The room became very still.
“Cause?”
“Apparent suicide.”
“Apparent?”
“A single gunshot. No note. Her security token is missing.”
I looked toward the screen.
Brock had slapped me at nine-sixteen.
Mercer died less than five hours earlier.
This was no longer an internal theft investigation.
Someone was erasing links.
“Where is Sullivan now?” I asked.
“Interview room three,” Velez replied.
“Has he spoken?”
“He requested counsel.”
“Did he know about Mercer?”
“We have not told him.”
I stood.
“Then I want to see his face when we do.”
Preview
Brock sat behind a steel table with his wrists free and his hands folded.
A camera recorded from the ceiling.
His uniform jacket had been removed. The ribbons and command insignia that once covered his chest were gone. Without them, he looked smaller, though not less dangerous.
His attorney, Commander Philip Kane, sat beside him.
Admiral Cross observed from behind the one-way glass.
Agent Velez entered first.
I followed.
Brock looked at my bruised cheek.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Here to finish your performance?”
I sat across from him.
“No.”
His attorney spoke.
“My client will not answer questions regarding the incident on the parade field until formal charges are presented.”
“Then we will discuss something else.”
I placed a photograph of Elaine Mercer on the table.
Brock looked at it.
Nothing changed.
That was the change.
Most people react to sudden news through confusion.
Brock recognized the photograph before Velez identified her.
“Commander Elaine Mercer was found dead this morning,” Velez said.
His attorney turned toward him.
“Do you know her?”
Brock stared at me.
“No.”
“Your pulse increased,” I said.
Kane objected.
“This is not a medical evaluation.”
“No. It is an observation.”
Brock leaned back.
“I have never met her.”
I placed the access log beside the photograph.
“Her credentials were used to open my restricted file.”
“That has nothing to do with me.”
“Perhaps.”
“You think I killed a Pentagon officer and then attended a parade?”
“I think you expected the parade to protect you.”
His eyes narrowed.
“A thousand witnesses. Live microphones. Senior officers. If I retaliated violently, you became the victim. If I accepted the humiliation, you established that I could be intimidated.”
Brock smiled again.
“You’re very impressed with yourself.”
“No.”
I slid another photograph across the table.
A targeting interface recovered in North Africa.
“Who did you sell this to?”
His expression remained controlled.
His right thumb pressed against the side of his index finger.
A small movement.
Stress.
“I have never seen it.”
“You signed its destruction certificate.”
“Then it was destroyed.”
“It was recovered last month.”
“Serial numbers can be duplicated.”
“True.”
