Free The White Ghost by James R. Benn

superior officer, and I wondered if Ritchie was waiting for his due. We weren’t under his command, but perhaps he liked that sort of stuff.
    I glanced at Kaz, who had his British service cap tucked under his arm. I stiffened my posture into a semblance of attention and he caught on quick, snapping his heels and doing one of those Brit palm-out salutes, his arm practically vibrating above his eyebrow. I did the best I could, but I didn’t have the panache for it.
    â€œLieutenants Boyle and Kazimierz reporting, sir!” I intoned.
    â€œGlad to see the army taught you basic military discipline,” Captain Ritchie said. He had about ten years and twenty pounds on us. His wavy brown hair was in retreat and his voice was a combination of sarcasm and weariness with a thin layer of disdain as a chaser. I could see we were going to be great pals.
    â€œOur orders, sir,” I said, holding out the crumpled sheets I’d been carrying halfway around the world.
    â€œI know all about your orders, Lieutenant Boyle,” Ritchie said, looking me in the eye and ignoring the proffered papers. “I’m the one who contacted ONI and asked for an investigator to be sent in.”
    â€œYes sir,” I said.
    â€œAre you clear on what you are here to do?” Ritchie asked. I had about half a dozen theories on the subject, but figured I’d better stick to the official version.
    â€œYes sir. To find out who killed Daniel Tamana and bring him to justice.”
    â€œThe native, yes, of course,” Ritchie said. “It is vital that we treat his killing seriously.”
    â€œBut?” I said, urging him along in the hopes he’d offer us a seat.
    â€œIt must be done in a manner that reflects well upon the United States Navy,” Ritchie said, his chin jutting out as if it were the bow of a battleship cutting through the water.
    I thought about that. And about the teletype sheets, and how the Office of Naval Intelligence had its fingerprints all over this investigation.
    â€œYou worked in ONI, didn’t you, Captain Ritchie?” I said.
    â€œMy previous assignment has nothing to do with this situation,” he said, the disdain a little heavier in his tone.
    â€œI don’t believe that, sir,” I said. Then I sat down. Kaz followed suit. The hell with this guy and his pompous airs. “I didn’t understand how ONI got on top of this so fast. But once I saw you had a report with our names in it, I knew you had a connection.”
    â€œI didn’t invite you to sit, Lieutenant,” Captain Ritchie said as he closed the file in front of him, nervously patting it down as if it might spring open and scatter pages for all to see.
    â€œAnd I don’t think your commanding officer would take kindly to you doing political favors in a war zone, Captain. I bet you and Alan Kirk were at ONI at the same time, right?” Kirk was Joe Kennedy’s naval attaché in London, who had gone on to head ONI. He didn’t last long, and was heading up a bunch of destroyers in the Mediterranean last I heard.
    â€œWhat of it?” Ritchie said, worry lines appearing in his forehead.
    â€œKirk is connected to Joe Kennedy Senior,” I said. “You’re connected to Kirk. Jack Kennedy gets himself involved in the murder of a local native, and the first thing you do? You don’t investigate, you don’t bring in the British or Australian police, instead you contact your buddies at ONI, who can get to Joe Senior. Then things begin to happen and favors accrue. I bet old Joe would pay a bundle to have his son’s name cleared.”
    â€œI don’t have the time or inclination to listen to your preposterous theories,” Ritchie said, standing and sucking in his gut. That was our cue to leave. “Find out what happened to Tamana and try not to disgrace the uniform while you do it. Report to me if you find out anything useful.” I felt his glare on my