style="font-size:15px;"> didn’t come through. Martin lost all his hardware in the deal.
MIRAKAWA: Do you know a Mrs. Jolene Werner?
ORENDA: Never heard of her.
MIRAKAWA: How often were you at Keith Tondayo’s house on
North Bleaker Street?
ORENDA: Not once. Not ever. Keith’s not the type you ever wanted
to mix business and pleasure with.
MIRAKAWA: Where were you yesterday, April 15, 2006, between the
hours of 3 p.m. and 5 p.m.?
ORENDA: Look, I want a lawyer. You said this was routine. Anyway,
I was at home, with Martin.
MIRAKAWA: Anybody else who can verify that?
ORENDA: We were enhancing film. With our equipment, that’s done
with doors and windows closed. Now isn’t that convenient for you?
MIRAKAWA: Yesterday Mrs. Werner saw someone who matches your
looks at 24 North Bleaker.
ORENDA: Well she didn’t see me.
MIRAKAWA: Blonde hair. About your height and weight.
ORENDA: I’m 5'5" and 114 pounds. Have you got any idea how
many women would fit that description? I bet a lawyer does.
MIRAKAWA: Blonde hair is pretty hard to confuse.
ORENDA: What does an old lady know from blonde hair? Ten percent
of the women in the world are blonde. And what about Miss
Clairol? You want blonde, you can have blonde. You want blonde
hair exactly like mine, all it takes is a trip to the drug store.
MIRAKAWA: Ms. Orenda, what kind of car do you drive?
ORENDA: It’s a Honda Civic. And it’s Marina Blue as if you didn’t
already know. One of the best selling cars in the world. Go into any
parking lot in this city and you’ll see a dozen exactly like it. As a
matter of fact why don’t you go and do that. I’m finished answering
questions anyway.
Subject refused to answer further questions.
In this pair of interviews there is a clue that should convince
Detective Inspector Mirakawa to probe deeper.
What is that clue?
4. In Pursuit of Deserters
Sub-Lieutenant Julian Mainbridge sat on the bottom rung of a homemade ladder that led to the loft above him and pondered his next move. In Julian’s view, there were three issues to sort out. One was that the woman was lying. There was no doubt of that. Yet — and here was the second issue — who could blame her? Like the rest of the peasant farmers in this hilly countryside, she’d had enough of war and killing so how could he fault her for looking out for herself? The third issue was entirely separate but one of far longer standing: his commanding officer was an idiot. Of the many reasons that Julian had to be resentful of his current state, that one was first and foremost.
What made things worse is that he felt so helpless, so utterly unable to do anything. Here he was in the duchy of Swabia of all places, galloping around the German countryside looking for deserters from the British army. Where he needed to be, if his career was going to go anywhere, was hundreds of miles to the south in Spain or Portugal, doing his bit to give Napoleon what for. But the odds of getting back there now, he knew, ran from slim to none. All because of his commanding officer. All because of Jack Aston.
The proper title was Lord Jack Aston for he was the fourth son of the Duke of Somerset, although every man in the regiment from aide-de-camp on down thought of him as “Lord Jackass.” Papa, the Duke, had bought son Jack his commission, not hard to bring off when there’s wealth enough to outfit an entire regiment. Julian himself was hardly innocent of the practice for his father too had bought him a commission, but Julian’s father was a wine merchant in Liverpool, and the best his influence and money could muster for his son was a bottom rank. Still, it was a commission and Julian knew that in this war with Napoleon and the French, the opportunity to rise by merit was his to grasp.
He’d almost had the opportunity too, Julian did, less than a year ago in what was now becoming known as the Peninsular War. The regiment had landed in Portugal too late to be part of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s initial victories, but it was immediately attached to the 17th Light Dragoons, right at the front of the advance into Spain. Its very first task, however, had resulted in total disgrace, entirely the fault of Lord Jackass.
Like many other officers in the British High Command, His Lordship had no military experience or training, and to make up for it he emphasized spit and polish. Regimental officers were expected to be in parade dress at all times even while on field duty, for this was the surest way, Aston believed, to properly distinguish them from the rabble they commanded and to impress the civilian simpletons in the countryside. Failure to attend a formal event — and there were many — was invariably punished. And of course, to miss dinner in the officers’ mess was considered a major offense. Julian had learned to live with these annoyances, albeit with some sacrifice. Of the two horses his father had provided him, only one was parade ground quality in appearance, so he had to be careful about which one he rode and when. And unlike Aston, whose personal tailor was permanently assigned to the command tent, Julian was secretly making do with just one uniform.
What tipped the cart for Julian was Aston’s sheer incompetence in the field, which had shone like a beacon in that very first assignment in Spain. The 17th had been attached to a force led by General Sir John Moore, a personal friend of King George, and was specifically directed to guard the left flank. But after crossing the Spanish border, Lord Jack had allowed Moore and the main force to get way ahead while he held the regiment in camp so they could properly celebrate his birthday with a formal parade. With their flank open, the British force had been overwhelmed and Moore was killed. Even the commander-in-chief, Sir Arthur Wellesley, didn’t have the power to fire the son of a duke but he could — and did — punish him. Lord Jack and his entire regiment, Julian Mainbridge reluctantly included, were sent north into Germany to keep an eye on Napoleon’s ally, Maximilian I of Bavaria. There would be no glory here.
From his seat on the ladder, Julian had a view out the open barn door to the rolling green hills. Here and there a few cattle grazed placidly, not as many as there would have been
