machine parked at its door. It had a pay phone on the wall and
worn linoleum on the floor and a waist-high counter boxed in
with the sort of fake wood panelling people use in their basements.
The clerk was on a high stool behind it. He was a white
guy of about twenty with long unwashed hair and a weak chin.
‘Happy New Year,’ I said.
He didn’t reply.
‘You take anything out of the dead guy’s room?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Tell me again.’
‘I didn’t take anything.’
I nodded. I believed him.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘When did he check in?’
23
‘I don’t know. I came on at ten. He was already here.’
I nodded again. Kramer was in the rental lot at Dulles at one
thirty-two and he hadn’t driven enough miles to do much of
anything except come straight here, in which case he was
checking in around seven thirty. Maybe eight thirty, if he
stopped for dinner somewhere. Maybe nine, if he was an exceptionally
cautious driver.
‘Did he use the pay phone at all?’
‘It’s busted.’
‘So how did he get hold of the hooker?’
‘What hooker?’
‘The hooker he was poking when he died.’
‘No hookers here.’
‘Did he go over and get her from the lounge bar?’
‘He was way the hell down the row. I didn’t see what he
did.’
‘You got a driver’s licence?’
The guy paused. ‘Why?’
‘Simple question,’ I said. ‘Either you do or you don’t.’
‘I got a licence,’ he said.
‘Show me,’ I said.
I was bigger than his Coke machine and all covered in badges
and ribbons and he did what he was told, like most skinny
twenty-year-olds do when I use that tone. He eased his butt up
off the stool and reached back and came out with a wallet from
his hip pocket. Flipped it open. His DL was behind a milky
plastic window. It had his photograph on it, and his name, and
his address.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Now I know where you live. I’ll be back later
with some questions. If I don’t find you here I’ll come and find
you at home.’
He said nothing to me. I turned away and pushed out through
the door and went back to my Humvee to wait.
Forty minutes later a military meat wagon and another Humvee
showed up. I told my guys to grab everything including the
rental car but didn’t wait around to watch them do it. I headed
back to base instead. I logged in and got back to my borrowed
office and told my sergeant to get me Garber on the phone. I
24
waited at my desk for the call to come through. It took less than
two minutes.
‘What’s the story?’ he asked.
‘His name was Kramer,’ I said.
‘I know that,’ Garber said. ‘I spoke to the police dispatcher
after I spoke to you. What happened to him?’
‘Heart attack,’ I said. ‘During consensual sex with a
prostitute. In the kind of motel a fastidious cockroach would
take pains to avoid.’
There was a long silence.
‘Shit,’ Garber said. ‘He was married.’
‘Yes, I saw his wedding band. And his West Point ring.’
‘Class of ‘fifty-two,’ Garber said. ‘I checked.’
The phone went quiet.
‘Shit,’ he said again. ‘Why do smart people pull stupid stunts
like this?’
I didn’t answer, because I didn’t know.
‘We’ll need to be discreet,’ Garber said.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘The cover-up is already started. The
locals let me send him to Walter Reed.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s good.’ Then he paused. ‘From the
beginning, OK?’
‘He was wearing XI! Corps patches,’ I said. ‘Means he
was based in Germany. He flew into Dulles yesterday. From
Frankfurt, probably. Civilian flight, for sure, because he was
wearing Class As, hoping for an upgrade. He would have worn
BDUs on a military flight. He rented a cheap car and drove two
hundred ninety-eight miles and checked into a fifteen-dollar
motel room and picked up a twenty-dollar hooker.’
‘I know about the flight,’ Garber said. ‘I called XII Corps and
spoke with his staff. I told them he was dead.’
‘When?’