Page 50 of Hate Mail

“I don’t think I will.”

She reaches into the pocket on the back of the seat in front of her and pulls out a magazine. She flips through a few pages, then sighs and stuffs it back into the pocket.

“What’s the game plan?” she asks. “Same thing we did in San Diego?”

“We’ll ring every doorbell on his street until we get an answer.”

* * *

“Uh, Naomi? I think we have a problem.”

We’ve been on the road for about fifteen minutes after picking up a rental car in Albany. Anne’s announcement makes me snap my attention to the road ahead of us, and then to the directions on the GPS screen. I don’t need to ask to know what the problem is. There’s a gate up ahead where men in military uniforms are stopping cars and checking IDs before letting people in. It looks like this is the only way to get to the address from Luca’s Georgia letters.

“What do we do?” Anne asks.

“I don’t know. Just drive up to the gate and ask.”

“You want me to drive up there?” Her voice is high-pitched, like I just asked her to drive off a cliff.

“It’s a Marine base, Anne. They’re not going to arrest you for asking for directions.”

Anne tightens her knuckles on the steering wheel, then rolls down the window and drives us to the gate. One of the men steps up to the window.

“Hi,” Anne says. “Do we need a military ID to get on base?”

“Do you have a visitor’s pass?” the man asks.

“No. How do I get one?”

“You need to make an appointment with the visitor center to get approved for a pass. Are you here to see a family member?”

“Not exactly.”

I lean over Anne so that I can see the man through the window. “We’re looking for an old friend. I didn’t realize that his address was on this base. We just wanted to find out if any of his neighbors still know him.”

The man glances at the line of cars behind us, then eyes me impatiently. “Who are you looking for?”

“Luca Pichler. Do you know him?”

He scratches his head. “Can’t say I do.” He looks at the line behind us again, then calls to one of the other men. “Hey, Gibson. You know anyone named Luca Pichler?”

The man he addresses as Gibson shakes his head, but it’s clear he caught the attention of an older marine standing nearby. “Pickles?” the marine says.

“You know him, Gunny?”

“I know Pickles.” The man addressed as Gunny steps up to the car. “You ladies friends with Pickles?”

He has the heaviest southern accent I’ve ever heard. Anne glances at me, her brow furrowed. I nod. “Uh, yeah. Luca Pichler? Can I ask you about him?”

He points to a small lot and says, “Go ahead and pull up there. I’ll meet you over there.”

Anne drives into the lot, and a moment later, the marine is next to the car. We both step out, and he offers his hand to each of us. “Maxwell,” he introduces himself.

“I’m Naomi. This is Anne,” I say. “This is probably going to sound a little weird, but we’re trying to track down Luca. I used to be, uh, friends with him, but I lost contact with him a while back.”

“Pickles ain’t here anymore,” Maxwell says. “He got out after his four years were up. Last I heard, he moved down to Texas with Hayes.”

“Hayes?”

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