Davis stood there dressed in white capri pants, sandals, a pale blue striped shirt, and a wide-brimmed sun hat. A pair of sunglasses dangled from her fingers.
“I’m heading down to the beach. You want to come?”
“I have to get back. It’s getting late.”
“When can I see you again?”
He stood. “Look, I’m old and you’re young. I’m poor and you’re not. You can have any guy you want. Rich, handsome ones like Mr. Quentin.”
“I’m not looking to marry you, Paul. I just want to know when we can hook up again.”
“I work tonight. You planning to come to the bar?”
“I wasn’t. But I am now.”
“Okay, I’ll see you then. If you’re in the VIP room I can’t go in there. Only Mr. Quentin’s guests can.”
“Stop calling him Mr. Quentin. You make him sound far more important than he is.”
“Well, he’s a very important client of the Grunt.”
“Whatever. I’ll see you tonight.”
Rogers pointed out the window. “I see a man on the beach with a bunch of guards. Is that where you’re going?”
She nodded.
“Is that the person who adopted you?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” she said, but in a humorous tone. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Okay, sounds good.”
“Thanks for breakfast. And the rest,” she added, flicking a smile at him.
She left and he watched a few minutes later as she walked out to the beach and joined the old man.
Rogers drove back to Hampton more confused than he’d ever been.
Chapter
42
AFTER LEAVING KNOX, Puller had hoofed it to a rental place and a half hour later driven out in a Mitsubishi Outlander.
He had not discounted anything that Knox had told him. In fact, he believed every word.
If this project at Building Q had ended in the murders of four women, and possibly his mother as well, that would be a secret the government would go to great lengths to bury. And for very good reason.
Money drove the Defense Department as much as anything else. If this story got out, Puller could see billions and maybe tens of billions of dollars of defense spending drying up. And shoulder stars, promotions, and retirement packages might be eviscerated as fingers were pointed and blame placed.
And a lot of private contractors who made their living off Uncle Sam would see their bottom lines crash and burn, their stock prices crater, and their huge executive paychecks disappear.
What would folks do to prevent that?
Pretty much anything they have to.
He got a room at a motel, paying in cash. He’d had to use a credit card for the rental because there was no other way. They could track him that way, but he needed wheels. He hunkered down for the night while he thought over everything Knox had told him.
He was tempted to call his brother but didn’t want to do anything that might get Bobby put back in jail.
He ate breakfast the next morning at a place near the motel. After that he drove straight to Fort Monroe, parked, and hoofed it the rest of the way on foot.
He had a map of the fort and quickly located Building Q.
The first thing he noted was that it was obviously still active. The parking lot was full, the perimeter fenced and guarded. People came and went. Trucks arrived, unloaded or loaded, and left.
What he couldn’t see was what the hell they were doing inside there.
Over the hours he watched many people come and go. Some were older. Some younger. Men and women, with the majority being men. He read their body language and processed the possibilities.
He had counted nearly fifty people arriving and leaving when he settled on the one he wanted. He had seen her come and go twice now. Perhaps for a break. She had gotten into her car one of those times and headed out.
He snapped a picture of her with his phone as she was sitting idle at the security gate. As she passed by his hiding place, he noted her appearance up close. Around thirty, petite, unassuming. She had avoided direct eye contact with the security guards. Perhaps an introvert? She drove a beige Ford Fiesta that was as nondescript as she was.
Those were all good things for what he wanted to do.
Six o’clock came and a large group of people headed out the doors of Building Q. Puller found her in the crowd and hustled back to his car. When she passed by in her Fiesta he dropped in behind her.
They drove to what was most likely her apartment. She went directly inside.
Puller stayed in his car contemplating what to do. He could make his flanking maneuver now, or he could wait.
Paul Rogers looked up at John Puller and put out his hand. He said, “Thanks for that. I never want any trouble.”
“That’s always a good way to look at things. And by the way, I’m old enough to drink.” He showed his ID card.
“Works for me, Mr. Puller. Have a good time.”
Puller walked past him and into the bar.
Rogers flicked a glance at him and then turned back to his work.