said, “You’re the guy who was mixed up in that, uh…”
“Azrael case?” Matt offered.
“Yeah, that was it. Back in, uh…”
“Ninety-two.”
“Right. Those murders and the abortion clinic on Beach Boulevard. Yeah, lotta heads rolled ‘cause of you. Real good guys, like Chief O’Riley. And there was—”
“That’s ancient history, Detective,” Matt said in an effort to get back to the issue at hand. “I’ve got a lot of things to do, and I’m sure you and Detective Sergeant Good do, also. If you’ll tell me why you wanted me here, I’ll try to help any way I can.”
Hammersmith’s jaws tightened and his lips pursed in what Matt knew was immediate dislike, a look that elicited a false smile on Matt’s face, a smile meant to irritate more than anything else. With a bluntness delivered to either hurt or intimidate, Hammersmith said, “Okay, Berkeley, friend of yours named Gravely, found dead morning before last. His home in Chantilly, Virginia. Shot to death.” Even as the words tumbled from his mouth, Hammersmith adopted a bored, matter-of-fact tone. His pit bull face was without emotion.
“So Steve Park told me.”
“Fairfax County Sheriff’s office is checking’ all known acquaintances. Your name and address, in his Rolodex, and they picked up a phone call on his answering machine. A call you made before you went to Washington, asking him to meet you at Dulles International. They tried your Charleston office, NAARPA or somethin’ like that, and finally your wife and momma who told ‘em you were down here. What day were you in Washington?”
“Four days ago. Monday the fifteenth.”
“How long were you there?” Good asked, her voice much less demanding than Hammersmith’s.
“Flew in, met Sam in one of the bars at the airport, then out again. Never left the terminal.”
Matt studied both detectives. Hammersmith, short and stocky with more hair in his eyebrows and mustache than on his head, was a middle-aged man with a voice like a cement mixer churning gravel.
A real jewel,
Matt thought.
Terri Good, on the other hand, appeared to be in her late twenties, early thirties, better looking than the “rogues’ gallery” picture he’d seen hanging in the building’s reception area. Her hair, a reddish-brown, was now much shorter; she wore only a touch of makeup, something her complexion really didn’t need; and her figure was trim yet compactly built.
Works out,
he thought to himself,
and no wedding ring on her finger. If I weren’t a married man…
He let the thought slide, concentrating on the woman’s role in what he figured was undoubtedly the
good
side of the “good cop, bad cop” routine.
It was Hammersmith’s turn. “Airline stubs. Still got ‘em?”
Matt shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe. Be in my briefcase in my car.”
“I want to see ‘em,” Hammersmith demanded. “What were you meeting Gravely for?”
Matt shifted forward, arms crossed, elbows resting on the table. “If you’re trying to tie me in with whoever killed Sam, forget it. Sam’s been a friend of mine for years, since my time in Washington with the Navy.”
“Gravely was in the Navy?”
Shaking his head, Matt answered. “Civilian. Analyst for NISC.”
“What’s that?” Good asked.
“Naval Intelligence Support Center. Specialist on Soviet ships at the time. Also editor of the U. S. section of
Jane’s Fighting Ships.
As for why I was meeting Sam, that has nothing to do with you or the Fairfax County authorities. We met for less than thirty minutes at the airport, had a drink together, talked business, and that was that.”
Hammersmith’s fist pounded against the tabletop as he shoved his chair back and pushed himself to his feet. “This is a murder case. I ask a question, goddamn it, I want an answer. What were you meeting Gravely about?”
Good’s voice was soft and controlled as she explained, nodding in Hammersmith’s direction, “Mike’s had a long night on another case,
“Azrael case?” Matt offered.
“Yeah, that was it. Back in, uh…”
“Ninety-two.”
“Right. Those murders and the abortion clinic on Beach Boulevard. Yeah, lotta heads rolled ‘cause of you. Real good guys, like Chief O’Riley. And there was—”
“That’s ancient history, Detective,” Matt said in an effort to get back to the issue at hand. “I’ve got a lot of things to do, and I’m sure you and Detective Sergeant Good do, also. If you’ll tell me why you wanted me here, I’ll try to help any way I can.”
Hammersmith’s jaws tightened and his lips pursed in what Matt knew was immediate dislike, a look that elicited a false smile on Matt’s face, a smile meant to irritate more than anything else. With a bluntness delivered to either hurt or intimidate, Hammersmith said, “Okay, Berkeley, friend of yours named Gravely, found dead morning before last. His home in Chantilly, Virginia. Shot to death.” Even as the words tumbled from his mouth, Hammersmith adopted a bored, matter-of-fact tone. His pit bull face was without emotion.
“So Steve Park told me.”
“Fairfax County Sheriff’s office is checking’ all known acquaintances. Your name and address, in his Rolodex, and they picked up a phone call on his answering machine. A call you made before you went to Washington, asking him to meet you at Dulles International. They tried your Charleston office, NAARPA or somethin’ like that, and finally your wife and momma who told ‘em you were down here. What day were you in Washington?”
“Four days ago. Monday the fifteenth.”
“How long were you there?” Good asked, her voice much less demanding than Hammersmith’s.
“Flew in, met Sam in one of the bars at the airport, then out again. Never left the terminal.”
Matt studied both detectives. Hammersmith, short and stocky with more hair in his eyebrows and mustache than on his head, was a middle-aged man with a voice like a cement mixer churning gravel.
A real jewel,
Matt thought.
Terri Good, on the other hand, appeared to be in her late twenties, early thirties, better looking than the “rogues’ gallery” picture he’d seen hanging in the building’s reception area. Her hair, a reddish-brown, was now much shorter; she wore only a touch of makeup, something her complexion really didn’t need; and her figure was trim yet compactly built.
Works out,
he thought to himself,
and no wedding ring on her finger. If I weren’t a married man…
He let the thought slide, concentrating on the woman’s role in what he figured was undoubtedly the
good
side of the “good cop, bad cop” routine.
It was Hammersmith’s turn. “Airline stubs. Still got ‘em?”
Matt shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe. Be in my briefcase in my car.”
“I want to see ‘em,” Hammersmith demanded. “What were you meeting Gravely for?”
Matt shifted forward, arms crossed, elbows resting on the table. “If you’re trying to tie me in with whoever killed Sam, forget it. Sam’s been a friend of mine for years, since my time in Washington with the Navy.”
“Gravely was in the Navy?”
Shaking his head, Matt answered. “Civilian. Analyst for NISC.”
“What’s that?” Good asked.
“Naval Intelligence Support Center. Specialist on Soviet ships at the time. Also editor of the U. S. section of
Jane’s Fighting Ships.
As for why I was meeting Sam, that has nothing to do with you or the Fairfax County authorities. We met for less than thirty minutes at the airport, had a drink together, talked business, and that was that.”
Hammersmith’s fist pounded against the tabletop as he shoved his chair back and pushed himself to his feet. “This is a murder case. I ask a question, goddamn it, I want an answer. What were you meeting Gravely about?”
Good’s voice was soft and controlled as she explained, nodding in Hammersmith’s direction, “Mike’s had a long night on another case,
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