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“You no-good piece of crap,” she yelled. “You shot me.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”
“You’re going to wish you did.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
Wounded and bleeding, but still venomous.
Three Duval County Sheriff’s cars with flashing lights and screaming sirens entered the complex and closed in fast. Uniformed officers poured out, ordering me to drop my gun. All of their weapons were pointed my way, so I decided not to tempt fate and did as they asked.
“This bastard shot me,” Sue screamed.
“On the ground,” one of the cops said to me. “Now.”
Slowly I dropped to my knees, then lay belly-first on the damp parking lot. Immediately my arms were twisted behind my back, a knee pressed firm to my spine, and cuffs snapped onto my wrists.
So much for favor number one.
CHAPTER TWO
I sat in a white, windowless space made of concrete block. Interestingly, no one had read me a single constitutional right, nor taken a fingerprint, snapped a mug shot, or made me change into an orange jumpsuit. Instead, I’d been led into the Duval County jail and locked in a holding cell all by myself. I stared up at the walls and ceiling, wondering where the microphones and cameras might be hidden. The trip into town from the apartment complex had taken half an hour in the patrol car, my hands cuffed behind my back. Taking advice that every arrestee should heed, I kept my mouth shut, only providing a name and phone number for my commanding officer.
Sue Weiler had been taken away in an ambulance and, if the level of her shouts was any indication, her wounds were not life threatening. Bob Weiler died before his body hit the ground. There’d been a slew of witnesses, so trying to find out what happened would be a mess. What was the old Russian saying? He lies like an eyewitness? The deputies had not appreciated my staunch support of the constitutional right to remain silent. But too bad. I was still processing. Never once had I even struck someone in anger. Instead, I’d bypassed all of the various and sundry misdemeanors and gone straight to felony aggravated assault, shooting another person.
And I felt no remorse.
I’d also witnessed someone die.
Another first, which tore at my gut.
Bob Weiler was a friend.
The silence around me was broken by an occasional disembodied voice, the hollow echo of footsteps, and the soft whine of machinery. The jail was not unlike the many I’d visited before, each in their own way forlorn and depressing. My cell was about six by eight with a metal bench and a toilet with no seat. A single opaque window, recessed into the block wall at shoulder height, was protected by a steel grating. I’d never been a guest in a jail before, always a visitor. Being locked behind bars was definitely different. No freedom. No choices. Your autonomy surrendered to strangers. Certainly all of the powerlessness and petty humiliations designed into the building were intentional, there to sap away courage and strength, the idea being to replace any positives with a docile helplessness.
I knew I should call Pam, but I wasn’t in the mood to hear her moralizing. She’d told me more than once to stay out of the Weilers’ business, but you didn’t turn your back on a buddy in trouble.
At least I didn’t.
My own marriage hung in jeopardy, the warning signs all there. Short tempers, quick judgments, zero patience, lack of interest. Something Clark Gable once said had come to mind of late. Love is heading toward your house, knowing that on the other side of the front door is a woman listening for your footsteps. Pam quit listening two years back when I did something stupid and forgot that marriage was suppose to be monogamous. I’d violated her trust and hurt her deeply. I’d apologized profusely, and she’d supposedly forgiven me. But that was not the case. And we both knew it.
I’d screwed up.
Big time.
And changed a wife into a roommate.
A clang disturbed my thoughts, then one of the corrections officers appeared and opened the cell door. I took the cue and rose, following the woman down a sterile tile corridor. Her rhythmic stride, slow and steady, would have pleased any drill sergeant. Cameras bristled like gun emplacements over every door. A strong chlorine odor tickled my nose.
I was led to another brightly lit, windowless space, this one not a cell but an interrogation room, equipped with a long metal table and six chairs. Most likely for lawyers and clients. A woman waited. Middle-aged, thin, attractive, with short, light-colored hair and a confident face. She wore a smart-looking wool-skirted suit. She would eventually become one of my closest friends, but on this day we were perfect strangers.
My first impression of her was never in doubt.
Law enforcement.
And not local.
“My name is Stephanie Nelle,” she said.
The corrections officer left, closing the door behind her.
“What are you? FBI?”
She smiled and shook her head. “I was told you were intuitive. Give it another shot.”
I tried to think of a clever retort, but couldn’t, so I simply said, “Justice Department.”
She nodded. “I came down from DC to meet with you. But an hour ago, when I showed up at the naval station, your commanding officer told me you were here.”
I was in my second year of a three-year tour at Mayport. The base sat a few miles east of Jacksonville beside a protected harbor that accommodated aircraft-carrier-sized vessels. Thousands of sailors and even more support personnel worked within its fences.
“I’m sure he had nothing good to say about me.”
“He told me you could rot here. It seems he considers you nothing but a problem.”
Which, believe me, I’d tried hard not to be. I’d served at bases in Scotland, Connecticut, and Virginia. I knew the word was out I was a maverick, tagged with stubbornness, arrogance, even a little recklessness, with an occasional confrontation with authority. But by and large I toed the Navy line, and my service record was exemplary. Next up for me was sea duty, which I wasn’t looking forward to. At least three years’ worth, if I ever wanted to advance to commander. Pam, God bless her, followed me to each duty station, finding a job, making a home. Which made my past idiocy even worse. We’d talked about her going to law school. She had an interest and I liked the idea. Or having a baby? Maybe one of those, or both, might save us. Bob Weiler’s death had brought into sharp focus the horror of divorce.
I slid one of the chairs away from the table and sat. The sleepless night was catching up to me. My visitor remained standing.
“Nice aiming out there,” she said. “You could have killed her, but you didn’t.”
I shrugged. “She didn’t appreciate the favor.”
“Your first time shooting someone?”
“Does it show?”
“You look a little rattled.”
“I watched a friend die.”
“That would do it to anyone. Sue Weiler wants to press charges against you.”
“Yeah. Good luck with that one.”
She chuckled. “My thought, too. I was told you can handle yourself under pressure. It’s good to see the intel was correct. You flew fighters, right?”
That I had. For a while, at least. Until I was talked into a career shift by friends of my late father. Two admirals and a captain who seemed to have made it their life’s mission to look after me. My father would have been flag-rank-eligible by now, too, if not for his submarine sinking with all hands lost. No bodies had ever been recovered, little known about the mission. In fact, the whole thing was stamped classified. I knew that because I’d tried, without success, to access the court of inquiry’s investigative report. I’d been ten when the men in uniforms came to the house and told my mother the bad news. Nothing about it made sense then, and it would be many more years before I learned the truth.
“I read your personnel file,” she said. “You specifically requested flight training, and your skills were top-notch. Mind telling me why the shi
ft to law?”
I trained my eyes on her like gun barrels. “You already know the answer to that question.”
She smiled. “I apologize. I won’t insult you like that again.”
“How about you get to the point.”
“I have a job for you.”
“The Navy has first dibs on my time.”
“That’s the great thing about working for the attorney general of the United States, who works for the president of the United States, the commander in chief. Jobs like yours can be changed.”
Okay. I got the message. This was important.
“The job I have in mind for you requires skill and discretion. I’m told you possess both qualities.”
I decided to do a little testing on my own. “Was it the two admirals or the captain who told you about me?”
“All three, actually. One led me to another to another. They sang your praises. But the question is, do you live up to that advance billing? Your CO doesn’t think so.”
Screw that idiot. He was an ass-kissing paper pusher and always would be. A career officer focused on doing his twenty years, then retiring out with a pension while he was young enough to double-dip in private practice.
That path had never interested me.
