Page 69 of A Deeper Darkness
“Of course.”
“You ever hear of Major Donovan involved in a friendly fire incident?”
“No. Why?”
“You might want to clue in the cops over there to take a look at the records from Jal¯al¯ab¯ad, 2007. Might help them figure out who killed Major Donovan.”
Sam turned to the man. He had a beard, and long shaggy hair. The exact opposite of all the buttoned-down soldiers showing their respect to Donovan by being perfectly squared away. His juxtaposition was almost violent, and Sam felt anger bubble inside her.You could have at least dressed and combed your hair to show your respect. Jerk. Probably one of those assholes who protest at soldiers’ funerals. She turned a cold shoulder, let her words cut.
“You should tell them yourself. If you have information about the murders—”
“And get fired? My bosses would shoot me on the spot for giving information to a cop. That’s not my job.”
“Then why tell me? Why not write about it?”
He put his finger to his lips dramatically in a hush sign. “Let’s just say someone gagged me. And I know you’ve been working with them. You’ll tell them to look deeper, and keep me out of it.”
“I won’t do any such thing.” But he was already moving away from her, getting lost in the throngs of people moving back toward the road. She watched him go, confused. Why come to her? Why not go directly to the family? What the hell kind of journalist was Gino Taranto, anyway?
She realized that she was one of the few people left near the grave, and her heart sank. This was the part she couldn’t handle. Walking away. Leaving them behind, alone. But there was no choice. This was what had to happen. She pushed the slovenly reporter from her mind and turned to Donovan’s casket.
She whispered a prayer, a poor substitute for saying goodbye, and turned away, the cracks in her heart opening wide. Everyone she had loved, had given her heart to, gone.
To distract herself, she glanced down at the card the reporter had put into her hand. It wasn’t a normal business card. It hadGino Taranto—Daily Newshandwritten on the front. No address. No phone number. No way of contacting him directly. Weird. She flipped it over and saw more writing on the back. Numbers, to be specific.
39-40'58" N 079-12'25" W
What in the world?
“Who was that you were talking to?”
She’d been so absorbed in what she was doing that she hadn’t noticed Hart walk up beside her. She saw Fletcher over his shoulder on the phone.
She carefully put the card into her purse. For some reason, the first thought she had was not to tell Hart everything. And that was insane. She knew better.
“Some reporter. Said his name was Taranto from theDaily News. He said something about Donovan being involved in a friendly fire incident while he was in Afghanistan.”
Hart knitted his brows. “We haven’t heard anything like that. Fletch! Heya, Fletch!”
Fletcher held up a finger, the universal gesture for just a minute. He finished his call, then walked over.
“No one seems to have seen Whitfield. Damn, I really thought he’d be here.”
“Some reporter talked to the Doc over here, said Donovan was involved in a friendly fire incident. Taranto, from theDaily. You know him?”
“Yeah. You know him, too, we talked to him about that jumper last month. Remember? Writes that column on DOD every week. He’s not a friend of the military.”
“Wait a minute,” Hart said. “What did he say to you, Doc?”
“Nothing, really. Small talk.”
“Do you see him anywhere?”
Sam looked around. There were still people milling about, but no one who remotely resembled the man she’d talked to. She shook her head. “No. He dropped the bombshell and walked away before I had a chance to ask more. Why?”
Hart looked at Fletcher. “Dude that was talking to her wasn’t short and bald like Taranto. He was six-one, built, with a full head of hair and a beard.”
“Fuck me!” Fletcher threw his phone down, drawing the disapproving stare of a uniform-clad passerby.
