“Right. Why do most soldiers desert?”
“To avoid the rigors of military service. Including the risk of death.”
“Is that why Captain Kyle Mercer deserted?”
“I doubt it.”
“Me too.”
Someone knows why he deserted, thought Brodie. His Delta Force teammates, maybe. Or some higher-up at JSOC. As CID agents, he and Taylor were able to cross lines of rank and privilege that no one else in the Army could, so long as it was relevant to a criminal case. Justice knows no rank. But they were swimming up to the edge of murky waters here. JSOC. Delta. Black Ops. They couldn’t even get the names of Mercer’s Delta teammates, let alone interview them. Whatever answers they were going to find, the route of discovery ran through Venezuela. By way of Essex County, New Jersey.
Taylor said, “Here’s the exit.”
Brodie took the exit and followed a two-lane road bounded by commercial strips. The next song from Grandpa Taylor’s dusty basement collection came on, this one a fun little ditty about a prison chain gang.
“You got any Stones on there?”
“No. But I’ve got some underground Afghani hip-hop I picked up in Kabul.”
Brodie laughed, though he was pretty sure she was serious. Her Civil Affairs job had required her to be versed in all aspects of local culture, custom, and tradition. Taylor likely had taken this requirement fifteen steps too far and was now an expert in the ethnomusicology of all of Central Asia.
They drove on, passing gated communities labeled Cherry Ridge and Cedar Grove. Brodie wondered whether these names were the pretentious brain farts of real estate developers or memorials to the natural beauty they had paved over.
Eventually they found Simpson’s development—Hidden Springs—and pulled up to a small guard booth where a rent-a-cop was watching TV.
They handed over their driver’s licenses and the guard called the Simpsons, read their names, and then punched a button to open an agonizingly slow gate.
Brodie thought back to the many times he’d waited at the entrance gates to Baghdad’s heavily fortified Green Zone, where the blast walls grew higher and thicker every time insurgents decided to set off a car bomb. Sometimes the illusion of security was the best you could hope for. Whatever helps you sleep at night.
They drove through rows of densely packed McMansions and pulled into the Simpsons’ drive, behind a black Hummer. Maybe the guy missed his Army days, thought Brodie. Or maybe he was an asshole.
They got out and rang the bell. Nora Simpson, a petite, mousy woman, answered the door. She did not look particularly happy to see them. They showed their military IDs and Mrs. Simpson led them into an overly decorated family room with a big flat-screen TV and too many couches.
Al Simpson was deep in a recliner chair that was probably as comfortable as it was ugly, watching a baseball game. A little girl who looked to be about four was playing on the floor. She gave Brodie and Taylor a big gap-toothed grin.
Simpson rose from the chair. He had an average build except for the paunch under his oversize polo shirt. He switched off the TV.
“Just in time,” he said with faux nonchalance. “Mets are blowing it.”
Simpson’s eyes darted to Taylor. His wife’s too. Uncommonly beautiful women tend to have that effect, though Taylor was also uncommonly oblivious when it came to her assets.
“Sadie, sweetie,” said Nora. “Take Mr. Bickles and Princess Moon to your room, okay?”
“She’s a queen now, Mama.”
“Well, congratulations to her. Upstairs.”
Sadie picked up her toys and walked out of the room, looking up at Brodie and Taylor as she passed. “Are you married?”
“Sadie,” chided Nora.
“No,” said Brodie, “but I keep asking. Should I try again?”
“Yeah!” Sadie giggled as she ran out of the room.
They all made introductions, shook hands, and took seats around the coffee table. Taylor said, “Thank you for your help.”
Simpson nodded and said, “I told the other guys everything. So I’m not sure what you’re looking for.”
