The General's Daughter by Nelson DeMille Page A

didn’t
     want any face photos left here, and similarly, they probably had no face shots of Ann Campbell in their possession. Most people
     are a little careful of photos like these, and when the people have a lot to lose, they are very careful. Love and trust are
     okay, but I had the feeling this was more lust and “What’s your name again?” I mean, if she had a real boyfriend, a man she
     liked and admired, she wouldn’t bring him here, obviously.
    Cynthia was going through the photos also, but handling them as though they carried a sexually transmittable disease. There
     were a few more shots of men, close-ups of genitals, ranging from much ado about nothing to as you like it to the taming of
     the shrew. I observed, “All white guys, all circumcised, mostly brown hair, a few blonds. Can we use these in a lineup?”
    “It would be an interesting lineup,” Cynthia conceded. She threw the photos back in the drawer. “Maybe we shouldn’t let the
     MPs see this room.”
    “Indeed not. I hope they don’t find it.”
    “Let’s go.”
    “Just a minute.” I opened the bottom three drawers, finding more sexual paraphernalia, toys for twats as they’re known in
     the trade, along with panties, garter belts, a cat-o’-nine tails, a leather jockstrap, and a few things that I confess I couldn’t
     figure out. I was actually a bit embarrassed rummaging through this stuff in full view of Ms. Sunhill, and she was probably
     wondering about me by now, because she said, “What else do you have to see?”
    “Rope.”
    “Rope? Oh…”
    And there it was: a length of nylon cord, curled up in the bottom drawer. I took it out and examined it.
    Cynthia said, “Is it the same?”
    “Possibly. This looks like the rope at the scene—standard Army-green tent cord, but there’s about six million miles of it
     out there. Still, it is suggestive.” I looked at the bed, which was an old four-poster, suitable for bondage. I don’t know
     a great deal about sexual deviations except for what I’ve read in the CID manual, but I do know that bondage is a risky thing.
     I mean, a big healthy woman like Ann Campbell could probably defend herself if something got out of hand. But if you’re spread-eagled
     on the bed or the ground with your wrists and ankles tied to something, you’d better know the guy real well, or something
     bad could happen. Actually, it did.
    I turned out the lights and we left the bedroom. Cynthia swung the framed recruiting poster closed. I found a tube of wood
     glue on the workbench, opened the hinged poster a crack, and ran a bead of glue along the wood frame. That would help a little,
     but once you figured out that some floor space was missing, you’d figure out the rest of it, and if you didn’t realize some
     space was missing, the poster looked like it belonged there. I said to Cynthia, “Fooled me for a minute. How smart are MPs?”
    “It’s more a matter of spatial perception than brains. And if they don’t find it, the police might when they get here.” She
     added, “Someone might want that poster. I think we either have to let the MPs empty the room for the CID lab, or we cooperate
     with the civilian police before they padlock this place.”
    “I think we do neither. We take a chance. That room is our secret. Okay?”
    She nodded. “Okay, Paul. Maybe your instincts are good on this.”
    We went up the basement stairs, turned off the lights, and closed the door.
    In the front foyer, Cynthia said to me, “I guess your instincts were right about Ann Campbell.”
    “Well, I thought we’d be lucky if we found a diary and a few steamy love notes. I didn’t expect a secret door that led into
     a room decorated for Madame Bovary by the Marquis de Sade.” I added, “I guess we all need our space. The world would actually
     be a better place if we all had a fantasy room in which to act out.”
    “Depends on the script, Paul.”
    “Indeed.”
    We left by the front door, got into