This Enemy Town Page 10

  “They did the autopsy at Bethesda,” Dorothy told me. “They think maybe four in the afternoon.”

  I picked up my tray and headed for the drinks station, mulling over what Dorothy had just said. She seemed to be much more in-the-know than Paul and I, not that we hadn’t tried. Our usual ace-in-the-hole had turned out to be a deuce. Paul had tried to worm information about the investigation out of his brother-in-law, Dennis Rutherford, with a singular lack of success. NCIS didn’t share information with Chesapeake County police lieutenants, it turns out, or with anyone else, for that matter.

  Admirals, apparently, were an exception.

  “Ted made a few calls to Bethesda,” Dorothy explained as she joined me in front of the ice tea machine. She pulled a plastic cup out of the dispenser and held it under the spigot, while I pushed down helpfully on the lever. “They know she died within an hour or two of being thrown into Sweeney’s trunk, but they believe she may have been attacked somewhere else. They’re still looking for where.”

  We paid for our food and found an empty table not far from the wall that separated the snack bar’s dining area from the ice rink. A hockey game was going on behind the glass. Shouts, whistles, the sloosh of skates on ice and the persistent thwack of sticks against puck would punctuate our conversation over the next several minutes.

  “Ted says there’s high-level pressure from Washington to make an arrest in the case,” Dorothy added as we set down our trays and settled into our chairs.

  “I’ll bet,” I said. I stared at the salad oozing over the edges of my sandwich. “Whoops, forgot the napkins. Want one?”

  Dorothy nodded.

  In front of the napkin dispenser, I stopped to ponder. If Jennifer had been killed elsewhere, that meant the murderer had to carry her body from that elsewhere, up five steps to the stage and up another twelve steps—I helped build every one—that led to Sweeney’s tonsorial parlor. Why? Why not leave the body where it lay?

  Was the murderer trying to draw attention away from himself?

  Or maybe he intended to discredit the musical, hoping to shut it down?

  I’d put nothing past some of those right-wing nut jobs. One year they campaigned to shut down an Academy production of Cabaret, complaining in letters to the editor that the Nazis were “scary.” I remembered Paul’s dark eyes glowering over the top of the newspaper and his wry, “And their point might be?”

  The second question was, How? Stuffing Jennifer’s body into that trunk would require strength—she had been no lightweight. Kevin could have done it easily, I thought, but so could just about any midshipman, male or female. Mids were as fit as they come.

  On my way back to the table with the napkins, I studied my friend. Dorothy’s clothes hung loosely on her body, as if she’d bought them several sizes too large. At Goodwill. No way could she have managed anything heavier than a bag of dirty laundry, I decided, and I wasn’t even sure about that.

  “How well did you know her?” I asked, settling into my chair once again.

  “Who?”

  “Jennifer Goodall, of course.”

  Dorothy shrugged. “I saw her hanging around the set is all. I didn’t exactly know her.”

  “How about Kevin?” I ventured.

  Using both hands, Dorothy lay her sandwich down on her plate. “Well, speak of the devil….”

  I turned to look. Emma Kirby was approaching from the direction of the soda dispenser carrying a large cup in each hand. Behind her came Dorothy’s son, Kevin, balancing a pizza box on the flat of one hand. “May we join you?” Kevin asked, using his free hand to pull a chair out for Emma.

  “Of course you may,” Dorothy purred, patting the seat of the chair to her left, smiling proudly, as if to say, See, my son knows the difference between can and may.

  Kevin took the seat his mother had designated. He lifted the lid on the pizza box to reveal a pie heaped so high with toppings that I wondered how he had had the strength to carry it from the kitchen to the table. He scooped up a slice tethered to the mother ship by a long string of cheese. Kevin caught the string with a finger, twisted it around until it broke, then slid the slice into his mouth, point first.

  Dorothy observed this operation without comment. “You going to eat all that?”

  Emma grinned. “I’m planning to help.” She leaned forward and peered into the box. “Pineapple. Ick!”

  Kevin studied the pizza like a surgeon about to make an incision. He plucked pineapple bits off several slices and piled them up in the space where the slice he had just inhaled had so recently lain. “Happy now?”

  A look I couldn’t read passed between the two midshipmen.

  None of this was making any sense. One minute Emma’s telling Kevin to get lost, the next he’s her new best friend, even bowing to her preference in pizza toppings. Had they settled their differences?

  “What’s wrong, Kev? You look a bit down,” commented his mother.

  Emma licked tomato sauce off her fingers. “Kevin was hoping to step into the role of the Beadle this weekend,” she said. “Adam’s been S.I.R. for the past few days.”

  “S.I.R.?” I hadn’t heard that expression before.

  “Sick in room.”

  “Yeah, but at the last minute the S.O.B. rallied.” Kevin’s lips curled into a smile around his third slice of pizza. “Joke!” he added.

  I wasn’t so sure.

  Emma shot out of her chair, waggling her fingers. “Gotta wash my hands.”

  I saw an opportunity to speak with Emma alone. “Me, too,” I said. I pushed the remains of my sandwich aside and hustled off after her.

  I caught up with Emma near the trophy case, stopping her with a light hand on her shoulder. “What is going on?” I whispered. “One minute you’re talking about taking out a restraining order against Kevin, the next minute he’s your best pal.”

  Keeping her greasy fingertips well clear of her uniform, Emma shrugged. “It’s all right, Hannah. Kevin knows.”

  “He knows?

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That you’re gay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Behind Emma’s head a plaque the size of a turkey platter announced that in 1976 a midshipman named Ian Markwood had been named Most Valuable Player. I stared at the engraved bronze and wondered how one broke the news that you were gay to somebody who was sweet on you.

  “How did Kevin react?”

  Emma leaned back against the trophy case. “He didn’t say anything at first, but then he smiled and said he understood.”

  “I would have thought he’d be crushed.”

  Emma shook her head. “It’s an ego thing. Kevin said he couldn’t figure out what he was doing wrong. Now he knows that it’s not his fault I’m not attracted to him that way. To tell you the truth, Hannah, I think he was relieved. And now that all the sexual tension is gone from the relationship, we can be friends. You know?”

  “Wasn’t coming out to him a bit risky?” I asked, thinking how easily it could have gone the other way. Kevin could have taken his bruised ego straight to the Commandant of Midshipman and Emma’s naval career would have been toast.

  “I trust Kevin,” she said. “We have this pact.”

  “Pact?”

  “Sorry, Hannah, that’s just between the two of us. But I can tell you this.” Her dark eyes grew wide and serious. “Kevin is like a big brother to me now, and I couldn’t be happier.”

  I’d always wanted a big brother—so he’d bring home his cute friends, for one thing—but my parents had been completely uncooperative and I’d ended up the middle child of three sisters. “Big brothers can come in handy,” I said.

  She winked. “Exactly.”

  I shivered, hoping that Kevin hadn’t helped his “little sister” cover up a murder.

  “Go wash your hands,” I ordered, sensing that Emma had made her point and wouldn’t be inclined to elaborate, at least not here in Dahlgren Hall with people to-ing and fro-ing past us on their way to the restrooms. �
��I’ll see you back at the table.”

  When I rejoined Dorothy and her son, Dorothy seemed to be in the middle of bolstering Kevin’s shattered ego. “Professor Black told me you’re sure to get a lead next year,” she said. “And there’s still a chance that what’s-his-name won’t be able to go on.”

  “Adam. His name is Adam, Mother.” Kevin selected another slice of pizza and raised it to his mouth. “I’m proud of what I’m doing with Jonas Fogg, Mother.” He took a bite.

  “Yes, but it’s not a singing role, Kevin, now is it?”

  Kevin’s pale skin flushed. “Can’t you leave it alone? Please?”

  That was my cue to say How about those Redskins? but fortunately Emma rejoined us and the awkward moment passed.

  “I’m so glad that you and Kevin are dating,” Dorothy commented, addressing Emma.

  Kevin glared at his mother, but she didn’t appear to notice.

  “When Sarah broke up with him,” she forged on, “he seemed to lose interest in everything. If it weren’t for you and the musical—”

  “Mother!”

  “No need to shout, Kevin.”

  “Come to dinner on Sunday,” I interjected. “Let me tempt you with some decent food.”

  Emma’s head shot up. “Will you make lasagna?”

  “If you like.”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Oh my gawd, Kevin, Hannah’s lasagna is to die for. It’s got meatballs.”

  “Dorothy?”

  “Sunday?” Dorothy shook her head. “Sorry, Hannah, but Ted and I have a prior commitment.”

  I hoped my relief didn’t show in my face. If I didn’t have to play Hannah the Happy Hostess to Dorothy and the admiral, maybe I could get to the bottom of what was really going on between Kevin and Emma.

  “How about you, Kevin? Around noon?”

  “Sure thing, Mrs. Ives,” Kevin mumbled around a mouthful of pepperoni, green pepper, mushrooms, and pineapple. “We’ll look forward to it.”

  But that turned out to be an appointment none of us would be able to keep.

  CHAPTER 12

  It seemed as if my head had just hit the pillow when I dreamed I heard the doorbell ringing.

  I rose up on one elbow, straining my ears. At first I heard nothing but the roar of the furnace kicking in, but then it came again, the muffled brrring-brrring of the ancient doorbell attached to our front door.

  I squinted at the clock: 5:00. Who could be calling at such an ungodly hour?

  I turned on the bedside lamp, swung my legs over the side of the mattress, and felt around for my slippers. As I slipped my toes into them, I turned to check on Paul. He lay on his side, one arm stuffed under his pillow, breathing deeply, sleeping the sleep of a man who’d drunk a bit too much beer with his brother-in-law the night before. I didn’t have the heart to wake him. Paul didn’t have early classes on Friday.

  Still half asleep, I was shuffling across the hardwood floor, my feet half in and half out of my slippers, when the ringing turned to knocking. “Hold your darn horses!” I muttered to myself, feeling around in the dark for my bathrobe.

  I flipped on the light at the top of the stairs and started down, knotting the sash around my waist as I went. In the front hall, I flipped the switch that turned on the porch light and peered out the window.

  A short blonde dressed in a dark overcoat several sizes too big stood on the doorstep. Behind her stood four other individuals—three men and another woman—dressed in dark jackets. Struggling to remain calm, I raised my hand to the dead bolt. “Who is it?” I asked.

  “FBI,” the woman called through the door. “We have a warrant.”

  I was so relieved that the people clustered on my doorstep weren’t state troopers calling to tell me that Emily and the children had been involved in a terrible accident that what she said didn’t sink in. At least not right away. “A warrant?” I stammered. “A warrant for what?”

  “To search the house,” she shouted. “Open up, please, or we’ll have to break the door down, and I’m sure you don’t want that.”

  Next to the blonde-in-charge, a husky man shifted from one foot to the other, cradling a three-foot length of pipe about the diameter of a salad plate in the crook of his arm. As I watched through the window, hugging my arms and trying not to panic, one beefy hand moved to grasp the battering ram by a handle, and it looked like he was itching to use it. I decided not to give him the chance. Aside from a few unpaid bills, two overdue library books, and a 1998 federal income tax return that might have been a shade on the dicey side, Paul and I had absolutely nothing to hide.

  I twisted the dead bolt and opened the door wide, holding my robe together over my nightgown as the cold morning air swept in.

  The blonde didn’t budge from her spot on my doorstop. “Hannah Ives?”

  “Yes?”

  “Hannah Ives, FBI. You’re under arrest.”

  Blood roared in my ears. Dropping the end of the sash I was holding, I pressed a hand to my chest. “What did you say?”

  “Step inside, please.”

  I was about to point out that I was already inside, when she pushed her way into my entrance hall, a pair of handcuffs dangling from her hand.

  Instinctively, I backed away.

  “Turn around, please. Hands behind your back.”

  I was outnumbered, so I turned obediently, knowing that the next thing I would feel would be cold hard steel closing around my wrists. “Paul!” I screamed. “Paul!”

  Ignoring my cries, the blonde guided me toward a nearby chair. “I’m Special Agent Crisp,” she informed me. “Please sit down.”

  I sat. I leaned forward when the back of the chair pressed uncomfortably against the handcuffs. I glared up at my captor as she quietly read me my rights—anything you say can and will be used against you … you have the right to an attorney … do you understand …? Clearly, I was having a nightmare. Then the handcuffs pinched my wrists, and I knew it was no dream.

  Slightly shorter than my five-foot-six, Agent Crisp’s roundish face was framed by blond hair that curled gently under each ear. As she moved about the entrance hall issuing orders, her overcoat flapped open. Underneath, she wore a dark gray pantsuit and a crisp white shirt, and I realized that what I had at first taken for pleasing plumpness was, in fact, a bulletproof vest. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or dismayed. Imagine! Donning a bulletproof vest for protection against … me!

  “Is there anybody else here?” Agent Crisp asked.

  “Of course there’s somebody here!” I snapped. “My husband. He’s upstairs in bed. It’s not even light out yet!”

  She nodded to a colleague who started upstairs to find Paul. A second agent headed in the direction of the kitchen. He must have let his buddies in the back door because before long there were seven FBI agents swarming around.

  For her part, Agent Crisp was all business. “Are there any weapons in the house?”

  “Of course not!” I snarled. I wondered if “weapons” included the Wilkinson presentation swords, crossed and hung on the wall in Paul’s office, directly over his computer. I decided not to mention them.

  “What the hell is going on?” Awakened by my screams, Paul thundered down the stairs wearing nothing but his Y-fronts, nearly trampling the agent who’d been sent upstairs to fetch him.

  The agent grabbed the banister with one hand and raised the other. “Your wife is under arrest.” Then seeing the rage on my husband’s face, he quickly added, “Sir.”

  Paul swept the man’s arm aside. “Under arrest? What the hell for?”

  “For the murder of Jennifer Marie Goodall.”

  Paul’s face grew dangerously red. “The hell she is!”

  Murder! I doubled over, feeling like I’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse. Jennifer Goodall. I should have known. “This is a mistake,” I moaned.

  “Hannah.” Paul took another step in my direction, but Agent Crisp’s arm shot out like a toll booth barrier, blocking his way.

 
“Sir.”

  Paul froze. “I need to comfort my wife,”

  “I think it’s best if you wait in the kitchen, sir.” Agent Crisp didn’t smile, but her eyes seemed kind.

  My cheeks burned with tears. I swiped at my eyes the best I could, using my shoulders, then turned my ruined face to Crisp. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Crisp nodded to one of her colleagues, who struck off in the direction of the kitchen, returning in less than a minute with a damp paper towel. He held it out in front of me helpfully, although what he expected me to do with it when my hands were cuffed behind my back, I hadn’t a clue.

  Paul snatched the towel from the agent’s hand and quickly, before anyone had time to draw their weapon, used it to wipe my flaming cheeks.

  “Oh God, Paul, I’m so sorry,” I sobbed against his hand. I couldn’t look at him. Seeing the confusion in my husband’s eyes would just set me off again.

  In the meantime I could hear that Agent Crisp’s intrepid colleagues had moved from my kitchen to my dining room, noisily opening and closing drawers and cupboards. Flashbulbs flashed. I heard the distinctive clanking of my mother’s silverware as someone pulled open a drawer. Glassware in the china cabinet tinkled alarmingly.

  “Paul,” I bawled. “They’re tearing the house apart. Please, make sure they don’t break anything.”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am.” Agent Crisp was reassuring. “We’re trained to be careful. We photograph the rooms both before and after we search. Everything will be left exactly the way we found it.”

  My head throbbed. No, you’re wrong! Nothing will ever be the same. You’ve invaded my home. I’ve been violated.

  But it was about to get worse.

  “Stand up, please, ma’am. I’m going to search you now.”

  She was polite, Agent Crisp, and professional. There was a nurse at Anne Arundel Hospital Center like that, I remembered. No matter how terrifying the procedure I was about to undergo, she’d explain it to me carefully, as if I were a moron. “This is a pill. We’re going to give it to you now. It’s a sedative. It’ll make you feel very sleepy.”