She shook her head. “All the family that I care about are dead or in jail.”
“Right.” Taylor’s father had been murdered when she was three years old. And her mother was in jail because she was the one who had done it—along with killing his girlfriend—after finding them in bed together. Two blasts from a double-barreled shotgun, which was at least more sporting than a five-shot pump-action. Divorce, Appalachia-style.
So Taylor had been raised by her grandparents, who had both died of natural causes a few years ago. Not much reason to go home for Thanksgiving.
She asked, “How about you?”
“Didn’t get up to see my parents. But the old man’s started growing weed, so that might be worth a trip.”
“I’m asking how you’re doing, Scott. How have the last few months been?”
“Right. Well… bad partner, bad cases. A waste of my God-given talents.”
She looked at him. “We agreed to play their game. And the deal was that in return we could keep our jobs. But it was no longer the same job.”
Actually, it was more than their jobs that was in peril if they didn’t toe the line. It was also their freedom. And maybe their lives.
Taylor added, “They buried us, Scott.”
“Right. And now we’re resurrected to find justice for Harry Vance.” He added, “I knew him.”
She looked at him again. “How?”
Brodie recounted how Vance had been his counterterrorism instructor during CID training. He also shared what he’d learned about the clash between the Criminal Investigation Task Force and intelligence interrogators at Gitmo, and how Vance had publicly expressed his low opinion of the Special Ops people and their tactics to a reporter in a newspaper article. Which was not how Army officers were supposed to give their opinions, First Amendment notwithstanding.
Taylor, unsurprisingly, had done her own Google sleuthing and already knew about the Gitmo business. “He sounded like a man with a good moral compass.”
“That was my impression,” said Brodie. “But maybe not good judgment.”
Taylor agreed, “Talking to the press is not good judgment, as we’ve been reminded.”
Brodie lowered his voice. “Neither is being alone in a park in a remote and not altogether safe neighborhood in the middle of the night. Vance was surrounded by high ground, no natural cover or concealment, no backup. He was clearly aware of the danger since he was found holding his Beretta in his pocket. If he was investigating something, he apparently hid it from his partner and his commanding officer, meaning that whoever pulled the trigger succeeded in ending the investigation by ending Harry Vance. Altogether irresponsible behavior and shoddy operational security.”
“So you’re saying he was unnecessarily secretive and reckless. Reminds me of someone I used to work with.”
He forced a smile. “This isn’t about me.”
“No, it isn’t. But if we’re trying to get inside the victim’s head—”
“Then you can stay out of mine, thank you.”
She didn’t respond.
He changed the subject. “Good thinking on our accommodations.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”
“I can’t either. But the location is good, and I’ll remember that when I’m treating my fungal infection.”
“Have you gone soft, Mr. Brodie? I thought you spent a year in a war zone.”
“Thirteen months and five days.”
“You can handle the Art Hotel.”
“Consult me going forward on all matters, large or small.” He added, “That’s a standing order.” Meaning, does not need to be repeated.
“I will consult you. And I ask you to trust my judgment and encourage my initiative.”
