Ground Zero Read online

  “What the hell?” she started, and Admiral Kane held up a hand.

  “Let me explain. Steve Mills here is CIA to the core. He'll never leave. You might. You might walk out the door tomorrow, as you put so succinctly. That's why we wanted Felix to have this file. You ended up with it.” The Admiral threw a steely glance at Mills, who paled even further, although it didn’t seem possible. “But what's done is done.”

  “I wanted to see what you were made of, Lucy,” Kane said. “You aren’t going to like what I’m going to say. You could damage national security by knowing this information, but you could damage national security by not knowing this information. So I had to decide.”

  He grinned at her, and she felt a reluctant and helpless liking for him.

  “That’s why they put me in this get-up, to make these decisions. I’m going to show you something, and let you make your own decision.”

  “About what?” Lucy asked evenly.

  “I've sent word to an Air Force Captain named Stillwell. Alan Stillwell. He's the OSI officer that should have taken on this Schriever investigation. He'll be at Schriever tomorrow night, and he's going to take over the investigation from the civilian detective.”

  The Admiral looked calmly at Lucy. “He will be told to cover up the entire incident. No more waves. No news. He'll bury it as deep as every other homicide on this case. As of tomorrow night, the Schriever incident will be closed.”

  Colorado Springs

  “Mrs. Bailey?” Eileen asked.

  “No, I'm Susan. I'm her neighbor. Who are you?”

  “Detective Eileen Reed, ma'am, Colorado Springs Police. I'm investigating the murder of Terry Guzman and Arthur Bailey.” She held up her badge.

  The one eye she could see through the chain on the door regarded her doubtfully. The eye looked at her badge, back at her face, then crinkled in what could be a smile or a grimace of worry.

  “Come on in, then, Detective. Meg is here, and I think she's up. I fixed her some soup an hour or so ago and she ate some of it.”

  The woman fumbled with the chain for a moment. The door swung open and a slender, lovely girl looked at her. Eileen blinked in surprise, then looked at the eyes again. The woman was in her forties around her eyes, and in her twenties everywhere else, from the boyish curve of hips to the curly black hair.

  “I'm Susan Lazecki. I've been taking care of Meg since we found out. Come on in.”

  Eileen followed the girl -- woman, she corrected herself -- down a dark hallway and into another sunny family area. This one was scattered with toys and papers and magazines in an untidy mess. A huge gray cat was sleeping on a pile of laundry in a basket. Eileen looked at the clean clothes in the basket and got an uncomfortable image of Meg Bailey, worried, getting ready to fold laundry, setting down the basket to answer the phone that would destroy her life.

  Susan Lazecki turned around in the family room and regarded Eileen nervously.

  “Please don’t treat her badly.”

  “I just want to ask her some questions. I knew Art Bailey, Mrs. Lazecki. I was working on the murder of Terry Guzman when this happened.”

  That was the wrong thing to say. The young face with the old eyes sparkled with tears.

  “Why couldn’t you stop it?”

  “I've been asking myself that question since last night at 11:30, Mrs. Lazecki. I haven't had any sleep since the news came in. I still haven't caught the murderer.” Eileen didn't like the taste of the words in her own mouth. She was tired and upset. She wanted to be Harben, seemingly capable of dismissing emotion when it interfered with her thought processes. She sighed, and held out her hand.

  Mrs. Lazecki regarded it, and her, and then shook Eileen’s hand. Her hand was small but her handshake was very firm.

  “I'm sorry,” she said. “I just -- please don't hurt her. She didn't want to cry, and didn't want to cry, and then she let it go all at once. I haven't slept either, Miss. -- er --”

  “Eileen Reed. Call me Eileen.”

  “Eileen. She got up an hour or so ago and I fixed her lunch. And I --”

  “Susan tries to protect me, I think,” said a soft voice from the stairs. Eileen and Susan Lazecki turned to look. Meg Bailey stood at the foot of the stairs, dressed in dark sweat pants and a sweatshirt. Meg had brown hair and soft brown eyes and fair skin that was gray and lined with grief. She would be pretty, perhaps, with love and happiness in her face.

  “I'll be okay to talk for a little while,” she said, and let go of the banister to walk to the dining room table. It looked like an effort. She sat down, and gazed at Eileen. “I'll just sit here, is that all right?”

  “Will you be okay?” Susan said.

  “I'll be okay. Art talked about you, Miss Reed. He said you were working very hard on solving Terry's murder.”

  “Did he tell you why he went out to Schriever last night?” Eileen asked, taking a seat at the table. Meg's hands clenched on the tabletop.

  “No, he didn't. He's the kind of man who gets up in the middle of the night when he thinks -- thought -- of something, and then off he'd go to work. He'd catch up on his sleep later. He --” Here Meg's voice scaled down to a harsh whisper. “We were reading, we'd put the kids to bed, and he stopped reading and looked at the wall. Then he got up and got dressed and kissed me good-bye, and then he went. That was it. Your other officer, Detective Rosen, he asked me this too.”

  “I'm sorry I'm covering the same ground,” Eileen said. “I don't want to waste your time but I wanted to speak to you personally. Also, I wanted to look at Art's office, if he has one.”

  Meg was already shaking her head.

  “We don't have one. What could he bring home? We have the kitchen organizer, that's where we sit and do bills. Would you like to look through that?”

  “I'd like to, please,” Eileen said. “Detective Rosen already looked, though, didn't he?”

  Both women nodded their heads at the same time. Eileen sighed. Well, she expected that.

  “Detective Rosen was just assigned to the case,” Eileen explained. “He's good, and he'll give me a thorough report, but he might miss something. At least, that's what I'm hoping.”

  “What are you looking for, Detective?” Meg asked.

  “Something to tell me why he went out there. Can you remember anything different about what he did last night? Did he make a phone call, or did anyone call here? Someone had to know he went out there.”

  “He did make a call,” Meg said, and scrubbed her hands across her face. She started crying but didn't seem to realize it. “I told the policeman that, too. He made it from the kitchen. Sometimes he calls Nelson to tell him he'll be going in. Sometimes he calls Joe, if he needs Joe to meet him there.”

  “Joe wasn't home,” Susan said quickly.

  “You know him?”

  “He's a friend of the family,” Meg answered for Susan. “Don't get defensive, Joe’s been cleared. That's what the other detective said. Isn't that right?”

  Eileen nodded. “I know he was in class. I'll be calling on him later to ask him about the case. Art made a phone call? Do you remember what he said?”

  “I don't. I heard his voice in the kitchen, then he hung up the phone. Then he left.”

  “Was there something about the conversation that was different?” Eileen asked. “Think about every second. I know it's hard. But think. Did he talk for a long time? Were the tones of his voice angry, upset? Did he laugh at all?”

  “Please,” began Susan, but Megan Bailey held up her hand.

  “Yes. I remember.” She looked up at Eileen and her expression was dazed, almost hypnotized. “He didn't laugh, and he wasn't upset. He spoke for a moment, then he hung up the phone. Even, measured tones. No life to them at all. Like --”

  “Like he was leaving a message,” Eileen said. “That was it?”

  “Yes. Yes! He left a message. It must have been Nelson he left the message for. Or Joe.”

  “A message,” Susan Lazecki breathed.
>
  “The message might still be there,” Eileen said. The tiredness was gone as though she'd received an electric jolt. “Wherever he left it. Did he dial more than one number?”

  “No, just one,” Meg said. “Just one.” Her voice broke unexpectedly, and she bent her head down so Eileen couldn't see her expression. She felt a terrible pity for her, and a terrible anger. It was a hateful feeling, but she didn't think about it. There was no time.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Black Forest, Colorado

  Nelson Atkins lived in the Black Forest, a sprawling stretch of dense forest east of Colorado Springs. Sheltered from the prairie winds and set to catch the moisture sweeping from the Front Range, the Black Forest is a place of towering, thick pines. Eileen had been out to the Forest occasionally, and found Atkins' house without much trouble. The house was large but not pretentious, built to sit in the sun along a stretch of meadow. There were some pretty horses in the shade at the edge of the meadow, grazing contentedly.

  Atkins opened the door when Eileen pulled up. He was in jeans and a tee-shirt, the first of the off duty Gamers to break the pattern of sweat clothing. Eileen caught an immediate strong odor of horses as Atkins shook his hand.

  “Just got in from grooming. I asked Caleb to stay out and finish up.”

  “Your son?”

  “Yes. He runs the horse business with me,” Nelson said, and gestured for Eileen to enter the house. “We sell Appaloosas. My wife died three years ago. Cancer.”

  “I'm sorry,” Eileen said automatically.

  “It was quick. Caleb took over the business, I was planning to sell after Cassie died but he convinced me to stay with it.”

  Atkins showed Eileen into a sitting room. There was dust on the cabinets and dead flies on the sills of the quiet room. Caleb loved the horses but he didn't much bother with dusting or cleaning. Atkins was oblivious. He looked stronger in his own home, more in control of his environment. Eileen, watching the Game Day tapes over and over, developed an impression of the Game Director as a man uncomfortable with authority. A man who didn't want to lead. His handling of Terry Guzman's poisonous personality was inept. He was probably as oblivious to Terry's effect on his team as he was to the tiny dry carcasses of the flies on the sills of his home.

  “Do you want something to drink?”

  “Thanks, but no. I would like to look at your answering machine, if I could.”

  There was no reaction from Atkins except puzzlement. Eileen, who was braced for the guilty reaction she craved, relaxed in disappointment. She didn't see the other indication she was looking for either. She wanted to see Atkins going through the mental check 'Did I do everything right? Did I wipe the prints? Did I get rid of the tape?' that Eileen had seen in a few people who'd later been found guilty of murder. There was nothing but puzzlement in the freckled face.

  “My answering machine? I have voice mail, if that's what you mean. I don't have an answering machine.”

  “Did Art Bailey leave you a message, Mr. Atkins?” Eileen asked, leaning forward. Would every lead turn into this frustrating blank? “I have reason to believe he left a message for you, or for someone on the Gaming Team.”

  “I didn't get a message from Art,” Atkins said. He grimaced and shook his head. “I checked this morning, I use the same voice mail for the horses as I do for work. There was nothing from Art. Why would he leave me a message?”

  “Didn't he usually leave a message when he went into work for a late night?”

  “Oh. Well, yes,” Atkins said, his expression so lost and wandering that he looked stupid. Eileen remembered the veiled contempt that Art held for Atkins, and the way the Gamers looked to Art or Lowell instead of Atkins when they needed help.

  “Why are you the Game Director?” Eileen asked neutrally.

  “I was the assistant Game Director when Paul Wiessman won the Lotto,” Atkins said promptly, and looked so unhappy Eileen nearly burst into laughter.

  “He won the Lotto?”

  “Yes, can you believe it? I was supposed to be the assistant just for the last three years before I retired. I didn't want to lead the Gamers. That wasn't what I was supposed to do.”

  “Why didn't you turn down the job?”

  “I was only supposed to have it for a few months. But the productivity was so high they wanted to keep me. I didn't do anything, or at least that's what I thought.”

  And that's why the Gamers wanted you, Eileen thought. You didn't do a thing and you didn't get in the way. A perfect manager.

  “So the person before you retired when he won?”

  “He was only thirty three. I guess you could say he retired,” Atkins said grimly. “He fishes a lot now, and rides dirt bikes for fun. The funny thing is, he got the job by default too. The Game Director before Paul was Karen. Karen somebody, I don't know. She was up and coming in the Defense Simulations world, built the team, hired Joe and Art and Doug.”

  “Then?” Eileen prompted. She was having a hard time keeping a grin from her face.

  “Then she took a diving trip to the Bahamas,” Atkins said. “She met a guy and fell in love and never came back. She sent her badges by mail. Can you believe it? Like a really dumb romance novel. Cassie used to read them all the time.”

  “Was he rich and handsome and French?” Eileen asked, seriously close to collapsing with laughter. She knew she was exhausted and that was affecting her judgment, but this was hilarious. Her mother liked to read those novels, too.

  “Well, rich and handsome. American. They run a dive shop. Joe’s been down there for a vacation. Karen was supposed to be the first woman on the board of directors, she was that hot. And she threw it all away.” Atkins shook his head, but there was no censure in his voice. He sounded glum and admiring at the same time.

  “So you ended up with the job.”

  “I did,” Atkins said, looking with a lost expression at Eileen. “I never wanted this. I thought we were doing all right, and then Terry was killed. Now Art. I'm going to resign. I'll lose some of my retirement benefits but not all of them. It doesn't matter any more.”

  Eileen thought Atkins looked like an old janitor who'd somehow ended up in the President's chair. He really wasn't management material.

  “Can I check your voice mail, just to make sure?” Eileen asked. “I'll call Joe from here, I need to talk to him.”

  “He'll be at the health club,” Atkins said immediately. “If he's not home. He works out when he feels bad. I've got the number. I've called him there before.”

  “Okay,” Eileen said. “Thanks. You know, I think I'll change my mind about that offer of a drink. Do you have a pop?”

  Atkins went to the kitchen to get Eileen a cold drink, and she shook her head. She’d check Atkin's voice mail, and call Rosen to check on his progress, then she’d meet Joe. She scratched at her cheekbone and refused to think about how glad she was that Joe had an alibi for Art. She also thought about how Joe didn't have an alibi for Terry. Joe Tanner had one of the best motives for killing Terry Guzman, and that lead hadn't ended yet.

  The Pentagon

  “I think you'll agree with me after I've finished,” The Admiral said.

  “Agree with you?” Lucy said in a hoarse whisper.

  “Agree with me. I'm going to have Jefferson here get us some supper. Lucy,” Kane said, and his face became a grandfather's again. “Trust me. Eat something and calm yourself. It's bad for the baby.”

  Jefferson spoke up then, surprising both Lucy and Mills. “You better eat something. This is going to be hard enough as it is.” Lucy saw Mills look at Jefferson with a frown, as though a servant had spoken up, and her rage came under her control as she felt the familiar wash of contempt for her boss.

  “That would be just fine, Mr. Jefferson,” she said. “I would like some supper. I didn't realize we'd be here so late.”

  Jefferson smiled at her with an echo of his boss's kindly twinkle. “I've got an order already in. Chicken and mashed potatoes. That's wh
at I fed my wife when she was pregnant and feeling peckish. It will only take me a minute to get it.”

  The Lieutenant left the room and Lucy turned to look at Admiral Kane. Her opinion of the old man inched higher.

  “Young Jefferson will be taking my place someday, I hope,” the Admiral said thoughtfully. “He's quite a brilliant young man.”

  Lucy knew the position of aide to a high ranking officer in the Pentagon was highly sought. Even though the job was basically that of a servant, the mantle of command was almost inevitable. She wondered if Mills knew that, or if he thought Jefferson was merely a servant.

  “What are you going to tell us?” she said. “Can't you just summarize it in twenty five words or less so I can get home at a reasonable hour? After I've eaten your food, of course.”

  Kane smiled with his eyes. He understood she was offering a little olive branch, and he took it. Lucy felt a little better. Kane might be the kind of person she could deal with. But why would he bury the investigation?

  “I'm going to show you a film,” Admiral Kane said. “Ahh, Samuel. Supper.”

  The chicken dinner was in small bags, packed like lunch. But the paper bags were

  hot and smelled delicious.

  “Lets get the film started,” the Lieutenant said, passing out the bags to Lucy, the Admiral, and Mills. “I suggest you eat quickly. The first part isn't so bad. You won't be eating much later on.”

  “Are you feeling okay, Miss Giometti?” the Admiral asked, and this time the solicitude was real. Lucy felt sick with the swings of emotion in the room, but she wouldn’t admit that. And the food did smell delicious.

  “I’m feeling all right,” she said. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Good girl,” he said warmly.

  Lucy opened her divinely smelling bag of food. Lieutenant Jefferson started the film. He didn't dim the lights all the way, so she could see her chicken. She dug in.