Thin Air (6 page)

"Exactly what do you want to do?"

"Run down that code number."

Gault grunted. There was a silence as he covered the mouthpiece, then Hammond heard him come back. "You leave for Okinawa in forty-eight hours. What you do until then is your business, but if it doesn't turn out to be NIS business, drop it."

Hammond hung up, unnerved, and turned his attention back to the code number. He studied it for a few minutes, trying to shake Gault's warning from his mind, then called the Office of Naval Research and asked for the Code Division. A young civilian bureaucrat politely informed him, "Sorry, sir, that doesn't come under ONR jurisdiction. Better check with NAVINTCOM."

Hammond groaned and hung up, then ripped through the directory. Under NAVINTCOM there were two possibilities: Intelligence Research Department and Internal Cryptography. He mumbled to himself about the idiotic proliferation of bureaus within bureaus, then tried Internal Cryptography. Dead end. They turned out to be a merry little band whose job it was to create codes for Naval Intelligence use only, not for the Navy at large.

A lieutenant in the Intelligence Research Department listened to him describe the code, then said in hushed tones, "Can't handle that over the phone, Commander."

"For Christ's sake," yelled Hammond, "this is the fucking Pentagon!"

"Sorry, sir. You'll have to appear in person."

Hammond stormed down one floor to the offices occupied by Naval Intelligence Command. He found the Research Department and confronted the lieutenant, who looked to be a recent college graduate. Fresh-faced, crew-cut, crisply uniformed, Lieutenant Armbruster completely disregarded Hammond's demands and asked why he wanted to have the information.

Hammond restrained himself and said calmly, "Before you decide that it's classified, why don't we find out what it is?"

With Hammond breathing over his shoulder, Lieutenant Armbruster researched the code-number digits and came up empty-handed,
and
deeply concerned.

"This is a special setup," he admitted. "Obviously designed to be closed to scrutiny."

"That's what a code usually is," cracked Hammond.

"Well, I've never come across a designation quite like it."

What? In all your years?
Hammond was tempted to ask. Instead he said, "Then how was it set up in the Navy computers?"

Armbruster was upset. He had no idea.
 

"Sorry I ruined your day," said Hammond. "If you do come up with the answer, let me know. And, Armbruster, keep it at your level. Don't let it get any higher."

"Yes, sir. I'll track it down if it takes me a week."

A week, thought Hammond. The guy could be on this job till he retires.

Hammond was in a dark mood as he returned to the NIS complex. The receptionist held up several sheets of Xerox paper. "Someone from NAVSEACOM dropped these off for you," she said.

Hammond examined them as he walked back to his cubicle, his stomach growling for lunch. Now he had the list of ships he had requested, the names "and numbers of every destroyer escort stationed at the Philadelphia Navy Yard between 1951 and 1953. He sat at his desk and pored through them, looking for something even vaguely familiar. It seemed hopeless.

He was staring at the last group of numbers on page four;

DE 162 Levy

DE 163 McConnell

DE 164 Osterhaus
 

DE 165 Parks
 

DE 166 Sturman
 

DE 167 Acree

Something seemed to jump right out at him. At first he wasn't sure, then he was excited. He whipped out the red card he had liberated from BUPERS and looked at the code number again.

9805CGN-166.

166. Could the last three digits refer to DE-166, the USS
Sturman,
stationed in Philadelphia in—he checked the date—1953?
      

He felt adrenaline" pumping as he frantically called the chief he had spoken to at NAVSEACOM. "DE-166, USS
Sturman
," he said. "Can you tell me where she is now?"

"The last page in that group I sent you shows current disposition on all those numbers—"

Hammond threw the other sheets aside and ran a finger down the last page, stopping at DE-166 and moving across. "Struck from the registry as of 1957," he said.

"Then that's where she is."

"Well, yeah, but was she sunk, scrapped, sold—what?"

"Don't know, sir. It's likely she was sunk for target practice."
      

"Okay...thanks."

He didn't need the
Sturman
anyway. He just needed the name and number. He hung up and stared at the scant information on the
Sturman.
She was an escort ship of the "Cannon" class, constructed at Federal Shipbuilding and Drydock Company, Kearny, New Jersey, contract awarded 18 January 1942. She was commissioned on July 4th of the following year.
      

Could she be the ship Fletcher was dreaming about?

If so, the connection was held together by the flimsiest of threads—from the man's dream to his contradictory files to the code number on the red flag to a destroyer escort built over thirty years ago.

Hammond was just about to reach for the phone again to dial the Watergate when it rang. He blinked in surprise, picking it up, half-expecting to hear Fletcher's voice on the other end.

It wasn't Fletcher. It was Jan.

She was hysterical. Hammond was immediately exasperated. Now what? Then, in the jumble of words mixed with sobs, he managed to comprehend that she had just received a call from the Washington office of Tri-State Insurance. Hammond's eyes widened as the rest of what she was saying registered.

Harold Fletcher was dead.

4

"He missed a meeting this morning. Tri-State couldn't reach him by phone, so they sent someone over to the Watergate. He was already..." She stumbled over the words. "It was a heart attack."

"Jan...I'm sorry..."

"I can't believe it!" She covered the phone and he heard a muffled sob. He waited patiently until she came back, breathing hard, barely able to speak. "He wasn't...wasn't that old...."

"Where are you calling from?"

"My mother's house in New York."

"Is there anything I can do?" He heard her cover the phone again. "Jan?" he repeated.

"Yes..." she finally replied. "Would you go to the Watergate...and take care of...?" She broke off in a choke and he heard another muffled outburst of crying. This was getting impossible. He swore under his breath. He was jealous; she had never shown him this kind of emotion.

"Nicky?" She was back on the line.

"Yes, I'll go over there, if that's what you want. But shouldn't Tri-State handle it? They know him a lot better."

"Nicky," she said haltingly, "if you could just
be
there..."

"I'll do what I can," he found himself saying. "Are you coming back to Washington?"

"Yes. The company is making arrangements..."

"What flight? I can meet you."

"I don't know yet. Not even sure...where I'll be staying." Her voice quavered. "If I can't reach you at your office...is your home number still the same?"

"Everything's the same," he said. He was immediately sorry—she might take that the wrong way. Everything is different, he wanted to say. Don't come! For God's sake, don't come. "Try the office first. There's always someone on duty."

There was a long silence, then, "Thank you, Nicky."

The connection was broken before Hammond could answer. He returned the receiver to its cradle and sat there, stunned. It's too pat, he thought. Too goddamned neat. He dialed Fletcher's apartment at the Watergate.
 

It was picked up after the third ring. "Medacre," rumbled a disembodied voice.

Hammond used his most authoritative tone: "This is Commander Hammond of the Naval Investigative Service." He waited in vain for an acknowledgment. "I'm calling about Harold Fletcher. Who am I speaking to?"

The man grunted. "Detective Lieutenant Medacre, Metropolitan PD. What can I do for you?"

Hammond shot back, "Would you confirm a report we just got that Harold Fletcher is deceased?"

"Very deceased. Was he one of yours?"

"No, but we had an interest in him. Lieutenant, I would appreciate it if you would leave everything as is until I've had a chance to look it over. Tell Watergate Security to expect me. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

If Medacre was impressed, his voice didn't show it. "Hammond, right? I'll leave your name, but make it snappy."

Hammond tried to reach Gault by phone, but the admiral was already on his way to the lunch meeting. He grabbed Lee Miller in the hallway and gave him a message for Gault: "Tell him a friend has died and I've been called away."

"He's not gonna believe it," Miller smirked.

On his way out the door, Hammond shot back, "Miller, you better
make
him believe it."

Hammond hit traffic once he crossed the Potomac and felt impatience rising again, his instinctive reaction to pressure situations. He parked his car with a slam of brakes and a squeal of tires, then hurried across the little shopping mall.

The security desk was expecting him. He was whisked up to a cop on the eleventh floor. Medacre met him in a small anteroom just inside the door at the end of the hall. He was big, with a plain, open face, but his eyes had the weary look that comes from seeing too much death in all its forms. His handshake was firm and strong, blunt fingers wrapping around Hammond's outstretched hand. "He's in the living room, Commander. We'll hold off until you're finished. "
      

"I shouldn't be too long. Is the coroner here?"

Medacre nodded. "Yeah, inside with the deceased."

There were six other men in the living room. Two of them were unfolding a body bag; another was on his knees drawing a chalk circle around an ashtray that lay on the carpet, while a fat little man sat in an armchair busily working a toothpick in and out of his mouth. He was watching a photographer taking pictures of the corpse.

Fletcher's body was knee-down on the carpet in front of the couch. The torso was slumped over a low, glass-topped coffee table. His head, framed by an outstretched left arm, rested across a pile of scattered playing cards. His face was turned sideways, features contorted, a blue tinge to the slack skin. One bulging eye stared dully into unseeing space.

Hammond winced. He'd seen his share of bodies, but that terrible lack of dignity always bothered him.

Idly he wondered if Jan had bought the blue silk robe that Fletcher was wearing. His eyes picked up the dry, rust-colored line that ran from the one nostril that he could see, staining a card resting under the dead man's nose.

Hammond stepped carefully around the overturned ashtray. It was in direct line with Fletcher's out-thrust arm. "Why the blood?" he asked.

Medacre shrugged. "Hey, Brody! Get over here!"
 

Hammond watched the fat man ease himself out of the armchair and waddle over. "You ready for me?"

"Not yet Commander Hammond, meet Doctor Brody."

Brody waved a chubby hand. "What can I do for you?"

"The commander would like to know about the bleeding."

Bored, piglike little eyes glanced down at the body, then up at Hammond. "With a heart attack, you never know. Some are quiet, others messy. This one convulsed, slid off the couch, had a strong spasm, jackknifed forward, and bingo! Hit the table with his nose. If it means anything to you, it must have been pretty quick."

"You're sure it was a heart attack?" Hammond asked.

"Classic."

Hammond's eyes fell on the overturned ashtray. He knelt down, slid a finger under, and flipped it over. It was spotless.
      

Medacre caught the startled look on Hammond's face. "Something wrong?"

Hammond's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure. Doctor Brody, how long do you think Fletcher's been dead?"

Reworking the toothpick in his mouth, Brody looked at Hammond, slightly annoyed. "Can't tell for sure, but I'll give you an educated guess. Condition of the body—say maybe ten, twelve hours. I'll know more after the autopsy."

Hammond was still looking at the ashtray. "Medacre, what about his movements yesterday? When did he come back to the apartment?"

The detective pulled out a notebook, flipped some pages. "That's locked in. Fletcher spent all of yesterday in business meetings at the Tri-State office. He had dinner last night at Billy Martin's in Georgetown with, among others, a Mr. Charles Rankin, a close associate of his. Afterwards, the two of them returned here for a nightcap. Rankin left shortly after nine p.m. Security desk confirms their arrival and Rankin's departure." Medacre closed the notebook. "Took that statement from Rankin. He's the one Tri-State sent over....Found the body....Claims Fletcher was fine last night."