wedding band, just a practical black plastic runner's watch, tiny gold West Point ring, and a plastic-wrapped dog-tag chain around her neck.
All in all, I thought Bian Tran was an impressive specimen of soldierly attributes--fit, wholesome, and freshly scrubbed; ready to launch a volleyball on the beach, or a fire mission on an enemy village, whichever the occasion calls for.
She now looked a little miffed and said, "Remember as kids when we played I'll show you mine, if you show me yours?"
I raised my eyebrows.
"Would you just tell me why you're here?"
Also she was quite attractive, though of course in the new Army we don't notice those things. A soldier is a soldier, and lust is a weakness monopolized by the hedonists outside the gates.
Oh, yes, and another thing I didn't notice was the lovely body beneath that camouflage. Svelte, muscular, sexy.
Anyway, I had clearly worn out her patience, and I had a good alibi and informed her, "Well . . . an FBI liaison works at the Arlington police headquarters. As the victim is--or was--an employee of the Defense Department, our liaison thought we should take a look."
"What does that mean?"
"If it turns out to be murder, we might exercise jurisdiction. If suicide, on the other hand, it's beneath Bureau dignity and interest-- we'll let the locals keep it."
"How generous." She stared at me a moment. "Why would the FBI be interested even if it was murder?"
"We wouldn't, necessarily. My job is to report back. The big guys make the call."
She nodded.
"And you? Why does the Army have an interest in the death of a Defense Department civilian?"
"I'm not working for the Army right now. I'm assigned to a Special Investigations unit that reports to the Defense Secretary. The office Cliff Daniels worked in was notified by the Arlington police that he was dead. They called my office, and here I am."
"Investigating, or fact-finding?"
"Like you, I'm expected to compile a brief report on the circumstances of Daniels's death. Nothing more."
"Did you know the victim?"
"No."
"Who gets the report?"
"The header will be the Secretary of Defense's Office. However, it will be read by one of his staff assistants, and probably ignored." After a moment, she added, "Unless Mr. Daniels was murdered."
"And then?"
"This is my first case like this. My office doesn't usually handle violent crimes. Fraud, theft, and sexual improprieties are our bread and butter. But my guess would be the Secretary's Office will send a letter to the Arlington Police Department and ask to be kept in the loop."
I smiled. "Hard to believe, isn't it? Death . . . the amount of paperwork it generates."
"Sure is." She smiled back. "Look, I have to go talk to the lead detective again. Do me a favor?"
"I'm all yours."
"I neither need nor want all of you, Drummond." She smiled. "Just keep an eye on that briefcase."
"Briefcase? I don't see--"
"That one." She pointed it out. "The one you accidentally nudged under the bed."
"Oh . . . I hadn't--"
She put her finger on my chest. "I intend to have it dusted for prints. Don't let me find yours on it."
CHAPTER TWO
The moment Bian Tran stepped out of the bedroom, I shifted position, closer to the bed and directly behind the forensics specialist, who remained bent over the body, manipulating tweezers and picking debris off the sheets. I cleared my throat and asked, "What are we seeing here?"
"It'll all be in my report," he replied.
"Okay, but--"
"Aren't you listening? I said it'll be in my report."
I allowed a moment to pass. Then I withdrew a pen and a small green notepad from my pocket. "What's your name?"
"What?"
"Your name--spell it."
He straightened up. "What are you talking about?"
"For my report."
"What the--"
"Back at the Bureau they throw monumental fits over silly things like misplaced modifiers and split infinitives. Misspellings really make them pissy." I added, "I think it's because we hire too many lawyers and accountants. You know? Totally anal."
"I still don't know what--"
"It's fairly simple. I can spell 'impeding a federal investigation.' I just need to be sure I get your name right, Mr. . . . ?"
"Reynolds . . . Timothy Reynolds." He turned around and faced me, and in a nasal, whiny voice, said, "I'm just trying to do my job."
"Aren't we all, Tim?" I flashed my phony FBI creds in his face. "Now what are we seeing here?"
Timothy looked around for a moment, obviously torn between doing his job and mollifying the impatient prick with the federal badge. He insisted, "Well, nothing conclusive. On the surface,