“What?”
She starts out of the office. “I won’t call you old-fashioned or cranky. Sir.”
CHAPTER 16
LESS THAN twenty minutes later, Rosaria Vasquez is parked in the driveway of Captain Cornwall’s home in Kingstowne, Virginia. She steps out of her government-issued white GMC sedan, notes a light-blue Honda CR-V with Virginia license plates in the driveway. She checks paperwork in her folder. Registered to Captain Cornwall and her husband, Tom, a former reporter for the AP, the New York Times, and other news outlets. They have a young girl, named Denise. Ten years old. They’ve been together for eleven years, got married when they were in their early twenties. Lots of moving around in the States due to their respective careers, and Rosaria wonders how somebody could be so much in love with someone else to put up with so many disruptions.
She finds she’s envious of Tom and Amy Cornwall, despite the trouble Amy is in. Rosaria is sure that however this is resolved, Amy’s husband will be right at her side, backing her up no matter what.
To be so fortunate.
She goes back to the paperwork. There’s a Jeep Wrangler, also registered in Captain Cornwall’s name, that’s not in the driveway. She walks up to the garage, peers in.
Empty.
She digs out her Galaxy cell phone, dials the numbers for Captain Cornwall. Home and mobile.
Both go to voice mail, the home voice belonging to her husband, the cell belonging to the captain. Her voice is clear, clean, with a hint of a New England accent.
She backs away from the garage, goes to the front door, rings the doorbell three times, and then hammers on the door with her fist.
“Hello? Anybody home? Hello?”
No answer.
So much for Major Wenner’s excuse that she called in sick from home this morning.
She walks around the house. Very nice. In-ground pool out back, barbecue, deck, and lawn chairs. Smooth grass lawn. Wood stockade fence at the far end of the yard. A couple of soccer balls, a tangled mess of a croquet set, and a volleyball and its net dumped in a big plastic bin.
The house looks just as fine from the backyard as the front.
Something cold settles along her hands and feet. There’s an ache here, looking at this fine home in a safe neighborhood, the quiet residences marking not only wealth but security. Not the kind of security where you live with bars on the first-floor windows and doors—which she’s experienced—but the security of knowing you can sleep without a rat crawling over your bed, that you can wake up with the lights working, and that the refrigerator will never be empty.
And additional security that you don’t have to learn and relearn and relearn yet again the name of the foster family that has taken you in that month, supposedly out of the goodness of their hearts, but almost always because of the government stipend they get for keeping you alive and breathing.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice calls out. “Hello?”
“Yes, right here,” Rosaria answers.
An older woman joins her in the backyard, smiling with guarded friendliness and welcome. She’s wearing sensible white slacks, white sneakers, and a floral top that seems to billow around her as she approaches. White-rimmed eyeglasses dangle from a chain around her fleshy neck.
The woman says, “I’m sorry, I’m a neighbor of the Cornwalls. Can I help you?”
Rosaria smiles. “I’m looking for Captain Cornwall.”
“Are you a friend?” Her voice is still friendly but there’s a hint of suspicion in those syllables, and an old feeling comes to Rosaria. Is this older woman asking the questions because Rosaria is a trespasser, or because Rosaria is Hispanic? Once again, Rosaria has to struggle to keep a smile on her face while enduring the challenges of having the wrong skin color in the wrong neighborhood.
“No, ma’am, I’m in the Army as well.”
“Really?” she asks, her voice rising up a notch. “But you’re not in uniform.”
Rosaria steps forward, quickly shows the neighbor her Army identification, not bothering with the shield, which sometimes intimidates civilians, cops being cops everywhere to some. “Not all of us have to work in uniform.”
“Oh, okay then,” the older woman says. “My dear husband, he spent decades in the Army…I’ve never seen a soldier like you.”
“Not many have, if they’re lucky,” Rosaria says. “Do you know where Captain Cornwall might be?”
“Ah, well, I think she’s at her base. That’s what she told me.”
Those few words have snapped Rosaria into full investigative mode. “And when did she tell you that, ma’am?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“About what time?”
“Oh…near six p.m., I think.”
“And she told you she was going back to work?”
“Yes,” the woman says, now opening up freely, and Rosaria gets the feeling this woman is lonely and loves to be the focus of attention. “But it was…odd.”
“Odd in what way?”
The woman utters a strained laugh. “It was just…odd. She came out carrying a…you know, a big bag. With two handles.”
“A duffel bag?”
“That’s right,” the woman says. “I was asking her questions about the carpet-cleaning firm that came by earlier yesterday, and she seemed to be in quite the hurry. Even apologized for it.”
“And she said she was returning to work?”
The woman nodded. “That’s right.”
Rosaria walks around to the front of the house, seeing the parked CR-V. The woman tags along, like she still wants to be in the spotlight, still wants to be here to answer Rosaria’s questions.
Rosaria doesn’t disappoint her. “Her husband. Do you know where he is?”
“Well…he should be home. I mean, that’s his car. And for the past several months he’s been working at home, on a book. Sometimes he flies out on research trips. Amy drives her Jeep. So…he should be home.”
Rosaria gives the house a good stare. The quiet and empty windows seem to be mocking her. The woman’s voice lowers. “Is…something wrong?”
“They have a daughter. Have you see her today?”
“No…but she should be at school. I mean…she should.”
Rosaria nods. Captain Amy Cornwall is now in some serious trouble. She’s not sick. She’s not back at Fort Belvoir, despite what she told her neighbor yesterday. Captain Cornwall is gone, with a stuffed duffel bag over her shoulder, leaving in a hurry. And husband and daughter…gone as well. Husband’s CR-V is still in the yard, but there are stores and such within easy walking distance.
How would it work?
Captain Cornwall wants to bug out. The Afghanistan investigation…it must mean something much bigger than just a dead Taliban prisoner in her custody. Captain Cornwall makes arrangements, husband and daughter walk off to a nearby restaurant or service station, leaving the CR-V behind, and mom and wife rolls by, picks them up, and off they go.
Very serious indeed.
“Is everything all right?” the neighbor asks. “Is everything okay?”
Rosaria snaps to. “Yes, everything’s fine. Just routine.”