Page 51 of A Deeper Darkness
A smoking gun.
Fletcher thought he might be looking at his.
There was a dizzying array of papers spread out on his coffee table. The analysis of the sand from Donovan’s and Croswell’s lungs, identified as coming from the Savage River. The ballistics report, showing they’d both been shot with Donovan’s personal weapon. A photograph of five men in uniform, arms interlinked, intently cheerful, as if proving what a good time they were having. The autopsy reports on Donovan and Croswell. Financials, phone records, personnel files. And two notes that read “DO THE RIGHT THING,” both of which had been given to the dead men prior to their murders.
Do the right thing.
So what had these two men, who served together in a very sticky, rampantly political war zone, done wrong? These guys were heroes. Heroes didn’t do bad things, they did good things. And yet someone felt otherwise. Someone who thought Donovan and Croswell had done something so bad that they’d been threatened. And, when they didn’t respond to the killer’s satisfaction, murdered.
Something in these papers had the answer. He’d combed through everything multiple times. The problem was, as much as he knew in his bones the smoking gun was right here in front of him, he wasn’t seeing it. That intangible connection between the facts just wouldn’t come to him.
He’d made a list of all the things that didn’t fit—the blue truck, the baseball cap, the fact that Croswell had been murdered in an empty home not his own. Made a list of things he needed to find out—whether Croswell and Donovan had been in touch recently, what Donovan was working on, why Croswell was supposed to go to Colorado to interview for a job, who made the 9-1-1 call, a warrant to talk to Croswell’s therapist, another call to Donovan’s boss, why someone had broken into Donovan’s home. It hadn’t been trashed, and there was no trace evidence found. Nothing was missing. Only the baseball cap left behind.
All this, and now the sand from the Savage River, plus two names of men he needed to find and warn, or, perhaps, arrest: Alexander Whitfield and William Everett. Mutant and Billy Shakes.
Fletcher had no doubt that one of those men was most likely the killer. He shuffled the papers around until he found the picture. Five healthy young men. Three of them dead in a year’s time frame. Two by the bullet of one’s gun. All but one had survived the war, only to be gunned down in their homeland.
The odds were astronomical.
He sat back on the couch and took a sip of his beer.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was missing something bigger than all of this. And that piece of information he didn’t have in front of him.
He needed to call in a favor.
He thought it through long and hard. Favors in this town were, on the surface, a dime a dozen. But in reality, a real favor, the kind he was talking about, that wasn’t exactly illegal, but barreled off into the murky gray area of ethicality, was what D.C. was built on. He didn’t like to become indebted to people, because there would be a serious quid pro quo involved.
But his gut told him to do it. There was something more to this case than met the eye. And he had a feeling the information he needed was going to be locked away where prying eyes couldn’t find it.
He had two choices. Make the call, lose some sleep and maybe find the answer. Or sleep well and work harder tomorrow.
Hell, she might still be so pissed at him that she hung up when the phone rang. Or, she’d have mellowed, and look back on their time together fondly.
Hardly. But a man could dream.
He sifted through the papers one more time, already knowing what he was going to do.
It would have to be the favor.
He picked up his cell and dialed a number he knew by heart.
One ring. Two. Three.
Fletch, this is probably the worst idea you’ve had in a very long time.
He started to hang up when a quiet voice answered.
“What do you want, Fletch?”
“Hey, Felicia.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
McLean, Virginia
Dr. Samantha Owens
Sam read and translated as best she could, pausing only to accept dinner and another drink from Susan. The food was simple fare, tomato soup and crusty bread that only partially filled the empty space in her stomach. They sat at the kitchen table in silence, each lost in her own thoughts, spooning the warm soup into their mouths absently. The tension hadn’t dissipated after Sam’s comment about the fountain pen, and she felt bad about it.
