man, I believed his shock was genuine. A high percentage of murders are committed by people close to the victim and that fact was going through my mind when I broke the news to him, my personal radar tuned in. But something didn’t feel right. I had expected to be grilled about where the investigation was, what Roach’s findings had been, whether Washington had been informed, who I would be interviewing, and so on. But there was none of that. He expressed his sorrow and surprise that Scott’s violent end had been the result of persons unknown, and then I was sent on my way. He seemed most concerned about Harmony Scott. Was that because she was a widow left alone by her loving husband, or because her father was America’s top head-kicker? Or some other reason? I gave a mental shrug. I still had no suspects. I also still had an exposed nerve in a left lower molar. I drove down the highway with my knees doing the steering while my hands searched for the packet of cloves. The dried herb worked wonders, especially when combined with chemicals from Pfizer. I thanked Masters’s granny and popped two of the little black stems into my mouth.
Not surprisingly, General Scott and his wife lived on the opposite side of town from where I was staying. The drive to their home took me past the entrance to the Palatinate Forest, one of the largest remaining contiguous forests in Germany, or so the tourist blurb on my map said.
I pulled up behind three camouflage-painted Land Rovers, each wearing the white star on blue of the NCMP—the NATO Combined Military Police. A purple Mercedes headed the column. It was a sprawling home with exposed wooden beams and red-painted stucco in the local style. Impressive and ugly. I left my vehicle and walked up the path that bisected an immaculate lawn punctuated by gardens full of brightly colored flowers. Beside the house, nestling up against it in taupe-painted board with a curved white stone-chip driveway leading up to it, was a three-car garage. Inside were two white Mercedes and a crystal blue 1968 Mustang sedan. At the halfway point between front gate and front door sat a large fountain with water gushing from the mouths of leaping bronze virgins cavorting with dolphins and heroically muscled Teutons. What else?
The massive oak front door swung open just as I was about to lift the heavy brass door knocker: an eagle hinged at its beak, a small deer skewered in its talons. Nice. Eight people stumbled out onto the covered porch, Masters among them. Each carried a brown cardboard document storage box. Masters had a laptop under an arm, protecting it like a running back shielding the ball. Everyone appeared to be in retreat, fighting a rearguard action. Snapping at their heels was a small, anorexic woman with perfectly coifed blond hair and makeup to match. She wore a black silk blouse with a tan suede skirt. What with the coloring, bone structure, and attitude I was reminded of a Doberman-whippet cross.
“Who are you?” she demanded when she saw me. Her accent was Boston with a touch of London fog. Before I had a chance to answer, she said, “I know who you are. You’re the ringleader of this insult to my husband. I’ve just spoken to General von Koeppen about you.” She read the name on my uniform. “Yes, Cooper, that’s right. Now, have my husband’s effects returned to his study immediately.” She spoke like someone used to being obeyed.
“As I explained to you, Mrs. Scott,” said Masters, jumping in, I suspected, more for my benefit than for the widow’s, “we are securing General Scott’s records as part of our investigation into his murder. Whoever killed your husband tried hard to make it look like an accident, ma’am. When the word gets around that we know what really happened, the killer or killers may get nervous, and bold. If there is any evidence contained in these records that may lead to their identity, and the murderer knows that, then quite possibly
Not surprisingly, General Scott and his wife lived on the opposite side of town from where I was staying. The drive to their home took me past the entrance to the Palatinate Forest, one of the largest remaining contiguous forests in Germany, or so the tourist blurb on my map said.
I pulled up behind three camouflage-painted Land Rovers, each wearing the white star on blue of the NCMP—the NATO Combined Military Police. A purple Mercedes headed the column. It was a sprawling home with exposed wooden beams and red-painted stucco in the local style. Impressive and ugly. I left my vehicle and walked up the path that bisected an immaculate lawn punctuated by gardens full of brightly colored flowers. Beside the house, nestling up against it in taupe-painted board with a curved white stone-chip driveway leading up to it, was a three-car garage. Inside were two white Mercedes and a crystal blue 1968 Mustang sedan. At the halfway point between front gate and front door sat a large fountain with water gushing from the mouths of leaping bronze virgins cavorting with dolphins and heroically muscled Teutons. What else?
The massive oak front door swung open just as I was about to lift the heavy brass door knocker: an eagle hinged at its beak, a small deer skewered in its talons. Nice. Eight people stumbled out onto the covered porch, Masters among them. Each carried a brown cardboard document storage box. Masters had a laptop under an arm, protecting it like a running back shielding the ball. Everyone appeared to be in retreat, fighting a rearguard action. Snapping at their heels was a small, anorexic woman with perfectly coifed blond hair and makeup to match. She wore a black silk blouse with a tan suede skirt. What with the coloring, bone structure, and attitude I was reminded of a Doberman-whippet cross.
“Who are you?” she demanded when she saw me. Her accent was Boston with a touch of London fog. Before I had a chance to answer, she said, “I know who you are. You’re the ringleader of this insult to my husband. I’ve just spoken to General von Koeppen about you.” She read the name on my uniform. “Yes, Cooper, that’s right. Now, have my husband’s effects returned to his study immediately.” She spoke like someone used to being obeyed.
“As I explained to you, Mrs. Scott,” said Masters, jumping in, I suspected, more for my benefit than for the widow’s, “we are securing General Scott’s records as part of our investigation into his murder. Whoever killed your husband tried hard to make it look like an accident, ma’am. When the word gets around that we know what really happened, the killer or killers may get nervous, and bold. If there is any evidence contained in these records that may lead to their identity, and the murderer knows that, then quite possibly
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