CHAPTER FOUR

The reporter wore a press pass on a chain around her neck, a video camera slung over her back and a recorder of some sort raised to capture a conversation Gaspar couldn’t hear. Weston and his wife spoke with her briefly before the lawyer stepped in and stopped the inquiry. A short verbal exchange between the reporter and Lane, the lawyer, ended when Lane herded the Westons to their seats.

Gaspar wondered again where he had seen that lawyer before. He couldn’t place her, but he knew her. He was sure of it.

The reporter raised her camera and snapped a few photos of the entire scene before she walked down the four steps from the stage and onto the path directly toward Otto and Gaspar. When she was close enough, he read her press pass.

Jess Kimball, Taboo Magazine.

Odd that Taboo would be covering Weston. Taboo was in the vein of Vanity Fair, its only real competitor. Gaspar had seen both magazines around the house because his wife subscribed. Both covered popular culture, fashion, and current affairs. Taboo was newer, a bit edgier, maybe, but covered the same beat. Retired military officers were neither of the national glossies’ usual subject or audience. Which made Gaspar more curious instead of less.

Gaspar stepped in front of the reporter before she walked past. “Ms. Kimball, a moment of your time?”

Her eyes, when she focused on his, were piercingly blue. Nostrils flared. “Yes?”

“Why is Taboo Magazine interested in Colonel Weston?”

“And you are?” Kimball held the last word in a long, hostile invitation to reply.

“Carlos Gaspar. FBI. This is my partner, Kim Otto.”

Kimball considered something for a moment before she answered. “Sorry to say, I’m no threat to Weston.”

“What’s your interest?” Gaspar asked again.

“My mission is to make sure victims get justice. Especially children.”

“What does that mean?” Otto asked.

“Ever heard of Dominick Dunne?”

“The Vanity Fair reporter who covered all those infamous trials after his daughter was murdered,” Otto replied.

“I covered Weston’s case a while ago when the gunman who killed Weston’s family was executed by the State of Florida. Weston was living in Iraq at the time. No chance to wrap up with him until now without traveling to a war zone.”

Otto asked, “Why did you say ‘the gunman’?”

“He pulled the trigger. But he wasn’t the reason those kids and their mom were murdered. We’ve got Colonel Weston to thank for that,” Kimball said, in the same way she’d have thanked Typhoid Mary for robust health.

“Weston denies involvement,” Otto said, “and no connection was established.”

The ceremony was opened by a chaplain, who began with an invocation. Those in the audience with the physical ability stood and bowed their heads. Many closed their eyes. Immediate, eerie quiet reigned.

Kimball whispered. “The Army’s cop got it right at the outset.”

“Reacher?”

A woman nearby raised her head and glared toward them. Otto held her remaining questions until the brief invocation concluded and the audience returned as one to their seats.

Normal squirming set a low, baseline volume beneath which Kimball replied. “Weston’s family was murdered because of Weston. He’s got their blood on his hands. Doesn’t matter who pulled the trigger and killed them in their beds.”

“You’re the reason the Westons brought a lawyer here today, huh?” Gaspar asked.

Kimball shook her head with a sour smile. “More likely the divorce Samantha’s lawyer filed yesterday the second they set foot on U.S. soil,” she said. “Either way, the Westons have more than me to be worried about.”

“Why do you say that?” Otto asked.

“You wouldn’t be here without an agenda.” Kimball tilted her head toward the entrance where the two agents waited. “More of your tribe over there. I’m guessing it’s not an FBI picnic. Weston’s about to get his. Finally. You can be sure I’m here to get photos.”

Silence settled over the crowd again, except for a few members who were quietly crying. Occasionally, a brain-injured veteran would speak inappropriately. There were too many brain-injured veterans after the long war. They’d become a part of normal civilian life for military families. Another burden for the stalwart to bear with dignity. Everyone ignored the interruptions.

Still at the side of the stage, Otto, Gaspar, and Kimball were the only people standing. Drawing too much of the wrong attention.

Kimball handed Gaspar her card.

“Call me later. I’ll fill you in,” she whispered and slipped away to join the other reporters seated near the opposite side of the stage. She was well within her equipment’s visual and audio range and beyond the reach of FBI interrogation while the memorial service continued.