Whisper Death by John Lawrence Reynolds Page B

McGuire,” she said.
    â€œPerhaps,” McGuire agreed.
    â€œI’ll leave a ticket in your name,” she said. “In case you decide to join us. If not, it’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
    McGuire nodded and she closed the door quickly behind them. He and Mercer walked toward the road, the heavy gates sliding silently apart as they approached.
    â€œWho lives in the house across the way?” McGuire asked. The home, similar in design to Glynnis Vargas’s, was to their left, facing Mercer’s.
    â€œAn old couple from San Diego,” Mercer said. “They’re hardly ever here. That’s why the place looks like a dump. Just the maid lives there and she’s nearly as old as they are.” Mercer turned and thrust his hands in his pockets. “Well, lots of luck,” Mercer called over his shoulder. McGuire watched him walk to his gate, insert a key in a lock set into a stone pillar, wait for his gates to open and enter his courtyard.
    Something caught McGuire’s eye. A figure, dressed in faded denim clothing, scrambled up the hill behind Glynnis Vargas’s house. As McGuire watched, the man disappeared over the crest while small pebbles disturbed by his exit tumbled down a gully near the rear security wall.
    At the hospital, McGuire encountered two new officers guarding Ralph’s door. He showed his ID, but as he began to enter, one stepped in front and barred his entry.
    â€œSorry, no can do,” the officer said. He was overweight with a thick black moustache.
    â€œBonnar?” McGuire asked, and the cop nodded.
    â€œI should have escorted you out of town on a rail for what you said this morning.” Bonnar rested one elbow on his filing cabinet; the other hand was on his hip. “Guys like you go around accusing law enforcement officers of murder back in Boston?”
    â€œYou knew where Crawford would be,” McGuire said.
    â€œAnd it was your idea to take him out of custody,” Bonnar shot back. “What’s wrong, you couldn’t wait until you got him home? What did you need to know so badly?”
    â€œI wanted to know what those two Feds said to him,” McGuire responded. “And who they were. You didn’t have any answers, Bonnar. Or at least you weren’t handing any out. Got some now? Now that Crawford’s dead and a fellow cop is hooked up to a goddamn machine? Who the hell were those guys that talked to Crawford? How do we know they didn’t kill Crawford and blow the guts out of Ralph Innes?”
    Bonnar tightened his mouth, stared back at McGuire for a moment, then sat heavily in his chair.
    â€œLook, McGuire,” he began “some badass things go on around here that don’t have anything to do with . . .” Bonnar looked away, searching for a phrase. “With everyday life. Out there in the desert, you hear about airstrips and bombing ranges and all kinds of things run by the military, things you never see on maps, things the government never even admits exist. So you learn not to ask. It just gets the wrong people upset.”
    â€œWhat does that have to do with these guys?”
    Bonnar looked at McGuire, assessing him. “Listen, what I’m going to tell you is all hearsay, all right? None of this is written down anywhere, all of it is second-hand and conjecture, stuff you hear in bull sessions, squad car gossip. So if you ever say you heard it from me, I’ll deny it from here to Washington and back, got it?”
    McGuire nodded. He sat in a chair across from Bonnar, watching the other man intently.
    â€œThese two men, they were from a special branch of Secret Service. The way I understand it, they’re empowered to investigate any breach of national security involving non-military personnel. The military polices its own people in these matters, just like you and me handling civilian problems. Where civilians and the military meet and the crime is big enough to