shook--a little close to home. The highway from Baghdad to the airport was aptly and horribly nicknamed Suicide Alley, and it sounded like a suicide bomber had just nailed somebody. Maybe it was Waterbury; we should be so lucky.
Without speaking, Bian set up the speakerphone in the middle of the conference table. I dialed the Washington switch, gave the nice operator the number, and a few unanswered rings later heard Detective Barry Enders's voice growl, "Jesus H. . . . Look what friggin' time it is. If this isn't about a murder, there's about to be one."
I identified myself and told Enders that Bian was beside me, listening on the speakerphone, then informed him, "We're calling for an update on the investigation."
There was silence for a moment. Enders then said, "What investigation?"
"Barry, it's me," replied Bian. Sounding slightly annoyed, she said, "Don't jerk us off."
"Who's jerkin' who off? A bunch of Feds came in yesterday. They took everything, jurisdiction, the crime scene log . . . my files . . . the lab specimens. They even ripped the pages out of my detective book. Don't even tell me this is a surprise to you."
Bian and I exchanged troubled looks. No wonder Phyllis and Waterbury felt no need to warn us off this venue. Bastards. But smart bastards.
Enders continued, "Now you're calling at this hour to rub it in. What is this, some kind've trap play to see if I'm--"
"Barry," I interrupted, "this is the first we've heard of this."
"Yeah . . . right."
"Who signed the order?"
"Justice Department. I was also ordered to develop a memory lapse. They were real assholes about it, too."
"Yet this is still an open case for you, is it not? A death in your jurisdiction--isn't it your responsibility to file cause of death?"
"That's not how it works, Drummond. The Feds give the judgment, I write it down, end of story."
I was, of course, familiar with the proper procedures, and we both knew I was testing the waters. The answer was, screw you.
He asked me, "Why do you care? You insisted it was suicide. And you know what? I have a feeling that's what the Feds will conclude: suicide." He laughed.
Bian recognized I had a credibility problem here and said, "I changed his mind. So did you. Now he . . . actually, we both believe it was something else. Murder."
"Look, I think we're done--"
"What if I offered you insights about why Cliff Daniels was murdered?" I asked.
"Great. I'll give you the number to Special Agent Barney Stanowitz. Big ugly asshole with bad manners. His card's in my office. In fact," he confided, "he warned me that if anybody asked about this case I should call him."
Going on instinct about Barry Enders, I said, "Give me a minute, Barry. One minute. Then make up your own mind about what you're going to do."
He hesitated. Not a good sign.
I nodded at Bian, who is much nicer than me, and she said, "Barry, you're a smart guy. I think you know what's going down. A cover-up. Conspiracy. You don't know why, and maybe you don't care. But I suspect you do care."
Bian and I looked at each other. No reply.
Bian said, "Barry, please."
"Okay . . . one minute. Drummond, make your case."
This was less than a commitment but more than the phone slamming down.
So I confessed, "Maybe I misled you about the trouble Daniels was in."
"Wow, no shit. Didn't they teach you at law school that it's a crime to lie to the cops?"
"Cut the crap, Barry. One minute. You promised."
"If you want the full minute, speak more clearly."
"Okay. Possibly Cliff Daniels betrayed this country. Possibly he gave enormously sensitive information to the wrong people in Iraq and compromised a very important operation. You wondered why a CIA person and a military policewoman were sent to his apartment. Now you know--espionage."
There was a long, contemplative pause. He said, "My oldest boy--Elton--he's a Marine. First Marine Division. Already been to Iraq once." After another moment he mentioned, "Did my own four years as a Jarhead before I became a cop. Semper Fi."
"Couldn't get into the Army?"
"Hey, I tried. Only the Army recruiter, he said I possessed two irreconcilable issues: My parents were married, and I don't look sufficiently stupid."
"Really? You look stupid enough to me."
We both laughed. He said, "All right, I'll give you more than a minute. Go ahead, blow some more smoke up my ass."
So I gave him part of the story, essentially that Daniels got in over