Page 71 of A Deeper Darkness
“Being paid off?”
“That’s a distinct possibility. Maybe being paid to keep quiet about something? Or her ex is right and the kid isn’t his, and the real father is making some sort of off-the-books child support payment?”
Sam looked out the window. They were driving over the Key Bridge, the Potomac River murky below them. She saw the fine square outline of the Kennedy Center reflected in the waters, the elegant white marble structure perched on the eastern bank of the river, and wished things were easier. She used to spend a lot of time at the Kennedy Center.
“Detective Fletcher, maybe you need to listen to what this Taranto guy has to say. Maybe the key to all of this is an incident that occurred in Afghanistan, and has nothing to do with Donovan and Croswell here in the States. Did you ever speak with that Culpepper man again? His mentor? I didn’t find a lot in Donovan’s journal referencing him, outside of the fact that he was one of his favorite commanders, though I can go back and look some more. I’d need his nickname—that’s the biggest problem. Donovan’s shorthand used the nicknames for his compatriots.”
“You didn’t see Culpepper? He was at the funeral. The tall gray-haired man wearing a chestful of medals who spoke at the end. We’ve talked a couple of times. He’s been…very helpful. Donovan didn’t have a second phone issued by Raptor.”
She watched Fletcher for a moment. “Culpepper is a suspect, too?”
“He was their commander in Afghanistan.”
“But I thought he was out of the country when the murders took place.”
“He was. Doesn’t mean I don’t have my eye on him. He might not have held the gun, but the man does own a firm that employs mercenaries. He certainly knows enough killers to arrange a murder. I’ve already been lied to once by a suspect in this case. Right now, everyone is in play as far as I’m concerned.”
* * *
When Sam returned to Eleanor’s, the post-burial reception was well under way. The house was full of people. Some cried, some gawked, some got quietly drunk in the corner. Eleanor was shell-shocked, too busy keeping everyone in food and drinks to grieve with them, and Susan had stepped out onto the back porch with the girls to have a private moment.
Hart walked Sam around to each guest personally, but unless Whitfield was a master of disguise, he wasn’t there. Finally excusing her from her manhunt duties, he went to the kitchen for some coffee, and Sam took the opportunity to escape upstairs. It was quiet in her room. Blissfully quiet. She shut the door and it seemed the whole world disappeared, leaving her alone for the first time in hours.
She’d been a solitary being for so long that she forgot what it was like to be around people all the time. Work was a different story—there she was focused on the task at hand and the people were fully under her control. She could close the door to her office and be assured no one would bother her, go home and turn off the phone, revel, or wallow, in the silence. Here, in D.C., she was at their mercy, and she was starting to get frachetty. Between Susan and Eleanor and Fletcher, someone was always calling, or wanting to feed her, or ask questions or talk earnestly, and it was wearing her out.
Despite that weariness, Sam realized that something had changed. She hadn’t had the urge to wash her hands at all today. Something in her deep and abiding grief had altered, and she wanted a little time and space to figure out what was happening.
She pulled her laptop from her bag and opened it. It booted quickly, and she went to Google immediately. She typed in “Friendly Fire Edward Donovan Afghanistan.”
There was nothing that stood out. She surfed through to a few sites, but none of the references were about her Donovan.
Then she pulled the card Whitfield had given her out of her wallet and looked at the numbers. Typed them into Google, as well.
A fraction of a second later, up popped a map with the header “Savage River State Park and National Forest.”
Coordinates. The numbers were latitude and longitude. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen that before. Blaming grief for making her senseless, she brought up several more maps and looked through them all. The coordinates seemed to be rather general. The closest thing to them was probably the forest ranger station.
Sam resisted smacking herself on the forehead. Well, of course it was. Donovan was an Airborne Ranger, and so was Whitfield. With a bit of cunning, he was telling her where to look. Where to find him.
“See anything interesting?”
Sam jumped, turning toward the voice. Hart. Standing in her open door, his arms crossed nonchalantly.
“Don’t you knock?” she snapped, hitting the screen saver so the page disappeared.
“When I’m trying to sneak up on someone, generally not. Shoulda locked your door. I saw Whitfield hand you something, and you didn’t tell us. Naughty-naughty. So, give—what was it?”
Busted. Sam didn’t even bother pretending. What was the point now? She had the information she needed. So Fletcher and Hart would, as well. She’d insist on going along, that’s all. She would find a way to talk to Whitfield without their overbearing presence making him disappear. She hoped.
She held out the card. Hart turned it over in his hands.
“Lat and long? For where?” He sounded genuinely curious.
“Savage River State Park. A ranger station.”
“Clever.” Hart pulled out his cell phone, hit a single number. Calling his partner, of course. The tattletale.
“Not answering. I’ll leave him a message. Fletch, we got a little trip to take. Probable location of Alexander Whitfield. Call when you’re done talking to Taranto.” He hung up and looked at Sam disapprovingly. “I thought you of all people knew better. Withholding vital evidence? There is a better than fifty-fifty chance that this man is a killer.”
