a job. I've got to eat, live, get on with my life.
Sell the goddamn house that's too big for you anyway. I don't live there anymore. By the way I drove by the house the other day. The lawn looks like shit. The car looks like shit. And what happened to the money I gave you to repair the roof? You ob-viously spent it on something else, you bitch. On what? It's my right to know. It was MY money.
I would ask you to pass my love to the kids . . . of course, you won't. Anyway, you've already poi-soned their minds and hearts against me. I rue the day I ever met you. What in the hell was I thinking when I married you? Just don't forget, if your law-yer calls me at work again, I'll make him regret it. You too. Don't underestimate me. Cliff.
I looked up from the screen. Bian and I exchanged glances. My goodness. Clearly theirs had not been a divorce on amicable terms.
Fortunately, JAG officers don't go near divorces--just wars, which generally suck, though they have one saving grace: When they're over, usually they're over.
Bian turned to John and asked, "There are more letters like this?"
"Yeah. I'm still browsing . . . but the titles don't tell if it's hate mail to his ex-wife."
I asked, "Anything else?"
"One thing. It's interesting, I guess. Mr. Daniels belonged to several online dating clubs and chat rooms."
"Tell us about that."
"Oh . . . well, he tried to erase the entries and e-mails. Everything on a hard drive is recoverable, of course. But you know how you can meet people online?"
I suppose I looked confused, because he explained, "It's more efficient. Easier."
"What is?"
"Meeting women on the computer. No need to hang around bars trying to think up clever things to say to real women."
I could see where that might be a problem for John.
Bian looked at me and remarked to him, "I've heard Drummond's best line." She suggested, "Why don't you do him a big favor and explain how this works?"
I smiled back. Bitch.
John said, "With online services you pay a fee and fill out a questionnaire. It's very convenient--you answer a few questions about your likes, dislikes, hobbies, the type of person you'd prefer to date. The service culls through similar profiles filled out by women, looks for commonalities, and hooks you up electronically. Chat rooms are a free-for-all. Log in to the conversation, and maybe another member likes your style and becomes interested in you."
"You're telling me my computer's a pimp?"
"No . . . I--"
"What happens if you both lie?"
"Well . . . that can happen but--"
"And you get together and it turns out you're both stupider and ickier-looking than you said?"
Bian was stifling a laugh.
John was now staring at me like I was weird. Truly, it's a whole new world. I'm part of the older world; I don't really like being reminded of it. However, I said to John, "You've done great work. Thank you." I asked Bian, "Who notifies his ex he's dead?"
"The Arlington police."
"You know this for a fact?"
"I do. I checked before I left the office. I hate notification detail." She added, "The obligation for a military notification pertains only to uniformed military."
"Not this time. Call your pal Detective Enders. Tell him he's off the hook."
"You think that's a good idea?"
"Is it ever a bad idea to observe a suspect's expression at the instant she learns the body was discovered?"
She paused for a moment, then said, "I should've thought of that."
"Yes, you should have."
Bian made the call, and I stood looking over John's shoulder and read more letters from Cliff to his ex, and about his ex. All were post-divorce, uniformly bitter, angry, insulting, and frequently they were threatening. On a hunch, I mentioned to Bian, who was still talking with Enders, "Tell him to check for past reports of domestic violence. Restraining orders, protection orders, whatever."
That Cliff was corresponding by mail with his ex suggested, at the very least, a geographic restraining order, perhaps extending to a telephonic order. Or alternatively, this physical excommunication may have been self-imposed. When it comes to divorce, nothing ever makes sense, and you never know. It was too early to jump to conclusions, but based on the tenor of that note, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she wanted to put a bullet through his brain.
And for sure it would be easy for us, and convenient for many, were it to turn out Cliff