Well, as often happened in the Army, a lot of big decisions had already been made before the guy being asked to put his ass on the line was asked to put his ass on the line. As it stood, Scott Brodie didn’t have too many choices. He wasn’t going to stay on the JV team with Brad Evans. And he wasn’t going to decline the mission to investigate the murder of a fellow agent, a tragedy that had struck the CID only a handful of times in its hundred-year history. And if Maggie Taylor was willing to put the past behind her, maybe Scott Brodie could do the same. Sex, lies, and betrayal notwithstanding, they made a pretty good team.
Brodie asked, “Who would be our contact in-country?”
“You will be working with the embassy legal attaché, an FBI agent by the name of Sharon Whitmore. She will be in regular contact with German law enforcement and will be arranging briefings from the embassy.”
Legal attachés—legats in Fed speak—were FBI agents who maintained offices in every major American embassy in the world and were responsible for coordinating with local law enforcement on any investigations that concerned both countries. Brodie had worked with legal attachés on a number of his overseas assignments and understood they had a tough job—a legat was part investigator and part ambassador, hunting the bad guys while also glad-handing the local law enforcement, who in some of these countries were worse than the criminals.
Dombroski continued, “You will also be coordinating with our defense attaché, Brigadier General Frank Kiernan. I know Frank personally. We were in OCS together.”
Brodie was certain that Kiernan was not the only OCS contemporary of Dombroski’s who was now a general. Well, maybe this case would put a star on the colonel’s shoulder. Or, Dombroski, Brodie, and Taylor would be reassigned to Alaska.
“General Kiernan will be your ally in this,” Dombroski assured him. “He’s no bullshit.”
Brodie nodded. The Defense Attaché System was an arm of the Defense Intelligence Agency, the military’s primary intelligence arm, and as such the attachés were sometimes Intel officers with espionage duties in addition to their official roles as liaisons to the host country’s military. Dombroski was saying that General Kiernan was not an Intel guy, engaged inespionage. But if Kiernan was any good at his job, Dombroski wouldn’t know.
Dombroski added, “Agent Whitmore and General Kiernan both have your contact information and will have an embassy briefing scheduled for you by the time you are wheels-down in Berlin.”
“It sounds like you knew I’d say yes to this.”
“You always say yes to challenging assignments.”
Brodie had the distinct feeling of being jerked around and manipulated. He’d been cast out into the wilderness for five months so he’d agree to anything to get back on a big case. And he’d been separated from the best partner of his career only to have her forced back on him. He had the sudden urge to tell Colonel Dombroski to go to hell, turn in his badge and gun right there, hop in his car, and keep driving south until he reached somewhere with palm trees where he could get a jerkoff job and live a jerkoff life.
But he’d only just started on his second pint and the burgers hadn’t come yet. More to the point, someone had killed one of their own, and that was not so easy to walk away from. So Brodie lifted his beer and said, “To Harry Vance.”
Dombroski nodded and lifted his glass. “To Harry.” He looked Brodie in the eyes. “Find the son of a bitch who killed him.”
“You just told me I have no investigative authority.”
“That’s what German law says. The CID motto says, ‘Do What Has to Be Done.’?”
“I always do.”
They clinked glasses and drank.
CHAPTER 4
Brodie sat with Dombroski, eating pub grub and listening to his boss talk about his ex-wife. Apparently the guy she’d moved in with after leaving the colonel had knocked her around a few times, and she’d since moved out and filed a restraining order. “And this is the asshole she leaves me for,” said Dombroski. “I should pay the guy a visit.”
Brodie nodded attentively. Commissioned officers of that rank rarely, if ever, poured out their personal life to lower-ranking officers, but Brodie sensed that the colonel needed someone to talk to, so he listened. Rank aside, they were both bachelors with no one waiting for them at home. After about half an hour, and before his boss could later regret the beery monologue, Brodie made an excuse to leave.
Dombroski handed him a gray folder with a few briefing notes and announced that he was staying to see if he could score at the bar, where he’d spotted a couple of cougars. “I’m not much to look at, but the officer-and-gentleman thing tends to work.”
“Right,” Brodie agreed, though he knew that scoring in a military neighborhood had less to do with exalted status or an important job than it had to do with pay grade. Colonel Dombroski’s pay grade was O-6, and with time in service and time in grade, he made about $140,000 a year, which was more attractive than his face. Brodie thought that Dombroski should have a baseball cap made with “O-6” on it. Brodie asked, “Can I split the bill with you?”
Dombroski waved away the offer. “On me.”
“Thanks.” He added, “Good hunting.”
Brodie left Annie’s Junction and got in his car, thinking about stoppingat a CVS for Pepto Bismol, but instead he drove straight home to his rented bungalow near base. The small wood-shingled place hadn’t been touched by skilled labor since the seventies, and it was, in fact, a dump. But the price was right. And the lease had the standard escape clause allowing Brodie to leave on short notice if he presented the slumlord with his military orders showing he’d been transferred to another duty station. Landlords didn’t like that, but if they rented to military, that’s what they had to agree to. Brodie wondered if the escape clause was good if he resigned—or if he was court-martialed and sent to prison. He’d have to reread the lease. In any case, he never used to care where he lived because he was always on the road. But lately his world had gotten smaller.
And now, suddenly, it had gotten bigger again. Murder. Berlin. Politics and media attention. This case would be a classic career booster—or a career buster.
And, of course, there was Maggie Taylor. Professionally, this was a good thing. Personally… he had mixed feelings. And he was sure she did too.
He parked his Chevy on the cracked concrete driveway and stepped out. A cold wind was blowing in from the Potomac a few miles to the east.
Brodie walked across the frozen lawn to the front door and went inside. He set his gun and holster on a side table near the couch, then tossed the briefing folder on his desk in the living room. He grabbed a beer from the fridge in the narrow galley kitchen, then went back to the living room and sat on the sagging floral-print couch.
