These were not hopeful signs. Where before I thought I had detected a few cracks, I now saw a blank white wall. There was only one more venue left.

“Chief, how did you get Moran and Jackson to testify against Whitehall?”

A look of impatience crossed his face. “Don’t you all talk with each other?”

“Don’t who all talk with each other?”

“You and that lady, Miss Carlson.”

“What do you mean?”

“She asked almost exactly the same questions. Her and some guy in a nice suit named Keith something. A week ago. So I’ll give you the same answer I gave them. I don’t know why Moran and Jackson confessed. They lied and misled me in the initial interrogation, then after they were charged they experienced a change of heart.”

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, trying to recover from the discovery that Katherine and Keith had already interviewed Bales. This was news to me. She’d never mentioned a word.

Anyway, I continued. “So what did you initially charge Moran and Jackson with?”

“Moran we charged with murder, rape, sodomy, committing homosexual acts, conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to obstruct justice, lying under oath, failure to obey orders, fraternization, violation of his general orders-”

“Stop! That’s enough,” I barked. “And Jackson?”

“All of the above. Well, except rape or sodomy. In his case, there was no inkling of evidence to support those two charges.”

I should’ve expected this. An old lawyer’s dictum has it that most divorces are unruffled and amicable until the attorneys get on the scene: So it goes with conspiracies as well.

What CID and the command had done was an old and reliable favorite – the junkyard dog strategy where you pile every imaginable charge on the shoulders of the co-conspirators, knowing damn well that if enough mud is thrown against the wall, something is bound to stick. Then, when Whitehall, Moran, and Jackson went fearfully to seek the advice of counsel, their lawyers probably took one worried glance at the nearly infinite list of charges and recognized that inevitably their client was going to be found guilty of something. And since lawyers instinctively advise their clients to act in the most selfish manner possible, they would immediately advocate a deal with the prosecutor. The odd man out in these things is always the man who has the most to lose, which in this case means the man who has the most incriminating evidence against him on the most serious charge – which in this case pertains to the charge of committing murder.

In other words, Thomas Whitehall never stood a chance.

I said, “Who cut the deal with the lawyers?”

“I did. With the permission of the commanding general, of course.”

“Of course,” I dryly observed. “And who might have handled this affair for the commanding general?”

“His legal adviser, a gentleman named Colonel Janson.”

For some odd reason that came as no surprise either.

“And can you tell me, Chief, what have the charges against Moran and Jackson been reduced to?”

“You could easily check it yourself, so I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. Committing homosexual acts.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he sheepishly replied.

I politely thanked him for his time, then stood up and got ready to leave. He sat calmly, and I’ll give him credit for this – he didn’t appear the least bit smug or elated. He had every right to be, but he didn’t show it. It’s a damned good feeling to be sitting on top of an airtight case.

It’s awfully damned depressing when you’re on the other side.

CHAPTER 16

The red message light was blinking incessantly when I returned to my room. I punched in the code and Edwin Gilderstone’s voice angrily shrieked to call him right away.

It was after midnight in New York, but Gilderstone sounded way too alert and poised to have been sleeping. I said, “Hi, Ed, it’s Drummond.”

He instantly screamed, “You lying bastard!”

“That’s me,” I admitted, though I was sure my parents would’ve sternly objected to my conceding that second point.

“You promised this was just between us.”

“And so it is, Ed. I haven’t said a word to anyone, not even my co-counsels. What’s the problem?”

“The problem? What’s the damned problem? I’m being followed.”

“Followed by who?”

“I don’t know. When people are trailing you, they don’t walk up and say,‘Hi, I’m John Smith from CID and I’ll be following you the next few days,’ do they?”

“So you think it’s CID?” I asked.

“I just told you I don’t know who they are. Aren’t you listening?”

“I’m listening, Ed. I’m just trying to sort through this. What makes you think you’re being followed?”

There was a brief pause and I could hear him draw in a deep breath, like he was trying to compose himself. “This morning, I went to the Post Exchange to buy toiletries, and as I left the academic hall a gray sedan pulled in behind me. It followed me the whole way to the PX. Later, when I went out for lunch, the same gray sedan followed me again.”

“Ed, I don’t mean to be argumentative, but couldn’t it just be a coincidence? West Point’s not New York City. It’s a small community, right? It really wouldn’t be odd to have the same car going to the same place you’re going to twice in the same day.”

“Drummond,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I warned you before, don’t condescend to me. Of course I considered that. Except the same gray sedan is parked halfway down the block right now. It’s one o’clock in the morning. I see two heads silhouetted every time another car passes.”

I supposed he had a point. “So you’re being followed. What makes you think I’ve got something to do with it?”

“Come on, Drummond. Yesterday you called to talk about Whitehall.”

“Look, I told you I wouldn’t say anything. I haven’t. I have no idea why you’re being followed. Maybe you brought it on yourself. Maybe it’s some guy you had an affair with and he’s still pining for you.”

That brought on a nasty chuckle. “Fuck off, Drummond.”

“Okay,” I conceded. “But I haven’t uttered a peep to anybody.”

We chatted a moment longer, him still accusing, and me maintaining my innocence. We finally hung up on each other.

Of course I had something to do with his being followed. My mind turned to that snarling son of a bitch with the colonel’s leaves named Menkle, from the registrar’s office. He knew I’d spoken with Gilderstone. Maybe he sicced somebody on him.

But what was the point of trailing Gilderstone? And if the followers were pros, they would never have been sloppy enough to get spotted, especially by a rank amateur. Unless they were either bungling amateurs themselves, or they were pros who meant to be seen. Assuming they were pros, why would they do that? To harass him, of course. But why harass some old gay who was on the verge of retirement anyway? Spite? Or were they trying to muzzle him?

I rolled that one around the noggin for a while and had a sudden impulse. I pulled my pocketknife from my pocket and pried open the ear and mouthpiece on my telephone. It was the only other possibility I could think of.

I was in such a hurry, I trashed the hotel’s phone so badly I was going to have to add it to my room bill.

I wasn’t worried about that, though. What I was really worried about was the little tiny black thing, hardly bigger than a ladybug, that was stuck inside the earpiece.

During my time with the outfit, I’d had instruction on electronic listening and tracking devices. I wasn’t an expert by any means, and the technology had changed radically the past seven or eight years, what with miniaturization and digitization and whatnot, but I still recognized a listening device when I saw one.

I sat and fingered it and felt angry and befuddled. That son of a bitch Mercer and his whiz-girl Carol Kim.