A Slow Walk to Hell by Patrick A. Davis

laugh, sounding only slightly more relaxed. “Yeah, and we’re losing. What can I do for the OSI, Agent Collins?”
    Once I told him, he said, “That’s about right. The general went to the POAC around sixteen-hundred and returned an hour later.”
    “Can you be more specific on when he returned?”
    “Only when he left. We had a staff meeting which broke up a little before sixteen-hundred. I know the general was back before the secretary Mrs. Lopez left for the day, at seventeen-fifteen. He signed a couple letters she’d typed up.”
    “So he was back by seventeen-ten?”
    “A few minutes earlier.”
    “How long did the general remain in his office?”
    “Until he went home at eighteen hundred.”
    “You were at work until then?”
    “You know any execs who leave before the boss?”
    It was a silly question. An exec’s job was to be at his boss’s beck and call. I asked him if Major Talbot had gone to work today.
    He sounded puzzled by the topic change. “No. He took a day of leave.”
    “He say why he needed the day off?”
    “Not to me.”
    “Do you know if Major Talbot had any conflicts with his co-workers?”
    “Not to my knowledge. Franklin…Major Talbot…can be a pain in the ass. He’s meticulous as hell, always rechecking his figures and everybody else’s.” He hesitated. “Look, I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask what this is all about.”
    The elevator chimed and I stepped into the lobby. The guard was still at his desk, looking bored out of his mind. “You’ll know tomorrow, Major.”
    “Know what exactly?”
    This guy was smooth. No wonder he was a general’s exec. “Nice try, Major.”
    After I asked him to arrange for Major Talbot’s co-workers to be available for interviews tomorrow, I thanked him for his help and hung up, feeling a palpable sense of relief.
    Sam had an alibi.
    Tucking away my phone, I checked my watch. A quarter after nine. Amanda would need at least an hour to search the offices, so that left me plenty of time.
    “Quigley’s,” the guard said. “Sure, I know where it is.”

10
    A ll I had to do was head south for a few blocks and hang a right into the strip mall across from a Days Inn. Quigley’s was tucked into the northwest corner, a green neon sign flashing its name.
    After I walked inside, I hung out by the door, checking out the interior. As the name suggested, it was a cozy, English-style pub, complete with burnished wooden floors and wainscoted walls. A long bar ran the length of the room, a chalk board mounted behind it, listing a variety of beers and ales. Comfortable booths lined the right side, tables spaced out on the main floor. A juke box at the back played an old Rolling Stones tune, a dartboard affixed on the wall beside it. Over to the left, I located the pay phone, wedged into a tiny alcove beside the restrooms.
    My eyes drifted over the predominately male patrons. Because it was a Friday night, the place was crowded. Most wore civilian attire, but there were a number of military uniforms. People who had just gotten off work from the Pentagon or one of the other DoD offices in the area.
    Two attractive waitresses in short Union Jack skirts shuttled between the tables, occasionally barking out orders to the bartenders, a balding guy with Popeye forearms and a buxom brunette wearing a low-cut peasant blouse.
    As a waitress scurried by with a tray of beers, I said, “Oh, Miss—”
    She never broke stride.
    Bellying up to the bar, I waited for one of the bartenders to notice me. “What’ll you have, Mister?” the woman asked.
    I produced my credentials, trying to keep my eyes above her impressive cleavage.
    As I asked her about the phone call last night, she said, “You want Joseph. He talked to the other cop.”
    “What other cop?”
    She hurried over to her partner. After a whispered conversation, Joseph came up to me, placing his massive forearms on the counter. In a conspiratorial voice, he said, “You’re fast. I