Free Sweepers by P. T. Deutermann Page A

head. “No. He went through the entire house, but I don’t think he was looking for anything specific. He appeared to be, I don’t know, trying to exorcise the place in a way. He turned on all the lights went into all the rooms. I had the impression that he suspects something’s not right with the picture, but he also realizes that if he yells murder, he’s the only guy you’re looking at. I think the man feels he’s in a box.”
    Mcnair thought about that for a moment. Then he looked back up at Karen.
    “Do you think he’s clean?” he asked.
    “Yes, I do,” Karen replied immediately. “Absent any physical evidence to the contrary. Based on what you said about the time of death-early evening, Friday-he was either in the Pentagon or at that restaurant. Did that check out, by the way?”
    He looked at her for a moment, as if gauging whether or not he should answer the question she had just casually slipped in.
    “The restaurant, yes,” he said grudgingly. “Like he said, he’s a regular. They remembered him being there. We haven’t talked to his office yet.”
    Perhaps I can help with that.” She handed over one of her cards, with Sherman’s deputy’s name and number written on the back. He slipped the card into a pocket in-his notebook and then sat back, looking at her again, a speculative expression on his face. Karen waited. Mcnair appeared to be one of those cops who could be perfectly polite, even solicitous in his approach to people, but who still exuded the stoniness born of dealing with murder and murderers. Finally, he nodded.
    “Okay,” he said. “Let me try this again, see if I get it right this time. You will stay close to this Sherman guy while we’re working this thing. You’ll pass along to us any information of interest that develops. In return, we will keep you informed as to how our investigation’s shaping up. You want advance notice if we decide to move against Sherman, but you also want us to get off him just as soon as we feel there’s no case to be made. How’s that?”
    Karen gave him her brightest smile. “Admiral Carpenter has told me to ensure that your investigation is fully facilitated by the Navy, one way or the other.”
    He nodded again. Karen almost thought he was going to offer his hand so they could shake on it, but he didn’t. He surprised her with another question instead.
    “Tell me something, Commander. Does this guy Sherman think you’re on his side on this?”
    Karen felt the slightest tinge of a flush start around her throat.
    “Admiral Sherman wants to clear this up as quickly as we do, Detective,” she replied.
    He nodded again, the ghost of a smile on his face.
    “Damn,” he said. “And I thought we cops were the masters of evasion.”
    Karen struggled to maintain her composure as he continued to stare at her. He had understood the setup only too well. Then he got up, signifying they were done. He handed her one of his own cards. She realized that he was almost an inch shorter than she was, but bigger than she remembered. Indeterminate age, maybe late thirties. Metallic gray eyes. An iciness back in there. A basically hard face under all that professional courtesy.
    “We’ll be in touch, Commander,” he was saying. “Anything comes up you think is useful, there’s the number.”
    “Thank you, Detective,” she said. “I guess I do have one more question: As things stand now, do you think Admiral Sherman murdered his exgirlfriend?”
    He raised his eyebrows. “Hard to tell just now, Commander. I’m not sure what the slippers signify, if anything. But we’ll sure let you know if that’s what we conclude. “
    “Now who’s the master of evasion?” she said, but he only smiled politely and escorted her back out to the reception area.
    Karen tried to shrug off the Judas feeling as she drove back into town.
    Sherman was a flag officer. He didn’t get to be a flag officer without knowing how the system worked. He had to suspect at least