Hear No Evil

“Disadvantage for us. Advantage for the killer.”

Sofia nodded, seeming to follow his logic. “Which probably means that the killer was fully aware of Brian’s deafness.”

“I’d say so.”

“I guess that’s one of the things you’ll want to establish with some of the witnesses you talk to at Guantánamo: Who knew that Brian was deaf, unable to hear a thing?”

“That’s one of the things on my list,” said Jack.

“What else you got on your list?”

“It’s a work in progress.”

“Oh, come on. What’s right up there at the top? What do you want to know most?”

“What I want to know most is probably something that only Lindsey can tell me.”

“What’s that?”

He thumbed through the forensic report, which he’d read for the first time that morning. “How did her fingerprints end up on the murder weapon?”

Sofia didn’t respond. Jack closed up the report and checked his watch. If they were going to make their AMC flight, it was time to get moving. They pooled their money to cover the tab and left the restaurant together.

14

The first thing Jack noticed were the stars. Millions of them seemed to pop from the sky the moment he stepped off the airplane. It was the kind of celestial brilliance never seen in the city. You had to be out on the ocean, far from civilization and city lights, floating in the middle of nowhere.

Or in Guantánamo Bay.

The sense of isolation at GTMO (pronounced “Gitmo”) was a product of both geography and military might. The bay itself was a pouch-shaped enclave on the southeastern coast of Cuba, twelve miles long and six miles across at its widest point. The surrounding area was primarily agricultural, mostly sugarcane and coffee. The Cuzco Hills to the south and east and the Sierra Maestra Mountains to the north provided a certain natural shelter. Throw in a five-service task force, a few warships, fighter jets, some well-armed guard towers, and about eight gazillion miles of razor wire, and-voila!-you’ve got a perfect safe haven for many of the indigenous plants and animals that Cuban farmers and developers had virtually wiped out elsewhere on the island. As crazy as it sounded, some of the most unspoiled land in all of Cuba was at the U.S. naval air station. Many a serviceman and -woman had left GTMO thinking that it did indeed belong to iguanas and cactus plants, which only reinforced its reputation as “the least worst place.” That feeling was certainly understandable around the airstrip, which was on the opposite side of the bay from the main base.

Jack and Sofia grabbed their bags, which had been laid out for them on the runway. It was too dark to see much of anything beyond the lighted pathway that led to a green Humvee parked by a large hangar along the airstrip. Lights from the control tower blinked in the distance. Some of the higher hilltops were ghostly silhouettes, backlit by a setting moon. The bay was not far off, Jack knew, not because he could see or hear it, but because he could almost taste the salt in the gentle breezes. Even in the middle of the night, it was mild enough to go without a jacket, and having come from Miami and all its humidity, Jack was pleasantly surprised by the arid climate.

“How’d you sleep?” Sofia asked as they followed a Marine toward the Humvee.

“Like a baby,” said Jack. “Up every forty-five minutes and mad as hell about it.” Jack had never had much luck trying to sleep on airplanes.

It was roughly a half-hour ferry ride across the bay. Jupiter rose on the horizon, outshining even the brightest star, as they left Leeward Point Field and departed from the dock. The i

“You guys eat on the plane?” said the Marine.

“Not really,” said Jack.

“McDonald’s is still open, if you’re hungry.”

Jack recalled that Lindsey had mentioned McDonald’s in their first meeting. It seemed to be a source of local pride. “My first trip to Cuba, and the first place I’m going to eat is at McDonald’s?”

The Marine said, “You’re in Cuba, but you’re not really in Cuba. If you know what I mean, sir.”

The irony of the remark amused Jack. How many times in his life had he heard people say he was Cuban, but he was not really Cuban? “Yes,” said Jack. “I definitely know what you mean.”

With a full schedule of interviews for the following day, Jack opted for sleep over food. They spent the night in separate guest cottages, and the driver picked them up at six A.M. Jack expected Sofia to be one of those perky morning-type personalities, but she was far outdone by their Marine escort, who probably ran five miles and peeled off four hundred sit-ups before his alarm clock even rang. They drove past a golf course, a Little League field, a shopping mall, and some tidy town-house subdivisions, all of which struck Jack as more akin to 1950s suburbia than a strategic naval base. Even the military buildings had a certain quaintness about them, mostly low-slung structures made of wood or cinder block, painted yellow with brown trim. Utility poles were stained forest green, perhaps to compensate for the scarcity of trees, let alone an actual forest.

They stopped for coffee at the Iguana Crossing Coffee Shop, and their journey ended at the “White House,” the tongue-in-cheek name given to the impressive white building that housed the Marine command suite at the base. It was an inspiring sight, a simple white-frame structure set against the backdrop of a bright blue sky, the American flag flying proudly in the warm Cuban breeze. Their escort took them inside to a conference room. The walls were paneled with white wainscoting, and white Bahama shutters covered the windows. The blurred reflection of a whirling white paddle fan shined in the highly polished top of a long mahogany table.

A navy JAG lawyer stepped forward to greet them. “Captain Donald Kessinger,” he said.

Sofia and Jack shook his hand and introduced themselves, though Jack noticed that the captain’s eyes were still on Sofia even as he was shaking Jack’s hand. A long travel day and an abbreviated night’s sleep on a military bunk had knocked her down a peg or two on the eye-popping chart, but she was still quite a welcome sight on a military base. Finally, the captain looked at Jack and offered seats to his guests on the opposite side of the rectangular table, their backs to the windows.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” said Jack.

“You’re welcome. How was the trip down?”

“I think Dorothy had a smoother ride to Oz,” said Sofia.

“Ooh, that’s nasty. But you made it. So how can I help you?”

Jack laid his dossier on the table before him and removed a sheet of paper. “First thing I’d like to do is run down the list of potential witnesses that I faxed you from the airport yesterday.”

“I have a copy right here,” he said, flattening it out before him.

“My preference is to start the interviews with the military police officer who was first on scene in response to Lindsey Hart’s nine-one-one call.”

“I’m sorry. He’s not available.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not authorized to tell you why not.”

“Where is he?”

“Reassigned.”

“To where?”

“Can’t tell you.”

Jack pe