Murder at the Pentagon Read Free Page B

alone. Should she introduce herself or leave the picnic, which was her first inclination? She looked a little more closely. The other woman had … well, a sensual aura about her as some women do, not so much a matter of dress or makeup, but through an inherent sense that it is their birthright, almost their duty, to flirt and to be coy, to attract and to seduce, men or women. The woman was approximately Margit’s height and wore beige slacks and a flowered shirt. An abundance of gold hair was loosely curled, the heat and humidity causing it to relax more than it should. Her features were ordinary (in the sense that none stood out as wonderful) except for lips that were fuller than average. Superb, pouty lips. Sexy lips.
    The woman leaned against a tree away from the crowd. Margit approached her. “Hi,” she said, “I’m Margit Falk. New here.” The woman had not seen her coming, and sheseemed startled before saying, “Hello. I’m Christa Wren. I’m not.”
    Margit gestured to the picnic. “Fun,” she said.
    “Yes, it has been. Are you going to work in the Pentagon?”
    “I’m an air-force major assigned to the General Counsel’s Office. Do you work here?”
    “No. I’m with someone.”
    “Oh.” Margit didn’t ask who he was, or where he was. Why assume it was a
he
? Maybe she was with a girlfriend. No, it would be a man.
    Christa offered the explanation Margit hadn’t asked for. “I’m here with Dr. Joycelen. He had to go inside for something.”
    “Dr. Joycelen. I certainly know of him, although I’ve never met him. He’s with DARPA.”
    “Deputy director.”
    “A brilliant man, yes?” Margit said.
    “Very smart. A genius.”
    “So I’ve heard. Well, nice meeting you. Maybe I’ll see you again. At another picnic. Or the Christmas party. Surely we have a Christmas party.” Margit laughed softly.
    “Maybe,” said Christa, who looked back again to a door leading from the center court into a wing of the Pentagon.
    Not a word was spoken where the two of them met by the purple watercooler. One started to speak, but then there was a sound, a ridiculously tiny
‘pop’
considering the damage that followed. The bullet shattered eyeglasses and pierced skin and bone directly between the eyes. A word formed on the dying person’s lips but was never uttered. Sudden. Quick. Dead
.
    There was only one witness on the scene. The killer. No one else to see
.
    Except for a silent eye, one of hundreds of surveillance cameras peering down. Perpetual, unrelenting vision when they worked, hopelessly blind when they didn’t
.
    * * *
    Another fifteen minutes, Margit told herself as she left Christa Wren and watched Bill Monroney step up to a microphone on a small wooden platform near the kiosk. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “time to announce the winners of the athletic competitions. We’ll start with the kids’ events.” A younger man holding a box containing medals and ribbons joined Monroney on the platform. Margit had been introduced to the younger officer during a meeting. Mucci? Yes, she seemed to recall that was his name. A major, like herself. Major Anthony Mucci. All spit and polish, she remembered. An officer out of a recruiting poster, brown hair cropped close; intense, steady eyes; good posture; few words. Even in his civvies, he was the quintessential young military man. Impressive.
    The children who’d won their events proudly stepped up on the platform to receive their recognition. In truth there were medals for every young person—fourth place, sixth place, eighth place, whatever, and it took time to get through them. Once Monroney had, Mucci brought up another box, medals now for the adult competitors. Monroney had started to announce the first few when Margit became aware that two men had come out of the Pentagon and were walking at a brisk pace toward the platform. Others saw them, too, including Monroney and Mucci. Monroney came off the platform, and he and the two late