“I knew it!” Tessa barked, storming out of the chaplain’s office. “Those lying motherf—！”
“Mrs. Mint, please!” Zig pleaded, chasing after her. “This area— You can’t—！”
“I know you hear me! You think I wouldn’t find it!?” she shouted, waving the manila envelope, her tight ponytail pumping behind her as she plowed down the carpeted first-floor hallway that contained Dover’s senior staff offices. The Carpet Canyon, everyone called it, a not-so-subtle jab. Every other floor in the mortuary was concrete or industrial tile, surfaces built to withstand blood and body parts.
“Ma’am, I need you to stop,” a male secretary called out, rising from his seat. He wasn’t nearly fast enough.
With a sharp right, Tessa stormed into the one office that every staffer knew was off-limits. Inside, a Black man with a side part shaved into his Afro looked up from his desk. He had a wide face, like a billboard. Late forties. Retro gold wire-framed glasses and wearing a drab olive Air Force flight suit. Zig knew who he was, even without the name tag on his chest—Colonel O. J. Whatley—Dover’s wing commander, the second Black man to ever hold the top job.
Zig had never met him before, but c’mon, his outfit alone . . . Most heads of Dover wear formal uniforms—military dress, shirt and tie. Their flying days are mostly done. So for Whatley to still be sporting a flight suit like he’s about to take off in Top Gun mode . . . Heart or no heart? Outlook not good.
“O.J.,” Tessa said in a tone that would leave a bruise.
“Tessie,” he replied, trying to make nice.
Zig was still in the hallway, determined to stay out of sight. “Casper?” he whispered to his friend. But as Zig turned, the photographer was long gone. Soon enough, Zig would realize he should’ve taken off, too.
“Mr. Zigarowski?” a voice called out. O.J.’s secretary.
“Arturo?” Zig asked, recognizing the kid with the squatty fingers who used to work in Dover’s laundry, ironing fresh sheets for the fallen. “What’re you doing here?”
“Promotion. You? Because, um . . . it kinda looks like you’re eavesdropping.”
“I’m actually with a client. Recent widow,” Zig said, pointing toward Tessa, who was still unleashing on Colonel Whatley.
Arturo nodded. He’d seen it before. “Y’know, one night, I was delivering laundry at like two in the morning. Everyone was gone. But you were here, Mr. Zigarowski, working on this young female naval aviator whose F-14 went down. Two a.m. And that wasn’t the only night I saw you here,” he added, heading up the hallway and waving goodbye. “I need coffee. Enjoy your eavesdropping, Mr. Zigarowski.”
“Tessie, please, take a seat,” O.J. said, still standing behind his desk as he motioned her to a chair. With his pointer finger, he pushed the bridge of his gold-rimmed glasses up on his nose, Zig wondering if it was O.J.’s way of buying a moment. “With all you’ve been through . . .”
“I want his phone, Oren.”
“If you just sit down . . .”
“I WANT HIS PHONE! I SAW THE PHOTOS!” she roared, waving the manila folder so hard, a few of the pictures rocketed to the floor. She caught her breath, locking eyes with O.J. Whatever was going on, these two knew each other. “Two phones, O.J. My husband clearly had an extra one. I know you have it.”
“It’s my job to have it. We’re still investigating—”
“That’s another lie. It’s like your helmets,” she said, pointing to his credenza, the I-Love-Me section of his office, which held half a dozen flight helmets. “Y’know, Archie once told me that most of those aren’t even yours, they’re your dad’s—but you thought keeping them on display would help you make full bird. And look at that, here you are, Colonel.”