“Like it was old. Might have been pink. Like I said, it was dark.”
Brodie nodded. “Anything else?”
Simpson thought for a moment. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“Okay. I need Pete’s last name and contact info.”
Simpson shook his head. “He doesn’t remember shit. He couldn’t even remember if he got laid.”
“Okay, but you call Pete, and also see if you can get hold of those Venezuelan oil execs. I’d like to find that whorehouse.”
Simpson nodded, but Brodie didn’t think he’d be contacting anyone except maybe his lawyer. Nevertheless, Brodie gave him his card. “Leave a voice message if you have any luck.”
Simpson glanced at the card and again nodded.
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
Simpson forced a smile at the use of his old rank. “I shoulda remembered the first thing I learned in the Army—never volunteer for anything.”
“The first thing you learned was duty, honor, country.”
Simpson nodded again. “Kyle broke the oath. Kyle deserves to die.”
“Captain Mercer will be brought to justice.”
Simpson gave Brodie a look of appraisal. “You don’t capture a man like that. You kill him. Or he kills you.”
Brodie didn’t reply.
Simpson added, “The next day, after I sobered up, I realized Kyle could have killed me in a back room.”
Brodie nodded. He’d had the same thought. But maybe Kyle Mercer had experienced a moment of human feeling for his old Army buddy. If so, Brodie was sure that Mercer later regretted not eliminating a witness. And if he didn’t regret it then, he would when Brodie and Taylor caught up with him.
Simpson said, “That’s all I have to say.”
Brodie stubbed his cigarette and flicked it into the reeds. “Thank you for your time.”
Simpson nodded, lit another cigarette, and stared at the darkening horizon. Apparently he was not ready to face Mrs. Simpson.
Brodie went back into the house, wished Mrs. Simpson a good evening, and motioned to Taylor, and they left.
En route to Newark Airport, Brodie gave Taylor the rundown, including that the brothel trafficked in underage girls.
Taylor pointed out, “If Simpson had sex with one of them, that makes him a sex offender as well as an unreliable witness.”
“Let’s stick to the ID.”
“Okay, so he saw a bearded white guy in a dimly lit whorehouse while drunk. Great ID.”
“He seemed certain,” said Brodie. He reminded her, “The ouroboros tattoo.”
“That’s not an uncommon tattoo, but I guess that’s enough for a trip to Caracas.”
“I’ve gone to other shitholes on less.”
“What about this airstrip he saw? Did he pass it on his right or left?”
“I don’t know and I doubt he’d remember.”
