Turning back to her laptop, Waggs studied the various red dots— focusing on the places Nola had been over the past few days. The high school where they held Mint’s funeral. Barron’s Steakhouse. Even last night at the Bureau’s parking lot, which, Christ Almighty, shouldn’t even be viewable on these reports, at least not since a few months back, when a CIA agent was tracked via cell towers from the Langley parking garage to his home in Maryland, thereby blowing his cover.
There was also a short block of time—right after the shooting—when Nola was near Mint’s house. Same time the ambulances, police, and neighborhood rubberneckers were there. Were you checking out the crime scene—or looking for something more specific?
Either way, when Mint got shot, Nola came running. Fast.
Still staring at the screen, Waggs couldn’t help but notice the small circle of red dots in Nola’s town. On a typical day, Nola stayed within a few miles of where she lived. Then, once Mint was shot, she took a forty-minute ride at the drop of a hat.
On a hunch, Waggs clicked the dropdown menu, selecting a tab for Past 30 Days.
Onscreen, thousands of red dots appeared, all of them mottled together in a tight red blob. All in the same area, in Nola’s town. But there were also three lines arcing upward like rising fireworks.
Nola, you sneak. You went for a ride, didn’t you?
Waggs widened the map, revealing three brand-new red dots. In the past month, up until the moment Mint died, these were the only three places where Nola took an actual trip.
Waggs leaned toward the screen, examining each destination. One was a residential address, but the others . . .
Abingdon Medical.
St. Anthony’s.
Huh.
Both hospitals.
Nola, why were you going to a doctor?
There was an easy way to find out.
Waggs reached for her keys and her badge. Abingdon Medical was barely an hour away.
38
The smell hit him first—cinnamon potpourri, lemon Pledge, and of course, a heavy dose of bleach—the military’s way to hide death. It was a horrid smell, and the worst part was, Zig realized he missed it.
Pulling open the front door and getting just a whiff, he was sucked back in time, to his first days in the office.
It was no different with the décor. As he entered the main lobby of the Dover Port Mortuary, old memories flushed forward—his fortieth birthday, when everyone hid behind these sofas to surprise him after lunch, his commendation from General Sienkiewicz, dozens of goodbye parties, and naturally, all the send-offs as hearses pulled up to the front of the building to collect flag-covered coffins.
To Zig’s surprise, he’d forgotten how nice the lobby was, more like a hotel’s, with an arched glass atrium, indoor trees, marble planters, and the soothing sound of running water from a circular stone wishing well at the center of the lobby.
Over the years, as families limped inside, waiting to see the bodies of their fallen sons and daughters, Zig had watched hundreds of mothers, fathers, and children throw pennies into the fountain. None of them got what they wished for. Indeed, as the tinkling water mixed with the potpourri smell, all it did was bring Zig back to the height of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, when there were so many fallen soldiers coming through the building, they’d sometimes run out of caskets.
“Welcome home,” Zig muttered, keeping his head down as he headed for the very first door on his left.
Office of the Chaplain
One of the few in the building where he knew there were no cameras.
Zig took a final glance over his shoulder. The lobby was empty. So was the lot outside, though that wouldn’t last. Too bad for Zig, he had no idea who was coming. Without knocking, he threw open the door and closed it quickly behind him.