To the southwest he spotted Camp Hayden’s training grounds that he’d seen from the air. He saw a large cluster of buildings, most two or three stories, likely used for urban combat scenarios. Farther south were low man-made hills topped with sandbag structures to act as fortified firing positions.
The whole setup looked small, insignificant, and ugly amid the beauty of the desert twilight. A meager, man-made joke.
After a few minutes Taylor stepped outside and came to join him. “I told him nothing, and he didn’t ask for more.”
“A welcome change.” He told her about the crime scene photos, and where he’d left them so she could review later.
Taylor looked through the fence. “It’s so beautiful out here.”
“It is.”
They looked out in silence for a minute. Then Taylor said, “InAfghanistan, there were times when I’d almost forget. Out in the farmland. The mountains. Those lush valleys at dusk. And then I’d see a chopper. Or a farmer with an AK. Or hear the whistle of mortars or the pop of gunfire. And then I remembered where I was, and why.”
“It’s a beautiful world,” said Brodie. “Except for the people in it.”
CHAPTER 13
SCOTT BRODIE PUT ON THEsecond of the two suits he’d brought, along with a fresh shirt and tie, and secured his SIG Sauer in the programmable safe in his bedroom. He waited for Taylor in the living room, which, like Lieutenant Lehner’s, was generically appointed with modern furniture and laminate wood flooring. No bar cart.
Taylor emerged soon after, in a conservatively cut blue cotton dress and light makeup. As usual, she looked stunning with minimal effort.
Brodie said, “You look very nice.”
“Thank you.” She looked him over, as if checking that he was wearing different clothes than earlier. “You look… less dusty.”
“I beat myself out with a broom.” He added, “Let’s go meet the general who was too good to meet us earlier.”
“Behave.”
“Maybe I should bring my gun.”
“You’re armed with your charm.”
They stepped out of the house and locked the door, then proceeded across the pavement to the general’s house. Brodie counted nine houses around the cul-de-sac, and there were likely nine more in the other one nearby. No one was outside, though he saw a few lights on. He wondered if any of the other officers they’d met today—or Caroline Dixon—were their neighbors.
They approached the house and rang the bell. After a moment the door opened, and they were greeted by a good-looking Black woman in her late forties wearing a flowered dress. She smiled and said in a soft voice, “Welcome, Mr. Brodie, Ms. Taylor. I’m Angela Morgan.”
They stepped inside and shook hands. Taylor said, “Thank you for having us.”
“Of course. Chris is in the living room, and I’ll join you after I take care of something in the kitchen.”
Brodie and Taylor walked into the living room, which looked like theirs but with nicer furniture.
General Christopher Morgan stood from the couch to greet them. He was a Black man of about average height, early fifties, with close-cropped graying hair and large, expressive eyes. He wore dark slacks, a button-down shirt, and a sports jacket. No tie. He approached them and extended his hand, without smiling. “Brigadier General Christopher Morgan.”
Brodie shook the man’s hand. The guy had a grip that might rival the robots’. “Chief Warrant Officer Scott Brodie. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Morgan and Taylor shook. She introduced herself and said, “We are glad to be here, sir, despite the circumstances.”
“Yes,” said Morgan, looking pensive. “Well, have a seat and tell me what you’re drinking.” He walked to the corner of the living room, where Brodie now noticed a fully stocked bar cabinet.
“I’ll have what you’re having, sir.”
“I’m having straight rye, Mr. Brodie. Neat.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
Taylor said, “Make it three, sir.”
