“You teach English, is that right?”
“Right. English Lit, creative writing, comp, the works.”
“So how was your relationship with your wife?”
Zack gives her a look. “It was good, outside of the fact that I only saw her once or twice a year while I was deployed. We kept up by phone and email, some online chats when we could. It wasn’t as easy as it is now. I was off the grid for a large part of my deployment.”
“What did you do in the Army? I mean, counterintelligence is rather vague.”
“That’s classified, ma’am.”
She flips a page, glances down. “You were attached to the Special Operations Aviation Unit. SOAR. First, you were a part of the Night Stalkers, flying helicopters, then you moved into Alpha Company, 902d MI Battalion, as an intelligence team leader.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You have a wad of medals, including a Bronze Star and Purple Heart, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. A wad.”
“And the prevailing wisdom is someone took offense to your work, killed your wife, stole your baby.”
“That’s right.”
“And you gave it all up to become an English teacher.”
“Again...”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Ma’am?”
Detective Starr shifts in her seat. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would they attack your wife if they wanted to send you a message? Why not kill you? Or is that what happened when you were shot? They were trying, and when they didn’t succeed they came to Nashville, killed your wife and stole your child?”
“I dealt with ruthless people. They don’t always think logically. They’re more the burn down the world, ask questions later type.”
“It also suggests a terror operative was in Nashville.”
“It does.”
“And that jibes with your experience? It’s likely to be the case? It feels very convoluted to me.”
“Ma’am, what the government chooses to share with local law enforcement is way above my pay grade, then, and now. Likely? I can’t tell you that, but I wouldn’t say it was impossible. Look at 9/11. They were here for months before they attacked, coordinating. For all I know—”
Careful...
He stops. “Sorry. I can’t go there. Everything I did was highly classified, still is. Suffice it to say the scenario is not outside the realm of possibility.”
“Scary,” Starr says. “Still, I don’t get it. Why take the baby? That in itself ruins the terror suspect profile for me.”
“Punishment.” Zack’s voice is strained. “Sheer, unadulterated punishment.”
*
They run through it, front and back, a couple of times. Everything that happened, everything he knows. The biggest stumbling block is, of course, Zack was the one to find Vivian. Not only that, he hadn’t seen his wife for several days before she was killed, and she’d managed to deliver their child without him knowing, too.
He can see Starr draw a few conclusions.
He is an unreliable witness.
He is to blame for Vivian’s death.
Simple.
An hour into the conversation, Parks checks his watch and nudges his detective, who smartly closes the files and pulls a DNA swab kit from her purse.
Zack swirls the brush around the inside of his cheek, spits into a cup, and hands them both back. He has nothing to hide.
But he has a strange sense that Parks and Starr do.
They promise to be in touch and slide out the door, leaving him no wiser as to the real reason they are interested in the case again. Oh, their claims made sense—Parks is new to the job, Starr is their—ahem—star detective for cold cases. It will be a big win for them if they solve something so heinous and so old.
And yet...
Zack walks down the hall to the guest room, sits for a few moments staring at the walls. There has been nothing new to pin up for over three years. No talk, no articles. From the beginning, no real new information has ever come out. The case is as cold as it gets.
Except there is a living, breathing child out there somewhere. His child.
And he gets the sense these detectives have a fresh lead.
Zack taps his finger along the sharp edge of the desk, then, with a deep sigh, pulls the door closed behind him and heads off to grade his papers.
37
“Well done getting him to agree to the DNA swab.”
Parks and Starr are back in the unmarked, heading to their new offices on Murfreesboro Pike.
“Think he suspects anything?” Starr asks.
Parks smooths his mustache with two fingers, his left wrist draped casually on top of the steering wheel. “The man was a decorated military intelligence operative and is now a professor. Both professions rely on an ability to understand what motivates people. Yes, I’d say he was very suspicious.”
“Yet he still allowed me to take his DNA. Either he’s wily, or totally innocent. How long do you think you’ll be able to hold him off?”
“I think he did us a professional courtesy letting us walk out of there. He smelled a rat. Over under...three days, tops. Will that be enough time?”
Starr nods. “I’ll put a huge rush on it, see if I can call in some favors. It will be tight, but I’ll make it happen. At least we’ll be able to update everything and do a search for the girl with fresh eyes and fresh samples.”
“Then what?”
“Good question. Do we sit him down and tell him what we found in Gorman’s files?”
“We’ll have to. He deserves to know. But Colorado... I don’t know, Breezy, this doesn’t feel right to me. Too much of a coincidence that Gorman dies while hunting down the first lead he’s had in years. Maybe it was just an accident.”
“To me either, boss. That’s the problem. Should we get in touch with law enforcement out there, see if they can shed some light?”
“What do we say? Our old boss went skiing with his family, fell off a cliff, and we think it smells to high heaven? No, hold off. Keep looking. Dissect everything. It’s too early to bring in outsiders.”
“Roger that, sir.”
“And, Breezy? Do me a favor, and check soldier boy’s travel records.”
“He’s an English teacher, Bob.”
“Once a soldier, always a soldier. He knows how to move without drawing attention to himself. Humor me and make sure he hasn’t been a very bad boy, okay?”
He pulls into the parking lot, and Starr gets out, then leans in the window. “Aren’t you coming in?”
“No, I think I’ll take a drive.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Thought I might stop by and see Andrea Austin.”
“Gorman’s widow? Smart idea. Check in when you get back. I’ll update you with what I know.” Starr slaps the roof of the car and walks into the building.
Parks heads to Green Hills. He doesn’t bother to call ahead. Andrea is a freelance journalist who works from home. If she isn’t around, he’ll call, but chances are...
He is right. Her Prius is in the driveway.
He knocks on the door, noticing the soffit has come loose by the porch light. He needs to come over and do some work.
It is something they do, the boys in blue. When one of their own is widowed, they band together and try to take on some of the weight of chores and home upkeep. And everyone liked Gorman, and in turn, Andrea.
The bell chimes, and a few moments later, Andrea opens the door with a grin. She’s lost weight but looks better than the last time Parks saw her. Her hair is in a ponytail; she is wearing yoga clothes and sneakers and a sense of impatience.
“Heading out?”
“Hey, Bob! You just caught me. Come in, come in. It’s so good to see you.”
She has a southern lilt, sweet as honey. He follows her to the kitchen.
The interior of the house is faring better than the outside. Seagrass green walls with white wainscoting, an updated kitchen in grays and white, creamy cabinets with a dark island. They’d just done the house in honor of Gorman’s upcoming retirement. Parks knows there is a large great room off to the right done in wood paneling and leathers. A man cave, as Gorman called it. Parks wouldn’t mind something like it himself, one day.
Always the hostess, Andrea has already pulled out sweet tea and ginger snaps and is arranging them on the counter.