The Night Crew by Brian Haig Page B

years, green or red or yellow in color—but who cares?
    Another clue that this was the right house was the man in a cheap civilian suit waiting hospitably by the curb. Presumably, O’Reilly, who was somewhere back there, following behind us, had called ahead on his cellphone to alert the troops.
    “Please get your stuff quickly and follow me inside,” the agent said by way of introduction and welcome.
    I grabbed my duffel bag, Katherine climbed out her side, and he led us up the crumbling sidewalk to a small front porch.
    The moment I stepped inside a voice from the back of the house yelled, “This here’s my office, so don’t you mess nothin’ up. Don’t you leave that damned bag on my floor, neither.”
    I had heard that voice before, and I had heard that order before. I replied, in my most authoritative voice, “I’m a lieutenant colonel, now. I’ll put my damned bag wherever I please.”
    Imelda Pepperfield appeared out of a room in the back holding a pot of steaming coffee, and wearing a scowl. “Oh no you won’t. I’m a civilian now, so I don’t care if you got ten stars on them shoulders. You’ll carry that bag up them stairs if I say so.”
    I thought about crossing the floor and hugging her, but Imelda would probably reward such a display of warm bonhomie with an affectionate knee in the balls.
    So instead we just stood and admired each other a moment. Imelda had been a sergeant first class, and my legal assistant, years before. Katherine and I had shared her services back in Korea, and I now had a fairly good idea how Imelda was spending her retirement. A legal assistant in the army is sort of a cross between a paralegal, an office manager, and a major domo. Though she was a sergeant and I an officer, the lines of authority often became blurred. But I can be difficult as a boss, and Imelda can be difficult as a subordinate, so it worked out okay. She was single, mean, frighteningly smart, sporadically warm-hearted, as knowledgeable about the law as many attorneys, and as the current conversation indicated, she tends to be a bit on the autocratic and pushy side.
    By way of compliment, she noted, “You put on a little weight. Must be gettin’ lazy.”
    “Thank you. You look great, too.”
    “What’re you doin’ wearing that stupid suit?”
    “It’s Brooks Brothers,” I replied with just the right whiff of a Brahmin drawl.
    She shook her head. “If it belongs to them brothers, why’re you wearin’ it?”
    I nearly explained, but of course Imelda was joking. I thought I even detected a hint of a smile.
    Well, enough pleasantries and empty chitchat. Imelda pointed at a side room, apparently the dining room of this old house before it was converted into a legal office, and said, “That’s your office. Already put the discovery materials and dead lawyer’s files in there. Read through that first. And put it back together the way you found it. Don’t leave me no mess.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Already hung curtains over all the windows, too. You leave them curtains alone. Don’t want nobody shooting at us. And lock the doors whenever you leave.”
    “I’ll also be sure to put the lid down on the toilet.”
    I could tell she wanted to smile but didn’t want to break the mood. “Anything else you need, you see Imelda.”
    She placed the coffee pot on the table, where there were already four mugs, backed away, and disappeared into the kitchen.
    I carried my bag upstairs with orders not to be disturbed until eight.
    I would never admit this to Katherine, but I was glad to get a break from my duties in the CIA. I missed the law, I missed soldiers, and yes, I even missed the army.
    Indeed, most of all, I had missed Katherine. Bickering and sexual misunderstandings aside, I had always been strongly attracted to her. But army life is murder on personal relationships, and Katherine’s own causes and all-consuming dedication to her clients had left little time or opportunity for us to sort out our