A Slow Walk to Hell by Patrick A. Davis Page A

cools off, huh? I do the same thing with my old lady. Nine years we’ve been married and the only peace I get is when…”
    I was walking away.
     
    Simon and Amanda.
    All I could think about was the possibility, just the possibility that it could be true. I kept telling myself Simon wouldn’t move in on someone I cared about. He wouldn’t.
    By the time I reached the kitchen, I almost believed it.
    I found the staircase at the rear, near a butler’s pantry. Before heading down, I confirmed I was alone, freed my cell phone from my belt and punched in a number.
    “General Baldwin’s residence,” a male with an Hispanic accent said.
    I identified myself and ask to speak to the general. As I waited, I heard the faint sounds of conversation.
    Major General Samuel T. Baldwin IV came on the line thirty seconds later. As usual, he sounded thrilled to hear from me. After exchanging pleasantries, I asked him if he had a recent change of assignment and he said he did.
    “For the last two months,” he said, “I’ve been the chief of Air Force Manpower.”
    As intimated in the message I’d heard. Consulting my watch, I calculated the time for what I needed to do. “Mind if I drop by in say…half an hour?”
    A pause.
    When he spoke, I sensed his suspicion. Despite our history, he knew I wouldn’t pop by on such short notice without a good reason. “This a personal or professional visit?”
    “Something’s happened. We need to talk.”
    “I see.” Another pause. Longer. “Tonight’s not a good time. I’ve got a dinner party—”
    “Thirty minutes.” I ended the call before he could argue.
    While I didn’t seriously think he could be involved in the murder, there were too many connections for me to ignore. Not only was he Talbot’s boss, but I knew he could be capable of extreme violence. Then there was his attitude toward gays and his link to the threatening call.
    I hadn’t lied to Simon; it hadn’t been General Baldwin’s voice on the message. But his Crystal City high-rise apartment was just down the street from the bar where the call had been made.
    Another coincidence?
    I went down the steps into the basement, worried about what I might see on the surveillance tapes.
     
    The concrete box Enrique had described was wedged into a corner of the unfinished basement, not more than ten paces from the stairs. As I walked toward it, I realized Talbot could have locked himself in it, if he’d realized he was in danger.
    Again, this reinforced the theory that Talbot knew his killer.
    The steel door was open a sliver. I rapped once, got no response. As I pushed through, a familiar voice said, “No, shit? That recent, huh?”
    I eased into a cramped space not more than ten feet by six, packed with video equipment. Racks of video recorders lined much of two walls. Over to the right was a small control console with a desktop computer and a phone, two television monitors mounted above it. The monitor on the left was displaying a grid of images from various surveillance cameras. In the upper left rectangle, I saw the front gate; toward the bottom, cops walking up the hill toward the pool.
    My eyes shifted to a graying, bespectacled black man in a dapper tweed blazer, who was seated at the console, talking into the phone, an unlit pipe clenched in his teeth. He held up a finger to me. “Just a sec, Marty.”
    Appearances can be deceiving, but not in Billy Cromaritie’s case. He dressed like a professor at an Ivy League school and was easily as intelligent as one. While Billy analyzed evidence for a living, his passion was technology. Computers, digital cameras, flat-screen TVs, you name it, Billy always had to have the latest and greatest.
    Which explained why Simon sent him down here.
    Ending his call, Billy cocked an eyebrow. “Now that was interesting.”
    “What?”
    He removed his pipe from his mouth and waved it around the cubicle. “Notice anything?”
    “A boatload of VCRs.”
    “Look at the concrete