entered a well-lit, windowless office space, a warren of office cubes where about twenty people were performing various activities, from punching computer keys and chatting on phones to the happier few who were gathering their coats and calling it a day.
A number of people looked up and waved or said hello to Bian; she seemed popular with her workmates, always a good sign. We walked directly to the rear of the skiff, where there was an office door; she knocked, and we entered.
Mr. Waterbury was seated behind his desk, hunched over and scribbling on a form. We stood and waited, and he ignored us, pulling more forms out of an in-box and not looking up.
I have a low threshold for self-important pricks, and after thirty seconds of this nonsense, I said to Bian, "I have better things to do. We're outta here."
His head snapped up and he affected a surprised look. "What do--? Oh . . . Drummond, Tran . . . you're here."
"Were you expecting somebody else?"
"I'm a busy man. This is an important office."
"You asked us to drop by. We're here. What do you want?"
He was used to doing the browbeating, so my directness threw him off and he looked confused for a moment.
Anyway, Waterbury's office was physically small, and the room and the top of his desk--like his mind, and like his personality-- were neat and barren, devoid of any of the normal signs of human habitation. The lone ornamentation was a photograph of the Secretary of Defense hanging prominently in the middle of the wall. Upon closer examination, I noted that it was neatly autographed with a short inscription that, for all I knew, read, "To the biggest tightass in the building--don't let up." This, of course, is the kind of bureaucratic pornography people normally display to impress guests and underlings. In Waterbury's case, I suspect he did it in the event the Secretary dropped by for a cup of coffee, unlikely as that might be. People who owe their jobs to patronage are always a little insecure; they turn ass-kissing into a high art.
In addition to the desk, I observed three stand-up wall safes with Top Secret magnetic strips on the drawers, and to his rear, a large mahogany bookshelf filled with about a hundred precisely aligned regulations and manuals. George Orwell dreamed of rooms, and of men, like this.
His eyes studied Bian, then me. He said, motioning at the absence of chairs, "I won't offer you seats. I don't believe in them."
"Then how do you get your ass to levitate like that?"
"I meant I don't encourage subordinates to relax in my office."
I knew what he meant. "I can't imagine anybody relaxing in your presence, Mr. Waterbury." I smiled.
He obviously understood the underlying message and did not appreciate it, because he did not smile back. Lest you think I was screwing with Waterbury just for the fun of it, he was speaking to me in this really condescending tone. To borrow a metaphor, he was the lion back in his own hunting ground, informing the interloper who was the king of this jungle. To stretch that metaphor a bit further, I'm like a hyena--I scavenge where I like, am quicker on my feet, and my sound is very annoying. Also, it was fun.
He came to the point and asked us, "Did you learn anything from Mrs. Daniels?"
Bian started to reply, and I cut her off. "Like what?"
"Answer the question, Drummond."
"Oh . . . well . . . she smokes Camels. About three packs a day. She has a thing for cheap gin. Her car and face need paint jobs, her house--"
"I don't care about all that. Anything relevant to Daniels's death?"
I stared down at him. "It will be in my report. When I get around to writing one, you can read all about it."
His eyes narrowed. He said to Bian, "Major, you do work for me, right?"
"Yes sir, and--"
"Then answer the question."
After a moment, Bian said, "We learned nothing relevant to Daniels's death. She didn't know why her husband died, or how."
He studied her face, then mine. He informed us, "I think it was suicide."
"It wasn't," I replied.
"That's your view." He added, "I called the Arlington police and had a long conversation with Detective Sergeant Enders. The ballistics results came in. The gun belonged to Daniels."
"We assumed that--"
"And a preliminary match was made between the splatter on the pistol and Daniels's blood type."
"We also assumed that," I informed him. "If you'd be so good, keep