Twenty years old.
Always carrying more ammunition than regulation because he was convinced there would be a day everyone thanked him for it.
We had served together briefly.
Different company later.
Different life.
“What happened to him?”
Bell looked down.
“He disappeared.”
I stared.
“What do you mean disappeared?”
“His daughter reported him missing five weeks ago.”
“From here?”
“He was last confirmed on VA property.”
The room became colder.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the chair.
“And Griggs?”
“Was among the last people documented speaking to him.”
Kincaid swore softly.
“Beck complained that Griggs had repeatedly stopped him, accused him of abusing disabled parking, and once searched his vehicle.”
“Search it for what?”
“That's what we're trying to establish.”
I thought about Griggs looking at my van.
The certainty.
The refusal to check documentation.
The urgency to tow.
A terrible thought entered my mind.
“Was this really about disability fraud?”
Bell didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
After my treatment, I expected Kincaid to drive me home.
Instead, he took me to lunch.
Ruby's Diner sat three miles from the hospital, a low brick building filled with chrome, vinyl booths, and coffee strong enough to remove paint.
We took a corner table.
I ordered eggs.
Kincaid ordered nothing.
That meant he was worried.
“Tell me what you know about Beck,” I said.
“He called me eight months ago.”
“Wanted to know if I remembered an operation in Helmand.”
My appetite disappeared.
“Which operation?”
“Red Lantern.”
I stopped moving.
There are names from war that don't belong in ordinary places.
You can hear them in a diner decades later and suddenly smell dust, diesel, blood, and hot metal.
Operation Red Lantern had been one of those nights.
Bad intelligence.
Wrong coordinates.
A convoy diverted through a village that should have been empty.
It wasn't.
We lost four Marines.
Nearly lost fourteen more.
“What did he want?”
“He thought something about the after-action report was wrong.”
“Thirty years later?”
“Some men don't stop counting.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That the report was classified at the time and none of us had complete visibility.”
“Did he believe you?”
The waitress poured coffee.
Neither of us spoke until she left.
Kincaid continued.
“He said he'd found records through an archive request. Fuel manifests. Radio logs. Transport orders.”
“And?”
“They didn't match what we were told.”
I leaned back.
“What does that have to do with Griggs?”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I don't.”
A shadow fell across our table.
Marcus Bell stood there.
He had followed us.
“Mind if I sit?”
Kincaid looked annoyed.
Bell sat anyway.
I almost smiled.
He placed a folder on the table.
“Mr. Delaney, I need to ask you something strange.”
“Today seems built for it.”
“Did Officer Griggs ever ask permission to enter your van?”
“Did he touch it?”
“Windshield. Driver's door.”
“Did he try the handle?”
I thought.
“When?”
“Before the tow truck came. I assumed he was checking whether it was locked.”
Bell wrote something.
“Did he look through the windows?”
“For long?”
“Long enough.”
Kincaid said, “What are you thinking?”
Bell hesitated.
Then opened the folder.
Inside was a photograph of Thomas Beck.
Older than I remembered.
Gray beard.
Thin face.
Same eyes.
Bell placed another photograph beside it.
A silver wheelchair-accessible van.
Different make from mine.
Same disabled veteran plates.
My stomach tightened.
“Beck drove a mobility van too,” Bell said.
“So?”
“Both vans were converted by the same company.”
Kincaid frowned.
“That can't matter.”
“It might.”
Bell placed a third image on the table.
It showed the inside rear section of Beck's van.
Paneling removed.
A narrow cavity exposed near the wheelchair lift housing.
“Investigators found this photograph in Beck's cloud storage.”
“What is it?”
“A hidden compartment.”
“Why would he have one?”
“We don't know.”
Bell turned to me.
“Does your van have the same conversion package?”
“Same lift?”
“I think so.”
“Same model year?”
“Close.”
Kincaid understood before I did.
“He wasn't looking at Hank.”
Bell nodded.
“Maybe not.”
I looked between them.
“Then what was he looking for?”
Bell's answer came quietly.
“Something he thought might be inside the van.”
My throat went dry.
“That makes no sense.”
“Probably not.”
“You think Griggs confused my van with Beck's?”
“Possibly.”
“The plates are different.”
“From twenty feet away?”
“He came right up to it.”
Kincaid said, “You need to inspect Hank's vehicle.”
“I already requested consent.”
“Just now.”
“You're irritating.”
“So I've been told.”
We returned to the VA.
The van sat exactly where I'd left it.
Under normal circumstances, I would never have allowed federal investigators to dismantle part of my vehicle.
These were not normal circumstances.
Two technicians opened the rear interior panels near the lift assembly.
At first, nothing.
Wiring.
Bolts.
Hydraulic lines.
Dust.
Then one technician stopped.
“Agent Bell.”
Bell crouched beside him.
The technician pointed into a narrow gap.
“There.”
A small black object sat wedged behind the frame.
Not mine.
I knew every repair done to that van.
Every tool.
Every spare fuse.
Every emergency item.
I had never seen it before.
The technician used gloved hands to remove it.
A flash drive.
Nobody spoke.
Bell placed it into an evidence bag.
I stared at it.
“How did that get in my van?”
“Hank.”
Bell's face had become unreadable.
“Who had access to your vehicle recently?”
“Mechanics. Me.”
“Family?”
“Friends?”
“Kincaid once.”
“Years ago.”
“Anyone from the VA?”
“Anyone connected to Thomas Beck?”
I shook my head.
“I hadn't seen Tom in decades.”
Bell held up the evidence bag.
“Then we need to figure out who put this there.”
Kincaid suddenly went pale.
I saw it.
He stared at the flash drive.
“That's not the compartment.”
Bell frowned.
Kincaid pointed.
“Beck's picture. The compartment was on the opposite side.”
Bell pulled out his phone and reviewed the photo.
He was right.
The hidden cavity in Beck's van had been behind the left interior panel.
The flash drive in mine had been behind the right.