CHAPTER 7
If Only You Knew

Grey watched the Sergeant from the observation room, thinking her plan through. Plan. That was an ambitious misnomer. Major Cantrell clearly had an idea of how she should proceed, but Grey couldn't shake the feeling there was more going on that she wasn't privy to. Well, that was a given. She was only told what her superiors thought she needed to know; whatever made the case go away or saved the Army some face. It wasn't that simple though this time. There was likely something greater at play, something outside the usual rigmarole. She just had no idea what.

She'd left the Sergeant waiting in Interrogation for over twenty minutes and he still looked no more disconcerted than when he was first escorted in. He sat with good but unstrained posture, hands folded on the table before him. His eyes casually wandered throughout the stark white room, drifting across the one-way glass. Most either avoided the glass or stared it down. She couldn't tell if the man actually was as unfazed as he appeared or if his behavioural control was just that good. Either option was intriguing but also left her in an unsure place. She preferred it when there was an obvious vulnerability she could exploit.

Like his personnel file, the Sergeant's behaviour gave her little to work with. That frustrated her, but again suggested that this case was more than what it seemed. Cantrell's interest didn't seem personal, signalling that pressure was coming down on him from above. And while the average citizen might have thought that attempted murder was a rarity in the Army, Grey had already prosecuted several such cases that year with zero fanfare. It happened, especially as political tensions rose and military demands increased. So why was this case special? The victim, Corporal James, did not seem to be anyone of particular note; neither did the accused, Specialist Walsh. It made no sense, at least not with the information she had.

Time to get some more then, she decided.

Grey entered the interview room at a stride. She pulled the chair out across from the Sergeant in one swift motion, allowing it to scrape across the floor, shattering the silence. She slapped her file folders on the table and turned on the holotape recorder. The machine crackled as she situated herself, folding her skirt beneath her and stretching her neck as they locked eyes.

His blue eyes lightened as he looked at her, posture unchanged. The smallest of muscles moved along his jaw, corners of his mouth lifting. Not exactly the response she was looking for.

"Thank-you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice, Sergeant Anders—"

"Nate," he interjected with a smile.

Grey watched as he flashed his teeth, this clearly having worked for him before. What irritated her was that his behaviour didn't seem unnatural or forced. It wasn't that he played the handsome, charming soldier-next-door—he likely was that person. He was privileged enough to be that person, her mother would lecture. There was probably some truth to that, but Grey also sensed that this man was a tad more complex than good looks and an American-as-apple-pie persona.

"I'd prefer we abide by protocol and procedure, Sergeant, which will be integral at trial, if it comes to that. A man with your service history should understand the value in that, no?" It wasn't a question.

He leaned back in his chair. "So you've read up on me. See anything interesting, Lieutenant?" Another flash of teeth, voice playful and low. "Anything you like?"

"It's more what I'm not seeing that has me interested, Sergeant." She pulled one of the folders from her pile and flipped it open. "In the initial canvas, investigators questioned all personnel stationed at or visiting the base at the time of the offence. Your name, as you can see, is not on this list, which is intriguing for two reasons. One: the rest of your platoon was stationed at the base at this time. And two: you've come forward as a witness to a crime that, according to these records, you couldn't have witnessed. Which leaves my department—and me—in a bit of a tricky situation, as you may be able to imagine.

"This leads me to conclude that one of two things are happening here: either our evidence is flawed, which raises a multitude of new concerns, or you're intentionally interfering with an ongoing investigation."

She leaned back in her chair, matching his bearing. "Considering the security measures currently employed at the base, your odds aren't looking too good. That, and a charge of perverting the course of justice? That isn't exactly the kind of blemish an officer of your standing wants tainting his service record."

His eyes fluttered down to the list and then back to her face. This was where she expected his veneer to rupture—this was where it always ruptured. But instead his smile deepened to something sultry. He rested a single finger over his lips, fingertip tracing the bottom edge so slightly.

"Have dinner with me."

Grey stared. "Excuse me?"

He leaned into the table, narrowing the space between then. "Have dinner with me. Tonight, on the pier."

Grey immediately shut off the recorder.

"What are you playing at?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Lieutenant."

She furrowed her brow. "You've lost me."

"Let's see. You kept me waiting for—what—a half hour? Likely watching from the other side of that glass, seeing how I may react under pressure. Your entrance, the chair—that was a good move. Nothing like offensive sound to activate the amygdala, signal a stress response to the body. Then there's your attire: hair pulled back tight, shirt buttoned to the collar, and I'm guessing those glasses are for show? Subtle cues to show you're in a position of authority and not to be seen as a desirable object. But your questioning and phrasing—that was where you shone. Building me up, just to tear me down. And the thinly veiled threats? Beautiful."

He leaned back and crossed his arms. "So how about we cut the BS, acknowledge we both know how to play this game, and you agree to come to dinner with me."

Grey pursed her lips as she thought. She hadn't expected that. Logic said she needed to either regain control or shut him down. She already had enough to give him a light slap on the wrist. The holotape recording was evidence enough if Cantrell decided to give her hell. His threat was for her screwing it up. This wasn't a screw up—it was likely a victory, or would be to Cantrell. She could easily sell it as her weeding out falsities and narrowing down the investigation to something fruitful.

That was logic, but then there was instinct. Something had been wrong with this case from the beginning, something that her superiors didn't want known. It wasn't as simple as an attempted murder, not that that was ever simple, but there was something more dangerous or damaging at stake. Whatever it was, she wanted to know. And if she had to tangle with Sergeant Anders to get to it? Fine, she'd take that risk. Whatever happened, she could take care of herself. And if he was dead weight? She'd cut him loose.

"8pm, Umberto's."

His eyes lit up. "I'll pick you up at—"

"No, you won't."

She ejected the tape and slid it into her folders.

"Just so we're clear, this is the only chance you'll be afforded."

He smiled. "Yes, ma'am."

"And don't call me ma'am."

She didn't wait for his retort and let the door slam behind her.

Grey absently gazed out the cab's window as it wove down Atlantic Avenue, wheels spitting muck up toward the glass. Neon lights reflected in the watery sheen painting the roads, sidewalks a mix of fresh snow, road salt, and blackened slush. Christmas lights hung from several of the shops, a mix of plastic greenery and carcinogenic glitter sitting in windows. For Grey it was an insipid time of year, one rife with distasteful social obligations. Acknowledging what remained of her miserable family, shelling out money to ungrateful coworkers, attending parties ripe with uncomfortable dynamics and shallow words—she pushed the thoughts from her mind before her blood pressure spiked.

"Any plans for the New Year, miss?" the cabbie asked.

He was a shorter man, slightly gruff, ginger stubble lining his lower jowls.

"May visit some family in New York," she murmured.

"Ah, New Yorker, are you?"

Not really, she thought.

"Me, never left Boston. Why bother? We got the same shit here they got everywhere else, am I right?"

"Fair enough."

"See, exactly. Good to have some sensible minded people in my cab for once. I was telling my buddy Johnny the other day…"

He continued to prattle on and Grey haphazardly listened, feeding him the right amount of mm-hm's and ah's to keep him going. She preferred when others talked. Saved her from having to talk about herself. Also saved her from having to care. Most people only needed the slightest of active listening signals to feel validated. Grey was adept enough to provide them without having to actually process what was being said. Win-win, really.

She passed him a $50 tip as they pulled up in front of the golden glow of Umberto's. Ten years ago, $50 could have bought her a mediocre three-course meal. Now she'd be lucky if it bought her a coffee and a bagel.

She slid from the cab and crossed the salted sidewalk, careful not to slip in her black patent stilettos. As she stepped into the warmth of Umberto's, the December cold melted from her bones. A waiter slipped her coat from her shoulders and led her to the host.

A man in his mid-forties gave her a single glance and a nod to follow, clearly too astute to ask for something as trivial as a name. He guided her through a throng of tables, bodies beautifully clothed and drenched in candlelight, whispers escaping pouted lips. Jazz piano drifted across the restaurant, tempo slow and keys lightly struck.

She'd fallen in love with Umberto's during her first year of law school. Some boy had invited her there for dinner, hoping to impress her. Grey knew he had more money than sense, and, as he never explicitly asked her on a date, she felt no remorse in joining him, letting him pay, and then saying farewell for the night with a wave of her hand. It was all about the semantics. That, and she owed him nothing.

For Grey, Umberto's was the perfect blend of culinary excellence and atmosphere. Beautiful marble and gold finishings, red velvet chairs, and hushed golden lights. Live jazz always played, sometimes a mix of piano and percussion, but most nights just a solo pianist. That was her favourite, the sound bringing her back to Sunday afternoons in the study, her mother lounging by the window with a book, hair a mess, Dave Brubeck playing on the stereo. And then there was the food. Her mouth watered as she passed a table with steamed muscles marinating in white wine sauce.

She spotted Sergeant Anders first, chestnut brown hair slicked back, strong jaw freshly shaved. He was frowning at the wine list; she swallowed a laugh. She lightly plucked it from his hands as she approached. She watched the frustration melt from his face as he looked up at her and her stomach knotted.

She pushed the smile from her lips as the host helped her to her seat. She handed him the menu.

"A bottle of the Chianti, thanks."

As the host gave them the evening spiel, she discretely unclipped her clutch and pressed her fingers against the metallic box concealed within. She felt along the edges, counting the indents and picturing the device in her mind. Third button from the left. Her index finger hovered.

"So," he said as the host departed. His brilliant opening line, sitting stagnantly in the air. His eyes washed over her again, pupils encompassing the blue of his irises. That all-American smile played along his face.

"When I suggested the pier, I was thinking more Micky's Diner, but I'm sure this place is comparable."

She decided his failed attempt at humour didn't warrant a response.

"To business then. Or would you like to check if I'm wearing a wire first?" He gave a devilish grin. "I'd be happy to take off my shirt. I'm sure the governor's wife to our right wouldn't mind."

He fingered the top button of his dress shirt in jest.

"No need for that, Sergeant."

"So you trust me then?"

She lifted the audio jammer from her purse and gently laid it on the table, clicking it on.

"As a rule, I trust no one. Don't take it personally."

He gave a short laugh. "I guess the rumours about you are true then."

"They probably are."

He gave her another look, this one more intrigued than sultry. "You're a fascinating woman, Lieutenant. I'd accuse you of playing hard to get, but I doubt it's that superficial. Even the emotionally stunted Lieutenant Mitchell wasn't immune to my charms."

A waiter arrived then, bottle of red wrapped in white cloth and presented for Grey's inspection. He opened it and passed her the cork, the colour rich and scent sweet. He poured a sip into her glass and she slowly swirled it before bringing it to her lips, earthy notes spilling onto her tongue. She gave the waiter a nod and he filled both their glasses.

Sergeant Anders lifted his before him, eyeing the liquid. "It was easy enough to persuade Mitchell to request that her boss allocate a second prosecutor to the case. Someone capable of structuring my evidence, someone to assist Mitchell with the arduous task of getting a conviction." He took a sip of the wine. "See, Mitchell wasn't really a viable option. Wed to the job is an understatement. Like many in our line of work, it eventually isn't a job anymore: it's a lifestyle, maybe even a family. Something we're loyal to, that we'd defend to our last breath. But, somewhere along that way, we lose our sense of self, and a threat to the institution is a threat to us all. So we let little discretions go unpunished, all for the sake of the institution. We ignore signs of corruption. 'If it happens, it happens for a reason', we tell ourselves. 'It's for the greater good.'" He grimaced. "What a joke."

"And what makes you think I'm any different from Mitchell?"

He said, "You're a bit of a known quantity in the Massachusetts office. Ruthless, cold, calculating. People also tend to remember the twenty-something five-foot-eleven lawyer who destroyed their military careers, so you also have a fair share of enemies, in case you didn't know."

"Lucky me. Still doesn't answer my question."

"Patience," he said lightly, taking another swig. "Thing is, on the surface you come across much like your superiors: preoccupied with appearances, percentages, and outcomes. Cover up the incident before it snowballs, cut the malignant growth before it disfigures the troops. But then there was the Avery case. Neatly packaged by the CID, just waiting for a guilty verdict, except you didn't follow through."

Grey knit her brow. "Wrong. I got a conviction."

"For conspiracy to sell military intelligence, not conspiracy to transport illegal goods, which was the original charge. You ignored the CID's evidence and went after a pipe-dream. Which is exactly what I need."

"If you need a pipe dream, they're a dime a dozen these days. You don't need my help to find one."

He shook his head. "No, I need your investigative skills. And I need someone willing to look past the obvious. Someone who isn't afraid of pissing off the wrong people, or, better yet, someone crafty enough to avoid pissing them off all together. Someone to help me get to the bottom of this."

"And when you say the 'wrong people', you mean Major Cantrell, I'm guessing."

He merely shrugged in response.

"Why not approach some doe-eyed CID officer then if you want investigative skills? 'Investigation' is literally in their job title."

"Because I need someone who can take this to the end. Someone high enough up the food chain that they have resources and clout, not just smarts."

Fair enough, Grey thought. The Criminal Investigation Division's findings were ultimately reported back to the accused's commanding officer or passed along to JAG Corps for prosecution.

"So what's the this you want me to get to the bottom of?"

He gave her an apprehensive look and she sighed. She knew that look and it always came after the canary had already started to sing.

"You've already told me too much, Sergeant. You're long past the point of no return. Either I like what I hear and we continue to have this conversation, or I leave and we both pretend we never spoke." She shook the audio jammer. "No evidence, remember?"

He considered her before draining his wine glass in a single, swift motion. They were going to need another bottle soon. She poured him another glass.

"What do you know about my relationship to Specialist Walsh?" he asked.

"You both serve in Fox Company and have for a number of years. Beyond that, little."

"And what of Corporal James?"

"You both serve in the Second Battalion but in different companies, which is also the only connection we've made between Walsh and James."

"I thought as much." He leaned back, brow furrowing. "The connection's a bit deeper than that. From 2072 to 74, Walsh and I both served in the same squad, and so did Corporal James. Except back then he wasn't a Corporal, just a Private First Class."

Grey's eye twitched and she realized she was frowning. "There is no record of Walsh and James having ever served together. Nor is there any record of you serving alongside Walsh, at least not at the squadron level. Where did you serve?"

"Anchorage mostly. A few months in Shantou in 2074. By 2073, I was their CO, so I knew these men, Lieutenant. Knew them well, or so I'd like to think." He shook his head. "James used to snore so loud, we nicknamed him 'The Chainsaw'. Walsh even made him a birthday card one year while we were on the frontline. With nothing more than lined paper and charcoal, he made the damned thing look like a chainsaw blade. We got enough laughs out of that to last us to Thanksgiving."

"Were you covert or…?"

"No more or less than any squad in Fox Company."

"And is the squad still active?"

He shook his head. "Decommissioned in 2074. No particular reason why. Our skill sets were diverse and we were needed in different areas. James got his promotion around the same time and he moved to logistics. Walsh moved to demolitions, and I transferred to another ground combat unit. Walsh and I would still meet up for drinks occasionally when we both banked some leave around the same time—he's got family in the Commonwealth—but that was it."

Too convenient was Grey's first thought, but she kept that to herself.

"So where does your record say you served from 2072 to 2074?"

"You tell me, Lieutenant."

She'd need to check that. "I'm going to need a list of names, the other soldiers in your unit, and your deployment locations and times, to the best of your memory."

His eyes lit up. "So you'll help me?"

"I'll look into your claims—off the record," she clarified. "But I'm going to need more from you than your word to corroborate your story. Any letters, photographs—"

He pulled something white from his pocket and flicked it across the table. Grey picked up the folded paper to reveal a tattered black and white photograph. Seven men and one woman stood in front of a battered Welcome to Anchorage sign, the "welcome" all but illegible due to bullet holes and striations. Faces beamed at the camera. Army fatigues and combat armour decorated their closely huddled bodies, arms thrown around one another with casual ease. She spotted the Sergeant first, hair shorter, buzzed back to the skull. A woman stood next to him, her head tilted to the left, practically buried in Specialist Walsh's neck. Walsh wasn't looking at her though. His head was also tilted to the left, eyes smiling so deeply they were nearly closed. Corporal James mirrored Walsh's posture, their foreheads all but touching, laughter so evident Grey could practically hear it emanate from the photograph. She turned it over, observing the handwritten note on the back.

Anchorage, Alaska. February 17, 2074. PV2 Dawes, PFC Marquez, PFC James, PFC Walsh, SPC Blake, SGT Anders, CPL Kolinsky, and PV2 Tanaka.

Grey knew that sign was no longer there. Lost in a bombing twelve months earlier, in December 1974. She'd still need more evidence to establish the exact timeline, but this proved the men definitely knew one another. The official records were wrong then; likely tampered with. Tampered with by Army staff. She fought the grin pulling at her face.

"I need to know what happened to my men, Lieutenant."

She looked up and could see the strain in the Sergeant's eyes. She wouldn't presume to understand the bonds servicemen formed, but she knew they were there. They literally fought and died for one another, dragging corpses across active war zones just to ensure a family they'd never met could bury their loved ones. No, she couldn't understand that, but she could respect it.

She smirked as she tucked the photograph into her clutch. "And to think Cantrell wanted me to fuck the intel out of you."

The Sergeant's eyes widened before he caught himself, strain melting away. "Well, if I'd known that, I might have held back a little longer."

He unfurled his fist and gently caressed the back of her hand with his index finger. "I'm sure I can think of something more to divulge if you apply the right pressures."

She simpered before pulling her hand away. "I'm sure there are plenty of ladies lingering around outside who would be more than happy to scratch any itch you have, Sergeant. As for us, our business is presently concluded, but we still have appearances to keep up. So let's pretend to have a nice, simple dinner, hm, providing you can keep your hands to yourself for an hour."

She picked up the audio jammer and returned it to her clutch.

"It's 'Nate' if we're going to continue this charade, Lieutenant."

"Fine," she shrugged.

"And I should call you…?"

She fixed him a hard look.

He recoiled with a smirk. "Grey it is then."

Grey was the slightest bit buzzed as she fumbled with the lock to her condo. Too much wine, even with the sea bass risotto and strawberry and fig panna cotta. She nearly moaned just thinking about the meal, the pleasured memories alone justifying the $600 price tag.

Tumblers finally clicking into place, Grey pressed her weight against the door, simultaneously slipping off her stilettos and drifting into her condo. She flicked her clutch onto the hallway vanity and reached for the light switch but caught herself as she looked ahead into the darkness of the lounge.

A figure stood by the balcony door with his back to her, body outlined by the hushed lights of the cityscape below. Even in the dark, she could see the holster peeking out from beneath his waist-length jacket.

She carefully laid her keys on the table and nudged the door closed behind her.

"It's a little late for an evening stroll," she murmured.

"Don't be a smartass, girl."

Grey stiffened, blood cooling. "I'm not due to report in for another two weeks. So either something's gone wrong or you need something from me."

He didn't reply.

Grey sighed. "I'm tired and I'm not in the mood. Tell me which, so I can go to sl—"

"You need to stay away from Nathaniel Anders."

"May I ask why?"

The figure turned, dark brow furrowed.

"You can stare me down all you want," she said sternly, "but you'll find I don't crumble so easy. You want me to stay away from Sergeant Anders? Fine. But I need to know why. Otherwise, you need to let me run with this. We may finally have something—"

"It's not a part of the mission."

Fuck the mission, she wanted to spit, but caught herself. "I know that, but we may be onto something here, and I'd appreciate it if Command let me run with it, see if it gives us an edge."

"We?"

"I," she stressed. "I may be onto something."

He walked towards her then and she steeled herself. Without her heels, he loomed above her, dark features sharp and expression stern. He reached for her and she fought not to flinch. Cold, calloused fingers ran across the top of her brow, pushing strands of silver hair from her eyes. He watched her closely, hazel eyes scrolling her face, drinking her in.

"You're going to compromise yourself."

She leaned into his hand, letting it cup her face, palm flirting with her mouth. She turned, lips laying a gentle kiss into his calloused flesh. She could smell the gunshot residue and forced herself not to recoil. Her stomach twisted as she looked up at him through mascara-clad lashes, thankful the alcohol was dilating her pupils. She gingerly rested her hand atop his, fingers entwining. She let her face tell him what he wanted to see, and she could feel his body stiffen against hers, a mix of confusion and lust.

"I'll be fine as long as I have you watching my back," she whispered against his skin. "You know I can do this."

He breathed her in and she could sense the tension strumming beneath his skin. She nuzzled his palm, closing her eyes.

"One month," he said. "That's it."

She stood still as he slide around her and out the door. She only allowed herself to exhale as she felt the lock click back into place. She listened until his footsteps disappeared down the hall, masked by the ding of the arriving elevator. She counted to ten, steadying herself. As she reached the final count, she bolted from her place and tore into the bathroom, lifting the toilet seat just as vomit sprayed from her mouth.

She wretched until nothing remained, not even tears able to flow from her eyes.

She needed to figure this out. Her job, her cover, the mission, the James case. Nate.

Collapsing to the floor, she brought her knees to her chest and buried her face. She was going to get herself killed if she wasn't careful. She just wasn't sure who'd be the one pulling the trigger. They'd tell her she did it to herself, that she was the one holding the gun. She probably was on some level. Too ambitious, too angry, too full of spite. If only her mother could see her now. Would she be proud or mortified, or a strange mix of both?

Grey looked up at the ceiling, clumps of mascara obscuring her vision.

If only she knew.