fly home tomorrow evening.

  “I get in at six fifteen.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at the airport. We can have dinner.”

  “Then we’ll finish what we started Saturday morning.”

  The husky promise raised instant goose bumps on my arms. Banishing all thoughts of Charlie, Pipe Guy, and Colonel Iron Butt, I headed for the bathroom to shave my legs.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHAT’S that old saying? Every dog has its day?

  Mine was Wednesday.

  Everything went right for a change. Not only did I complete the damage report a whole four days before it was due, I begged, bribed, and cajoled the technicians checking the building’s electrical system into taking a look at the power supply for the heating and air-conditioning system. They insisted there was sufficient power going to the units but agreed the units themselves were inadequate to cool the cubic airspace in our building. I even got them to put that in writing!

  Then, just before noon, Major Burke called to inform me that he didn’t see any legal or ethical impediment to Sergeant Cassidy or I accepting a reward offered by the FBI as long as it wasn’t part of the Rewards for Justice program.

  I whooped and started hearing cash registers ping again. The major added a caveat in mid-ping.

  “I researched Army, Air Force, and DOD regs. There may be something in DARPA’s internal operating procedures, though, particularly as concerns the proprietary properties of the device you were testing. I strongly suggest you run this by DARPA’s legal experts.”

  “I will. Thanks! And if it’s not a conflict of interest or blatant fraternization between the ranks, I’ll buy you a steak dinner if and when the FBI comes through with the reward.”

  Laughing, he accepted the offer. “You’re on, Lieutenant.”

  I whooped again and did a happy dance down the hall. Heads popped out along my route and I soon had the senior members of FST-3 dogging my heels to Sergeant Cassidy’s cubicle.

  “Noel! I just heard from the major.”

  A wary expression instantly dropped over his face. “My shrink called you.” He braced his shoulders. “She said she would have to. Professional ethics and all that.”

  “Huh?”

  “I swear, Lieutenant, spending the night at her place was her idea, not mine.”

  I won’t say my jaw hit the floor, but it came damned close. On reflection, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. The last time Major Honeycutt had provided me a prognosis for Noel’s return to his unit, she’d smiled and said she didn’t see it happening any time in the near future.

  “No,” I got out eventually, “I haven’t heard from your shrink. I was talking about the major at the JAG office. He says he doesn’t see any reason why we can’t collect the reward. He said we should run it by DARPA’s legal beagles just to be sure, but it’s looking good at this point. Very good! Assuming,” I added on an afterthought, “Pancho thinks we deserve a cut.”

  I hadn’t talked to Pancho since I’d first heard about the reward. For all I knew, Lawyer Nowatny had approached him, too, and convinced him to claim the entire amount.

  I wouldn’t argue if he did. Despite the visions of designer shoes dancing through my head, I refused to sink to the kind of ugly squabbles so endemic in my family. Like the one my mother and her sister got into over which of their offspring should inherit my bachelor uncle Pete’s ’67 Dodge Dart. Didn’t matter that none of us wanted it! The thing was a heap of peeling paint held together by rust and sitting on cinder blocks. Bottom line? Mom and Aunt Grace haven’t spoken to each other in a decade. Determined to tread cautiously on the potentially touchy matter of the reward, I hit speed dial.

  Pancho answered on the fourth ring. “Hola.”

  “It’s me, Panch.”

  “Hi, Sam. How you doing?”

  “Good. Mostly. You haven’t had a visit from someone who wanted to put a dent in your skull, have you?”

  “No,”
he answered warily. “Have you?”

  “Maybe.”

  That led to a long and somewhat disjointed explanation of my ex’s unexpected reappearance in my life, his financial troubles, his hope that I would fork over big bucks from the reward, and an attack by someone who might—or might not—have been acting as a collector for the Mob. At that point I shared Junior Reporter’s speculation that the creep who hired Duarte might have been behind the attack.

  Pancho listened in silence through all this. When I finished, I could almost hear the careless shrug in his response.

  “Anyone wants to come after me for taking down a stone-cold killer, they’re welcome to try. Is Pen there?”

  “What?”

  “Pen. Is she there?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Let me talk to her. I have to tell her I tried the alfalfa mint blend she recommended. She was right, Sam. It loosened me up like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Loosened him up how, I didn’t want to know.

  “I’ll put her on in a minute. First, I need to talk to you about the reward.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well . . . The thing is . . .”

  This was more awkward than I’d anticipated. How do you ask someone if he minds pocketing thirty-three thousand instead of a whole hundred grand?

  “I talked to a military JAG yesterday about whether Noel and I can accept part of the FBI reward. He says we can, but first I need to make sure you don’t object to us claiming a share of . . .”

  “You can have it all.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve seen what blood money can do to a man. I don’t want any of it.”

  “But . . .”

  “Not interested, Lootenant.”

  “Are you sure? We’re talking major dollars here.”

  More than enough to patch the cracks in the adobe and update the decor in his smoke-blackened bar/restaurant/etc.

  “I’m sure. Now can I talk to Pen?”

  Wordlessly, I handed over the phone. While Pen turned away, cradling the phone to her ear, I relayed Pancho’s decision to the rest of the group.