Page 27 of A Deeper Darkness
The obit wasn’t vague, that was for sure. He’d served his last tour in Afghanistan in the 75th Ranger Regiment, Bravo Company.
Fletcher had managed to remember to charge his cell when he came in, zombified from his all-nighter. He didn’t use a landline anymore—what was the point? He speed-dialed Hart, who answered on the third ring.
“I’m sleeping. Go away.”
“What unit did Croswell serve in?”
“Fuck I know?”
“Humor me.”
Fletcher heard groaning, then sounds equating movement—sheets ripping back, feet on the floor, heel strikes on the teak hardwood Hart’s wife had insisted they pay extra for that their Labrador’s nails tore to shreds in a week. Fletcher hated to sayI told you soto Hart—it wasn’t his fault. He’d had to capitulate to the wife. That’s what you did if you wanted to stay married during a renovation. In its favor, the teak had looked nice at the beginning.
Page flip. That would be Hart’s notebook.
“The 75th Ranger Regiment, Bravo Company. Served last in Afghanistan.”
“Fuck me.”
“Really, I’d rather stick it to Ginger. She’s got better equipment for that. Prettier than your nasty—”
“Shut it. The carjacking last week? Guy was in the same company.”
Hart was quiet for a second. “Uh-oh.”
“That’s what I thought. I’m going in. See if there’s a ballistics report on the Donovan case yet. I’ll flag Croswell’s to be compared.”
“Without a weapon…”
“You got a better idea?”
“No. You really think they’re connected?”
“Who knows? But I got three hours of sleep, sunshine. I’m raring to go.”
Hart groaned. “I’ll meet you there.”
Chapter Fifteen
Washington, D.C.
Dr. Samantha Owens
Sam scrubbed up after Donovan’s post, feeling vaguely uneasy. The rest of the morning had gone smoothly—no surprises. The gunshot wound to the right temporal lobe had crossed through his brain and lodged in his left ear canal, causing an unbelievable path of destruction along the way. His poor, beautiful, brilliant mind, shredded and destroyed. The bullet had certainly caused his death.
But the lungs were vexing her. How did he get fresh sand in his lungs? Eleanor hadn’t mentioned that he’d been back to Iraq. She supposed it made sense—after all, he did work for a defense contractor now. But the fact that he’d been within the week before he died nagged at her.
Nocek saw her out with a promise to get the mass spectrometry on the sand ASAP, and took her cell number in order to call with the results. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to get their answer—Sam assumed the sand would be a biological and ecological match to Iraq or Afghanistan. Wherever he’d been in the past week. Wherever he’d snuck off to and lied to his family about.
She needed to find out where he’d gone. And why he’d want to hide that fact from everyone.
She slid behind the wheel of Eleanor’s Mercedes and turned over the engine. Let the cool air-conditioned air flow over her. She’d come damn close to losing it inside the morgue. Too close. She knew the minute she let things come out she’d be broken forever. If she could just hold it together a little longer. Just get through the next few days, then she could go back home, to her rote little life, and continue on.
If her existence could be called living.
A living hell, perhaps.
She thought of Susan Donovan then, and her heart broke. No one should have to know how it felt to lose the one you love. Sam wouldn’t wish that on her worst enemy.
