The compliment swelled inside her and threatened to turn to pride. “I’m just doing my duty. Then in the evening, I transcribe my notes into other notebooks. I started with a page per person, but it wasn’t enough.” She opened the second notebook.
“It’s still in shorthand.”
“In case anyone happens upon it. The left column is what the person said. The right is what others said about him.”
“Very organized.”
“Do you think I should show it to the FBI?”
His head jerked up. “The FBI?”
“They’re still investigating, aren’t they? Perhaps they’d find this useful. People say things in front of me they’d never say to an FBI agent.”
Mr. Pennington rubbed his heavy jowls. “This is very clever and foresighted of you, but it’s nothing but gossip. Smith says this about Jones. Jones thinks Smith is a fink. Am I right?”
“Yes, sir.”
He settled back in his chair. “The FBI wants cold hard facts, not rumors. I’m afraid if you showed this to them, they’d think it was rather silly.”
Mary gathered her notebooks, her chest tight. Innuendos and grudges and name-calling might seem like gossip, but they might point the way to those cold hard facts.
She headed to her desk.
“But Miss Stirling...”
“Yes?” She turned in the doorway.
Twin furrows divided his forehead. “It never hurts to keep a record. Keep it up.”
Mary hugged her notebooks. “I plan to.”
8
Friday, May 9, 1941
The giant crane grumbled as it lowered the number two gun mount to the deck in front of the bridge. Workmen shouted over the noise, pointed, and yanked lines to direct the gun into position.
Jim stood by the bow, out of the way but close enough to watch the installation. TheAtwoodwould have four of these multipurpose 5-inch guns, two fore of the bridge and two aft, useful against ships, surfaced submarines, and aircraft.
He looked up to the new Mark 37 fire director, the tank-like steel compartment on top of the bridge superstructure, where the gunnery officer and his crew would direct gunfire during battle. Looked like the head of Frankenstein’s monster, with three portholes for eyes and the optical rangefinders sticking out on each side like the bolts.
That would be his responsibility. Well, the responsibility of Lt. Dick Reinhardt, the gunnery officer. Jim served only as his assistant, thank goodness. Better that way.
“Getting arthritis, old man?” Arch nudged him.
Jim was rubbing his hands again. He chuckled to cover a grimace. “Old scars. They get tight sometimes.”
“How’d it happen? Haven’t heard this story before.”
Jim could still hear Lillian’s screams, see the torn flesh of her leg, smell the blood, feel the bite into his hands. All because he’d tried to make waves for once. And his little sister paid a lifelong price. “Ah, you know. Kids messing around.” He pointed at the workers. “There it goes.”
The crane settled the gun compartment onto the platform that elevated number two above the level of number one. The weight tipped the destroyer slightly down at the bow.
“Excuse me, Arch. I should see if Reinhardt needs me.” He passed the men at work and climbed up to the wing of the bridge. Lieutenant Reinhardt leaned against the rail, chatting with Mitch Hadley.
“Hi, Floats,” Hadley said with a flat smile.
Stupid nickname, but it hadn’t stuck. Only Hadley used it. “Mr. Reinhardt, Mr. Hadley. Some sight, eh?” He nodded to the crane.
