Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) by J. Mark Bertrand Read Free Book Online

condensation at the four corners of the glass. Before I could announce myself, he turned and motioned me to stand at attention in front of his desk. I could perceive from the corner of my eye a second man in the room, a slack civilian seated on the stiff vinyl couch beside the entrance, his arm draped languidly along the back of the sofa. This, presumably, was Magnum.
    “Now,” Shattuck said, addressing the man on the couch, “I’d like you to repeat what you’ve just told me in the presence of this officer.”
    The iron in his tone was unmistakable. Shattuck was angry.
    Magnum answered with a snort, a response so unexpected that I turned my head to look. He wore a charcoal suit and a black knit tie, his thick eyebrows balanced by the full mustache. A long, pale face with a hint of a smile on the lips. Laugh lines that bracketed the mustache in parentheses. He wasn’t cowed by the major’s authority. Instead, he seemed amused.
    “You’re not going to say anything?” Shattuck demanded.
    “Hey,” Magnum said. “No offense.” He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I guess I’ll get out of here and leave you to it. Just thought maybe I could spare us both some trouble.”
    He eased himself off the couch.
    “I’d like you to repeat your offer in Lieutenant March’s presence.”
    “Is that his name, this witness of yours?” Magnum peered at the name above the breast pocket of my fatigue jacket, like he doubted the major’s words. “Well, now, Lieutenant”—he patted my shoulder in a familiar way—“I expect we’ll be seeing more of each other.”
    And with that, he walked out. The major let him go.
    “Close the door,” he said.
    I did.
    “If you see that man, if he asks for anything or seems to be engaged in any activity out of the ordinary, I want you to inform me immediately.”
    “Sir.”
    “I’m serious, Lieutenant March. Whatever you may think, men like that are nothing but trouble.”
    “Sir,” I repeated. I hadn’t been thinking anything at all.
    The major dismissed me and I went downstairs in search of Crewes, finding him in the corridor outside my office. Waiting for me, I realized, which sent a slight thrill through me. Crewes was as anxious to hear what had happened as I was to talk about it.
    “Well? What happened in there?”
    I stopped myself. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything.
    “What happened in there, sir ,” I said, channeling Shattuck for an instant, then immediately feeling stupid.
    “All right.” The sergeant narrowed his eyes. “What happened in there, sir ?”
    Then I told him, ignoring my inner disgust at my own weakness, the words coming out in an eager rush. Once I’d spilled, it was his turn. “So you wanna tell me what’s going on?” I asked. “Who is this Magnum guy? And where does he get off disrespecting the major like that?”
    “What do you think he is?”
    “How should I know?”
    “Really?” He shook his head at my ignorance. “That’s your best guess?”
    He led me into my office and closed the door. Before saying anything, he took me to the blinds for a look at the parking lot and, beyond it, the parade grounds. Magnum was crossing the lot with a newspaper to shield him from the rain, heading toward a big Buick with tinted windows. Slouched elegantly on the bumper, a brown-skinned man in woodland camo smoked a thin cigar, indifferent to the rain.
    “There are about a dozen of them,” Crewes said, pointing to the smoking man. “The generalissimos of tomorrow. Supposedly the course they’re on is something to do with logistics, but you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know that’s just a euphemism for counterinsurgency. And get this: none of them have last names. It’s just Juan and Pedro and Carlo and Jaime and Jesus. That one there is César—they pronounce it say-czar —so I reckon he’s the boss man.”
    “Maybe that’s just his name.”
    “Maybe,” he said. “They don’t wear their own uniforms, either. We