Agent Vance stepped over the threshold, his dark eyes sweeping over the kitchen, noting the shattered champagne bottle, the trembling couple on the sofa, and Margaret standing paralyzed by the refrigerator.
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He didn't look at them.
He stopped two feet in front of me, brought his heels together with an audible, military snap, and raised his right hand in a sharp, immaculate, ceremonial salute.
"Captain Whitfield," Agent Vance announced, his deep baritone carrying through the open door out into the quiet street. "On behalf of the Secretary of the Army and the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I am reporting that your father's dispatch vehicle—United States Army Ordnance Asset 1944-W-004—has been recovered, verified, and secured under federal seal."
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I returned the salute, my old fingers snapping to my brow with the crisp, automatic muscle memory of three decades of service.
"Thank you, Agent Vance," I said. "Where is the machine now?"
