The Enemy

“We’ve already got gays in the military. We always have had. World War Two, the Western Allies had fourteen million men in uniform. Any kind of reasonable probability says at least a million of them were gay. And we won that war, as I recall, last time I checked with the history books. We won it big time.”

“It’s a hell of a step,” she said.

“They took the same step when they let black soldiers in. And women. Everyone pissed and moaned about that too. Bad for morale, bad for unit cohesion. It was crap then and it’s crap now. Right? You’re here and you’re doing OK.”

“Are you a Catholic?”

I shook my head. “My mother taught us the Latin. She cared about our education. She taught us things, me and my brother, Joe.”

“You should call her.”

“Why?”

“To see how her leg is.”

“Maybe later,” I said.

I went back to the personnel lists and Summer went out and came back in with a map of the Eastern United States. She taped it flat to the wall below the clock and marked our location at Fort Bird with a red push-pin. Then she marked Columbia, South Carolina, where Brubaker had been found. Then she marked Raleigh, North Carolina, where he had been playing golf with his wife. I gave her a clear plastic ruler from my desk drawer and she checked the map’s scale and started calculating times and distances.

“Bear in mind most of us don’t drive as fast as you do,” I said.

“None of you drive as fast as I do,” she said.

She measured four and a half inches between Raleigh and Columbia and called it five to allow for the way U.S. 1 snaked slightly. She held the ruler against the scale in the legend box.

“Two hundred miles,” she said. “So if Brubaker left Raleigh after dinner, he could have been in Columbia by midnight, easily. An hour or so before he died.”

Then she checked the distance between Fort Bird and Columbia. She came up with a hundred and fifty miles, less than I had originally guessed.

“Three hours,” she said. “To be comfortable.”

Then she looked at me.

“It could have been the same guy,” she said. “If Carbone was killed at nine or ten, the same guy could have been in Columbia at midnight or one, ready for Brubaker.”

She put her little finger on the Fort Bird pin.

“Carbone,” she said.

Then she spanned her hand and put her index finger on the Columbia pin.

“Brubaker,” she said. “It’s a definite sequence.”

“It’s a definite guess,” I said.

She didn’t reply.

“Do we know that Brubaker drove down from Raleigh?” I said.

“We can assume he did.”

“We should check with Sanchez,” I said. “See if they found his car anywhere. See if his wife says he took it with him in the first place.”

“OK,” she said. She went out to my sergeant’s desk to make the call. Left me with the interminable personnel lists. She came back in ten minutes later.

“He took his car,” she said. “His wife told Sanchez they had two cars up at the hotel. His and hers. They always did it that way because he was always rushing off somewhere and she was always concerned about getting stuck.”

“What kind of car?” I said. I figured she would have asked.

“Chevy Impala SS.”

“Nice car.”

“He left after dinner and his wife’s assumption was that he was driving back here to Bird. That would have been normal. But the car hasn’t turned up anyplace yet. At least, not according to the Columbia PD and the FBI.”

“OK,” I said.

“Sanchez thinks they’re holding out on him, like they know something we don’t.”

“That would be normal too.”

“He’s pressing them. But it’s difficult.”

“It always is.”

“He’ll call us,” she said. “As soon as he gets anywhere.”

We got a call thirty minutes later. But not from Sanchez. Not about Brubaker or Carbone. The call was from Detective Clark, in Green Valley, Virginia. It was about Mrs. Kramer’s case.

“Got something,” he said.

He sounded very pleased with himself. He launched into a blow-by-blow account of the moves he had made. They sounded reasonably intelligent. He had used a map to figure out all the likely approaches to Green Valley from as much as three hundred miles away. Then he had used phone books to compile a list of hardware sources that lay along those approaches. He had started his guys calling them all, one by one, beginning right in the center of the spiderweb. He had figured that crowbar sales would be slow in winter. Major remodeling happens from springtime onward. Nobody wants their walls torn down for kitchen extensions when the weather is cold. So he had expected to get very few positive reports. After three hours he had gotten none at all. People had spent the post-Christmas period buying power drills and electric screwdrivers. Some had bought chainsaws, to keep their wood-burning stoves going. Those with pioneer fantasies had bought axes. But nobody had been interested in inert and prosaic things like crowbars.