“Oh, crap,” Zig muttered, nearly knocking over his beer.
“Oh, crap, for sure. According to the time stamp on the wire transfer, the money went missing right after our interrogation. So when it came to making the suspect list, it went downhill from there.”
77
“So they thought someone from your team stole the money.”
“That’s when the full hurricane hit,” Elijah said, fidgeting with the bowl of Starbursts. “They started pointing fingers at me . . . at Mint and Rashida . . . at Nola . . . For all we knew, it could’ve been someone on the inside at the Marshals . . .”
“。 . . or the white nationalists, taking revenge for shooting their pal Salty,” Zig pointed out.
“We told them the same. None of us knew what happened to the money, but in the military, when two of your suspects suddenly show up dead and twenty-two million dollars goes missing . . . They had to launch an internal inquiry—led by everyone’s favorite uptight sphincter.”
“Colonel O. J. Whatley.”
“Major Whatley back then. He had a year on me, two years on Mint, but we’d all come up together,” Elijah explained. “The fact they put him on the case showed he was pulling ahead, and to prove them all right, he dove right in. The first person he cleared was—surprise—everyone’s favorite straight arrow, his pal Mint.”
“How’d they know Mint was clean?” Roddy asked.
“They didn’t. But at military bases, y’know those private side entrances that they have on buildings—the ones just for top commanders so they can feel important? Mint had access to those entrances . . . but he always walked through the regular door with the rest of us. No question, O.J. would clear him first. Then he cleared Rashida, despite the fact that everyone knew she and Mint sometimes did use those side entrances, since they were sleeping together for the better part of a year. And then . . . lemme say it like this—”
“He blamed it on you and Nola,” Zig said.
Elijah started to laugh, a low rumble that sounded like it came from the earth’s core. “O.J. couldn’t point the finger at us without evidence, but in the right hands, there’s an art to properly wrecking someone’s military career. To make us pay, he issued a finding of no fault—nothing bad, nothing good—the death knell for an officer who needs good reports for promotions. Nola got sent back to her command—as Artist-in-Residence, it didn’t change much for her. But for me, career-wise, it was enough of a stink that I was done. My next evaluation was, let’s just say, below center mass. From there, I had a choice: get passed up for promotion, or leave Army life behind. For O.J., it was a hell of a chess move. Bloodless execution.”
Roddy cocked his head. “Why’d he want to single you out?”
“Have you met O.J.? He’s a proud Black man who was determined to make full-bird colonel, then general. At the time, I was a proud Black man also trying to make colonel, then general. Guess how many spots for proud Black generals he thought there were? I’ll give you a hint: him and only him,” Elijah said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “That first year, at nearly forty years old, the best job I could find was working alcohol concessions for the Trenton Tigers,” he added, referring to the local minor league NHL team. “Though God bless it for showing me the power of beer. Three minority-owned-business loans later, I was able t—”
“Can we go back to last night?” Zig interrupted. “You said O.J. was here at the bar—asking questions. What was he—？”
“Nola,” Elijah said. “That’s the only thing he cared about. Wanted to know where she was. Had I seen her? Did I know who she was with?”
“Mhmm,” Roddy whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
“What’d you tell him?” Zig asked.