Aaron pulls the framed photo two inches toward him and says quietly, “This isn’t a social visit, is it.”

“Nope.”

“What do you need?”

She goes to the personnel file. “I’m investigating a Captain Amy Cornwall, assigned to the 297th Military Intelligence Battalion. The captain spent four months here at Fort Campbell last summer.”

Aaron says, “Lots of folks come through here.”

As if it were a sign from above, there’s a roaring sound as a number of Black Hawk helicopters fly overhead. The framed photo of Aaron’s wife and son vibrates back to the edge of his desk.

Rosaria says, “She was assigned here for six months.” She makes a point of looking down at the open file folder. “Something called JOINT CLAW. I can’t find anything else about JOINT CLAW, but there’s a memo here about her going back to her original duty station two months ahead of schedule. Fort Belvoir. And your name was cc’ed on the memo, in your position here. In the 502nd Military Police Battalion.”

Rosaria closes the folder. Aaron sighs, rubs at the top of his head.

“This off-the-record?”

“I’m looking into her,” Rosaria says. “I don’t care what black stuff she might have been involved in, or what it entails. I want to know why she left two months early. There’s no explanation in her personnel file.”

“Because she was involved in a foul-up.”

“What kind of foul-up? And why was she connected with an Air National Guard unit from Nellis?”

“You know a lot.”

“Not enough.”

He gets up and says, “Let’s go for a walk.”

“Sure,” she says.

CHAPTER 27

FIFTEEN MINUTES later they approach an isolated cement cube of a building, festooned with satellite dishes and antennas. Rosaria tries not to show it, but she feels overwhelmed at the soldiers and vehicles, armored and flying, that she sees during the brief walk. It’s times like these when the tiny discouraging voice inside of her says, Babe, this is the real Army. You’re nothing but a cop in a pretty uniform.

Aaron says, “Last month I finally got Molly to meet my foster parents, at a family reunion in South Dakota. It went better than I thought.”

“Good for you,” she says.

“You ever meet up with any of yours?”

“I had six sets of foster parents,” she says.

“Is that a no, then?”

“You’re pretty smart today, Aaron.”

At a plain gray metal door there’s a key-card lock. Aaron slides an identification card through the side, and the door clicks open. Inside is a glass-enclosed booth, and both have to show their identification to a female military police staff sergeant dressed in ACUs and wearing a holstered sidearm. There’s another loud buzz, and a door to the right is unlocked.

Aaron hesitates. “Remember four years back, that senator from Nevada was complaining about all the drones being controlled in her home state? How the state of Nevada and its citizens were complicit in extrajudicial killings overseas?”

Rosaria says, “Was it in the news?”