They observed as Dixon walked across the cul-de-sac toward the opposite end, and a strip of sidewalk that led to the other ring of houses south of their own.
Brodie and Taylor began following her, keeping their distance.
They entered the adjacent cul-de-sac, which appeared identical to theirs, and saw Dixon approach a house with a Jeep Wrangler in the driveway.
Brodie and Taylor stopped and watched, obscured in a pool of darkness beyond the streetlamps.
Dixon walked up the stoop, looked around, then rang the doorbell. After a moment the door opened. It was Colonel Elizabeth Howe, dressed down in a T-shirt and jeans.
The women exchanged a few words, then Dixon quickly stepped in and kissed Howe. Howe grabbed the back of Dixon’s hair and pulled her closer, and Dixon kicked the door shut behind her.
Brodie and Taylor stood in silence a moment. Then Brodie said, “They’re two of the only women in this camp, and they’re screwing each other. That’s kind of selfish.”
“You’re kind of gross.”
“Only for your amusement.”
“Don’t strain yourself.” She added, “This is… interesting.”
Right. On the surface there wasn’t anything nefarious here. Nothing wrong with two ladies enjoying each other’s company, especially when one of them was a civilian.
On the other hand, it wasn’t thebestidea to create a messy entanglement between the top civilian scientist on a military research project and the second-in-command of the Army facility where that research was being conducted. Some propriety had to go out the window at an isolated outpost like this, but considering what had happened to Roger Ames, personal relationships at Camp Hayden became potential clues toward possible motives. Sex and murder often went hand in hand.
Brodie asked, “Who’s the top?”
“With those two, it’s hard to say.”
“Maybe we should get a closer look to find out.”
“Maybe we should go back to our house, and you can take a cold shower.”
As they turned to leave, Brodie stopped short, spotting a white MP vehicle parked in a driveway at the far end of the cul-de-sac. The driver’s-side window was open, and someone hung their arm out, holding a lit cigarette. Brodie could make out the faint chatter of talk radio or perhaps an audiobook playing from the car’s stereo.
Taylor said, “I bet that’s the night detail for the Synotec guy’s house arrest.”
“Eric Saltsberg. We owe him a visit.”
“It’s late.”
“Lady Justice does not sleep.”
“But this lady does. And he’s not going anywhere. C’mon.”
They walked back to their house, and as Brodie punched in the security code and entered the darkened foyer, he didn’t crack any jokes about killer robots lying in wait.
Taylor flicked on the lights and produced a flask-sized bottle of Jim Beam. “Here’s your nightcap. Swiped it from the rec room.”
“Way to support the troops, Maggie.”
“They had enough hooch in there to fuck up a battalion. Won’t even notice.”
They made their way through the house to the backyard and sat on a couple of plastic chairs. Taylor opened the bottle, had a pull, and passed it to her partner.
Brodie took a swig and handed it back. He looked out at the small yard of rocks and cacti that led to the high fence, and the black desert beyond.
Taylor took another drink and said, “I don’t like it, Scott.”
“Me neither. Did the Rangers have any single malt scotch?”
