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any reason to believe you’re next?”
    “We have more majors here than we know what to do with, Boyle. As a matter of fact, I worry more about some trigger-happy major plugging the next poor slob who taps him on the shoulder to ask for a light. But that’s my worry. I’ve got two things I want you to worry about.” Kearns leaned forward, folding his arms on the table, his head inclined so that he stared at me with his eyeballs nearly rolled up. I waited ten, fifteen seconds, and then knew it was up to me to ask.
    “What two things, sir?”
    “One, finding the killer. Two, what I’ll do to you if you ever again suggest that I called you here for my personal protection.” He nodded toward the hallway. “Corporal Davis has your billeting information and will tell you where CID is. Ask for Sergeant Jim Cole. Now get out.”
    I did, thinking that he and Harding must have gotten along well at West Point.
    The corporal gave me billeting papers and directions to CID. Quadrant one, second floor. As I climbed the stairs, I wondered about Kearns and his attitude. Not that I didn’t care about anybody— major, private, or civilian—being murdered. But there were murders everywhere, not to mention deaths in combat, and the mass killings going on in occupied Europe. All over the continent, people were being shot, strangled, gassed, knifed, bludgeoned, and poisoned. Some because of who they were, others because of the uniform they wore, and often because someone they loved—or once had loved— lost his or her temper in a rage of jealousy and possessiveness. Death was everywhere, commonplace. So why was I here? Kearns didn’t impress me as the kind of guy who needed a bodyguard flown in, and I knew Harding wouldn’t have cooperated if that were what he’d wanted. Maybe he wasn’t too worried about dead majors or even dead colonels. Maybe it was the ace of hearts that kept him up at night.
    As I navigated the maze of hallways and descended a marble staircase, I counted officers. By the time I found CID, I’d given up counting majors after a dozen. There’d been six lieutenant colonels and four full bird colonels, three brigadier generals, and one major general. All within five minutes. Brigadiers were the lowest-ranked generals, and there were probably plenty within Fifth Army HQ, as well as those with the divisions and brigades. A major general, with two stars, was just below the exalted level of three-star lieutenant general. The only one of those I knew around here was General Mark Clark, Fifth Army commander. And maybe his boss, 15th Army Group commander General Harold Alexander, but I wasn’t certain of his exact British rank.
    As I entered the Criminal Investigation Division office, I considered the possibility of an operation aimed at assassinating Clark or Alexander. It would have answered the question of why Kearns and G-2 were involved, but it didn’t make much sense otherwise. If it were a German plot, why would they announce their intention by starting with junior officers? It didn’t add up, and I decided to wait until I learned what Sergeant Cole had dug up before I tried out any theories.
    CID had a string of rooms, connected by a passageway running along the outer wall. Each was decorated in a different color, the paint peeling and curling off the walls. The first room housed military police, and one of the snowdrops—so named for their white helmets—sent me two rooms to the right. I shivered as I walked past the tall windows, feeling the damp cold seeping through. Rain splattered against the glass, which rattled as the wind gathered up and blasted the casements.
    The next room was long and narrow, with two rows of desks facing each other. On the walls, mirrors in fancy frames were set into panels, reflecting what light there was into each other, except for the gaps where the glass was missing or shattered. With his back to a busted mirror, a sergeant stood over a desk covered in playing cards. He