Marcia Talley - This Enemy Town

“Are there any places to eat around here?”

“There’s Pica Deli, just across from the Giant.” She checked her watch. “But you better hurry, because they close at three on Sundays.”

I followed the directions she gave me-north on Monroe and right on Washington Boulevard-looking for the “building with the cool murals.” It would have been impossible to miss. Pica Deli was a box-shaped, two-story building with a wide-eyed marmalade cat, a slice of Italian bread, and a fruit bowl painted hundreds of times larger than life on one side of the building, covering the siding all the way from roof to foundation. But the muralist hadn’t contented himself with that. I entered the restaurant through double glass doors to the left of a giant strawberry pie.

Pica Deli was the perfect spot for grazing. I strolled past gleaming glass and chrome cases containing salads and pasta, meats and cheeses. Pegs of chips, wooden bins of wine, and shelf after shelf of gourmet items filled the shop almost to overflowing. A seven-seat wine bar provided a place for those who preferred their snacks in liquid form.

At the deli case, I ordered a Velveteen Rabbit-cucumber, tomato, red onion, dill havarti, and sprouts on thick farm bread-grabbed a lemonade from the cold case and sat down at a table.

So, Chris and Jennifer had been an item. I chewed thoughtfully, wondering if Admiral Hart had figured that out, how many other people had, too. But so what? Would somebody have murdered Jennifer simply for being gay?

Yes, I decided. Such things had happened before. PFC Barry Winchell had been beaten to death with a baseball bat at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Allen Schindler was stomped to death on shipboard near Japan. Jennifer had died violently, too. A hate crime could not be entirely discounted.

When the sandwich was gone and I’d cleaned every last crumb from the plate, I decided I’d better get on home. I was eager to log onto the Internet to see if I could find any evidence that Hart had been diddling with the government contracts under his jurisdiction.

I left Pica Deli, looked both ways to orient myself, then headed off in the direction of the Ballston Metro, which, according to the little advertising map I’d picked up in the store, seemed to be the closest station to the restaurant. As I walked, the sun began to set in a lavender sky and darkness was just beginning to steal over Washington Street, a tree-lined avenue that ran through a residential neighborhood of family homes punctuated by small businesses like bakeries, thrift shops, and dry cleaners.

At Nelson, I crossed Washington to stroll along the boundary of Quincy Park, with its playgrounds, playing fields, and picnic tables. As I skirted the park, I counted off the names of people who probably weren’t crying into their pillows now that Jennifer Goodall was gone.

Me because of Paul.

Paul because Jennifer had tried to ruin him.

Dorothy because she thought Ted was screwing Jennifer.

Ted because Jennifer was going to spill the beans.

Emma, to keep from being outed.

Chris, for being jilted.

Maybe even Kevin, but I couldn’t think why. With every step I took, the list grew longer and longer.

To my left, leaves rustled. I glanced over my shoulder, but nobody was there. The park, in fact, was practically deserted. It was late on Sunday; Arlington residents were all in their homes, and the city workers wouldn’t arrive until morning. And yet, as I continued to walk, more quickly now, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed. I began to regret taking so much time for my meal. It would have been much wiser to start home before dark.

As I turned south on Quincy Street, I heard footsteps again, echoing hollowly off the concrete walls of the Montessori House. I spun around to took. Nothing. Maybe I was losing my mind. Nevertheless, I hustled in the direction of a lighted parking lot, hoping to reach it before the bogeyman got me.

A twig snapped, and this time when I turned, I caught sight of a shadowy figure among the trees. Heart pounding, I bolted toward the lights, instantly regretting the high-heeled shoes I’d chosen to wear that morning. They looked smashing with my outfit, but pinched unmercifully and were completely unsuitable for jogging. Ten steps, twenty, my feet pounded the pavement, each jarring step driving my leg bones painfully into my hip sockets.

Chest heaving, I clattered up the steps and into the welcoming arms of the Arlington Public Library. I burst through the door, leaned against the lobby wall for a moment, panting. After several minutes, when no homicidal maniac had crashed into the lobby to rape me, my heart rate returned to a reasonable facsimile of normal. I decided that my imagination (or the caffeine) was definitely working overtime. Yet, overactive imagination or not, I was reluctant to go back outside, into the dark unfamiliar streets, particularly not while the staff and resources of the Arlington Public Library System were waiting inside to welcome me. I called Paul and told him to definitely eat the leftover mushi pork and steamed dumplings. I was at the library and there was something I needed to do.

Arlington Library, bless ’em, had a Cyber Center, open until 9:00 P.M. on Sundays. Claiming that I was staying with a sister in the area, I produced my Naval Academy library card and used it to apply for one of Arlington’s own cards. Using the new card, I went to the automated sign-in station to request a terminal. Fortunately, one was available almost right away.

First, I checked my e-mail. Paul sent a silly animated card from BlueMountain, saying he hoped it would cheer me up. It did.

Moving on to Google, I was still smiling when I typed in fast tracking and learned that there was something called the Iraq Reconstruction Office, which processed thousands of fast-tracking contracts worth billions by holding what the website described as “hold-onto-your-hats” job fairs for prospective contractors in Washington, D.C. and London. What fun for them.

The General Services Administration had a “get it right” plan that purported to secure the best value for federal agencies and American taxpayers through an efficient and effective acquisition process, while ensuring full and open competition, and instilling integrity and transparency in the use of GSA contracting vehicles-blah blah blah-but that was for federal agencies, not Department of Defense.

Several clicks later I landed at http://www.defenselink.mil/contracts, where Army, Air Force, Navy, and Coast Guard contracts-if it was military, they had it-valued at five million dollars or more were announced each business day.

Now that was more like it.

A button to the right invited me to do a DOD Search, so I obliged. I typed in the largest company I could think of, Megatron Industries, and learned that the corporation had been awarded more than one thousand contracts with DOD, most of them in billions, not millions, of dollars. If I had been a slot machine, my eyeballs would have been spinning, eventually turning- ka-ching , ka-ching -into double dollar signs.

Hart’s office-Navy Weapons Acquisitions and Management-was not mentioned in the database specifically, but I could determine what was being done and for what price, where the work would be performed and by whom, the projected completion date and whether or not the contract was competitively procured. Many of the contracts, I noticed, were not. The list of projects went on and on: parachute deployment sequences, diesel engine noise suppression, midair collision avoidance systems. Who knew how many of the “contracting activities” might actually be divisions that reported to the admiral? It would take someone more knowledgeable than I, holding a copy of DICNAVAC, to sort through all the acronyms and figure it out.