The Cornwalls Are Gone Page 5

  This waiting area is small, with two chairs, a coffee table with today’s Washington Post and USA Today, and framed photos of Army personnel deployed across the world, from Afghanistan to Sudan. A door leads out into a hallway and another leads to the office of the commanding officer of her scheduled interviewee.

  Both doors are closed.

  Rosaria checks her watch.

  It is 0840. Her appointment with Captain Amy Cornwall was supposed to have taken place forty minutes ago. Rosaria thinks a five- or ten-minute delay is reasonable, fifteen or more is insulting, and more than a half hour is a gut punch of insubordination.

  Still, she waits. Patience and persistence are two of the many things she has learned in the CID.

  Rosaria is a warrant officer in the Army, assigned to the 701st Military Group (CID) at Marine Corps Base, Quantico, Virginia, but is wearing civilian clothing—black slacks with a crisp plain white blouse and black jacket. CID investigators always wear civilian clothing, save for ceremonial duties or if they are in a combat zone.

  There will be conflict aplenty during her visit here today at Fort Belvoir, but at least it’s not an official combat zone. Still, in a hip holster is her Army-issued SIG Sauer 9mm P228 pistol, and in her inside jacket pocket is her government ID and gold-and-blue CID badge.

  Her black leather courier bag is on the carpeted floor, next to her chair.

  She waits.

  The door before her opens up and an apologetic Army major pokes his head out, his name tag saying WENNER, wearing the camouflage Army combat uniform.

  “Special Agent Vasquez, Lieutenant Colonel Denton will see you now.”

  “Outstanding,” she says, grabbing her dispatch case and following the slim, young-looking major into the lieutenant colonel’s office.

  The office is twice as large as the waiting area, with the same type of framed photos as wall decorations. There’s a small black leather couch on the left that Major Bruno Wenner takes, and one wall is covered by filing cabinets. Three unlocked drawers have bright-red cardboard signs saying OPEN slid in just above the handles. There are two brown leather chairs in front of Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Denton’s desk. He doesn’t get up, just gives her a crisp nod.

  She takes one of the chairs, and says, “Sir.”

  “A moment,” he says, looking down through a pair of reading glasses at an open file folder, a telephone system before him, a computer terminal at his elbow. Denton has broad shoulders and a barrel chest, wiry gray hair, and a frowning weathered face. He seems to be about forty-five.

  Rosaria waits. She knows the lieutenant colonel hates having her here, hates having her presence known on Fort Belvoir, quietly spreading the news that some sort of blemish has been placed on his unit.

  He finally looks up. “Captain Cornwall isn’t here.”

  “Yes, sir,” she says. “Will she be in at all today?”

  Major Wenner speaks up from the other side of the room. “She’s…ah…she called in sick.”

  Rosaria doesn’t turn her head to the major. She keeps looking at Lieutenant Colonel Denton. “Sir…I’ve come up here today from Quantico, expecting to meet with Captain Cornwall about an incident that occurred while she was on deployment in Afghanistan. This interview is vital to my investigation, sir. Is it my understanding that she could not make this appointment because she is ill? Sir?”

  Lieutenant Colonel Denton’s eyes narrow. His eyebrows are the same gray color as his hair.

  Major Wenner speaks up. “She is ill.”

  Rosaria says, “Is she in a hospital? At some medical facility? Major?”

  Some quiet seconds pass. Rosaria hears a jet overhead, probably heading to DC.

  Major Wenner says, “I believe she’s at home, Special Agent Vasquez. And not at a medical facility.”

  Rosaria can tell the lieutenant colonel’s executive officer is very good at his job, being the quiet intermediary, the one who calms the lieutenant colonel, who supplies information, excuses, and anything to make the office run smoothly and cleanly. Like the good mom, trying to smooth things over among squabbling siblings, although Rosaria has never known a real mom or dad in her life. Although she’s only just met the executive officer, she’s sure he’s popular among the personnel at this intelligence battalion.

  “Colonel Denton…is that true?”

  “If Major Wenner says it, then it must be true.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “You should consider yourself lucky that you’ve just wasted a morning drive,” he says sourly. “Three years ago, we were at Fort Gordon, in Georgia. It was a nice posting, until some bureaucrats and a congressman moved us here to Virginia in some high-class shuffle.”

  Rosaria says, “I’ll certainly keep that in mind, sir.”

  He abruptly closes the manila folder. “I suggest you come back tomorrow.”

  Rosaria slowly picks up her leather bag. “At oh-eight hundred, sir?”

  Lieutenant Colonel Denton stares at her. “My XO will advise you later today.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  She stands up and Denton says, “Call me old-fashioned and cranky, Special Agent Vasquez, but I don’t like seeing on-duty Army personnel wearing civilian clothes on my post.”

  Rosaria says, “Then I won’t do it, sir.”

  “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 fost
er 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.”

  She digs into her jacket and takes out the leather wallet holding her badge, slips out a business card with her Quantico number and cell phone number, passes it over. The woman holds the card in both hands.

  “That’s my name and phone number,” Rosaria explains. “If you think of anything else about Captain Cornwall, or if she comes back or contacts you, will you call me? Right away?”

  “I…I guess so,” she says, reluctantly.

  “May I ask your name, ma’am?”

  “Gaetz. Shirley Gaetz.”

  Rosaria extends her hand, and the woman takes it with a soft handshake. She says, “Thanks for your cooperation. I greatly appreciate it.”

  Mrs. Gaetz nods. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  Rosaria smiles. “You have a nice day now.”

  CHAPTER 17

  ROSARIA GETS back into her sedan, reaches out to her team leader in Quantico, and thinks, Well, that’s it. Captain Cornwall is gone with her family, and if she doesn’t report back within thirty days, then she’s officially AWOL and will be placed in the NCIC system so that even a random traffic stop anywhere in the States will pick her up.

  By then, Captain Cornwall’s location and what she may be doing will no longer be any of Rosaria’s business, or that of the CID. It’s really not broadcast that much, but the Army pretty much ignores deserters. It’s a small percentage to begin with, and the Army has better things to do with its CID officers. Rosaria has about a half dozen open case files piled on her desk back at Quantico, and she’s happy that she can put Captain Amy Cornwall’s file in the inactive pile. She’ll let the CID crew in Afghanistan do their part.

  Rosaria is content for about a minute, and then she holds the phone tighter to her ear and says, “Sir, I’m sorry? Can you repeat that?”

  From Quantico, the rough voice of Senior Warrant Officer Fred McCarthy comes through loud and clear. “You heard me, Vasquez. The Amy Cornwall matter has escalated. You’re to find her, as soon as possible. Use any resources and travel as you see fit.”

  “Boss…I’m sorry, I don’t understand. She’s not even officially AWOL yet.”

  Her boss sounds irritated. “No matter. Go after her, right now. Go through her personnel file, see what might be driving her, talk to her coworkers, run her to the ground. This is now your priority.”

  Rosaria doesn’t like for one moment what she’s hearing. Something odd is going on with some higher-ups, probably in DC, and chances are, when you’re dumped into something odd, you don’t emerge later with handshakes all around and a promotion. Usually you get transferred to Omaha, or end up testifying in front of a panel of hard-faced JAG judges.

  “All right…boss. I’ll begin right away.”

  “Good. Anything else?”

  “Sir…do you know why it’s been escalated?”

  Her boss says, “Vasquez, you’re a good investigator, one of our best. Locate her and get back to me soonest.”

  “Sir, I—”

  Senior Warrant Officer McCarthy interrupts. “Figure it out.”

  McCarthy disconnects the phone call from his end. There was one more sentence Rosaria was sure her boss was going to add, but decided not to.

  Figure it out.

  Or else.

  CHAPTER 18

  I’M PARKED across the street from the regional library near Newport, Tennessee, after having driven for most of the night, save for a several-hour nap at a truck stop on I-81 near someplace in Virginia called Max Meadows. Using the atlases and maps stored in my go bag—and without goi
ng online or leaving ghostly traces from any GPS unit—I know that it takes around twenty-five hours to go from Alexandria to my final destination of Three Rivers, Texas.

  This gives me plenty of time, but I’m not going to race down there at a high rate of balls-to-the-walls speed. I want to arrive in reasonably good shape, and with a hell of a lot more information than I have at the moment. Years back there was a story about a woman astronaut who supposedly made a high-speed run from Houston to Orlando while carrying adult diapers with her, so she wouldn’t lose time by taking bathroom breaks on her way to murder a romantic rival, but that’s too extreme, even for me.

  I check my watch. It’s 9:07 a.m. The squat one-story library with the rough stone exterior over there should have opened seven minutes ago, but no one’s shown up yet. And it’s a Wednesday, so there’s no holiday that should be observed.

  Extreme, I think. Maybe I should break a window, sneak in, find where their computers are located.

  Yeah. Extreme.

  I take out a burner phone that I keep powered up in my go bag, look through my contact list on a sheet of paper contained in the leather case, hesitate. The woman I want to call is currently stationed at Fort Lewis, near Tacoma, Washington. I’d probably end up waking her, but still…

  I touch the keypad, wait and wait as it rings.

  A click.

  “Huh?”

  “Freddy, it’s me, Amy.”

  “Amy…Jesus Christ, do you know what time it is?”

  “I sure do. Hey, how’s your eyesight?”

  “What?”

  “You know. Under four eyes. Glasses. That sort of thing.”

  She’s no longer sleepy. “I get it. Give me about…fifteen minutes.”

  “You’re a dear.”

  “And you’re a nut.”

  “No argument there.”

  She disconnects.