Читать книгу Murder on the Mountain - Cassie Miles - Страница 10

Paul charged through the door of the shed with his gun drawn. “Julia, stay back.”

“No way.”

Another gunshot. Paul looked up.

Standing on the cedar deck behind the lodge was an older man, bald with a neatly trimmed fringe of graying hair around his ears. His posture was ramrod straight. He stood with legs apart and one hand behind his back. With the other hand, he aimed a chrome automatic handgun into a nearby stand of trees. What the hell did he think he was doing?

“Freeze.” Paul sighted down the barrel of his gun. “Police.”

The bald man looked down his nose. “Nothing to worry about, young man.”

Paul thought otherwise. Without lowering his gun, he climbed the staircase to the deck. “Drop your weapon.”

“You’re overreacting.” He squatted and carefully placed his gun on the deck floor. “I was just taking target practice, shooting at a rabbit.”

“Hunting season is over.” Paul scooped up the weapon. A Colt Double Eagle. A nice piece. And well cared for.

Julia stepped onto the deck behind him. “Deputy Paul Hemmings, I’d like to introduce General Harrison Naylor.”

The general’s squint and his square jaw seemed familiar. His formal bearing gave Paul the feeling that he was supposed to snap to attention and salute. But he had guns in both hands, so he merely nodded. “Army?”

“Marines,” the general said.

Which still didn’t give him the right to take potshots off the deck. “I’m sure you don’t need a lecture on gun safety, General. In future, if you want to take target practice, choose a less populated location.”

“Away from the barn,” Julia added. “We have several horses, and they’re not accustomed to gunfire.”

Reluctantly, Paul returned the Colt Double Eagle. The general took a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the moisture from the gleaming silver gun. Though dressed in a casual cardigan, the man was impeccable. His trousers held a razor crease, and his shirt was buttoned all the way up to the collar.

Paul cleared his throat. “I’m here because of a car accident. The driver was from Washington, D.C., and I have reason to believe he was looking for someone staying here.”

“I’m stationed in D.C.,” the general said.

“The driver’s name was John Maser.”

The general paused for a moment. His lips moved as he silently repeated the name several times. “That’s Maser as in Maserati?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s hard to remember all of the men I’ve had under my command. You said there was a car accident. What happened to Maserati?”

“He was killed.”

“A shame.” The general shook his head. “Can’t say that I know the gentleman.”

Paul was dead certain that he’d seen the general before. “Do you come to this area often? Maybe for skiing?”

“This is my first time. I usually ski in Utah.”

“General Naylor, have we met?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“You might have seen the general on television,” Julia said. “He does a lot of expert commentary.”

“You can’t believe everything you see on TV,” the general said. “Nothing they’ve said about me is the truth. Not one damned thing.”

He executed a sharp turn and marched through the door into the lodge.

Paul exchanged glances with Julia, who seemed as puzzled by the general’s statement as he was. “Interesting guest.”

“Very,” she said.

“How many other people are staying here?”

“Four. And I have two full-time guys who help me run the place.”

Since it was obvious that she didn’t want to invite him inside, Paul took the initiative. He held open the storm door. “After you.”

As she sauntered past him, her curly ponytail came so close that he could smell the fresh scent of her shampoo. There was no other perfume on Julia. She didn’t seem like the type to fuss with girlie things. And yet, she was all woman.

When he’d seen her chopping wood behind the resort, Paul’s heart had pounded harder than thunder across the valley. He’d been stunned, unable to do anything more than stand and stare as this Amazon raised the ax over her head and swung down with force. She’d been breathing hard from her exertions. Inside her white turtleneck, her full breasts heaved. Damn, but she had a fine figure. An hourglass shape.

She reminded him of the early settlers in these mountains—women who were strong, resourceful and brave. And beautiful. Her complexion flushed with abundant health. Her eyes were blue—the color of a winter sky after a snowfall had washed the heavens clean.

Unfortunately, it seemed that she didn’t particularly want him around. Not that she was rude. Just standoffish. He wondered if one of the men who helped her run the lodge was her boyfriend.

In the kitchen, she introduced him to a young man who was doing the cooking for dinner. Though Paul was pleased to see that their relationship fell into the category of boss and employee, there was something disturbing about this guy. Young Roger Flannery had the bulge of a shoulder holster under his flannel shirt. Not illegal. But worrying.

A small, sleek woman entered the kitchen, and Julia introduced her. “Another of our guests. This is RJ Katz.”

She looked like a cat with a button nose, a tiny mouth and wide, suspicious eyes. As Paul shook her thin hand, he asked, “Where are you from?”

“I travel a lot.”

That was an evasive answer if he’d ever heard one. “Business or pleasure?”

“Both.”

Just like a cat. Snooty, cool and independent. When RJ Katz sidled toward the fridge, he half expected to see her take out a bowl of cream and lap it up with her tongue.

If the car crash of John Maser turned out to be something more than an accident, Paul would put RJ at the head of his suspect list. “I need to see your driver’s license, Ms. Katz.”

“It’s in my purse. In my room.” She popped the tab on a cola and took a sip. “What’s this about?”

Paul explained about the car accident and the victim from Washington, D.C. He watched for her reaction when he mentioned the name John Maser.

She was unruffled. “Don’t know him.”

“I’d still like to see your license.”

“I suppose you’re wondering if I live near D.C. Well, I do. My address is Alexandria, Virginia. But I assure you, Deputy, I don’t know your victim.”

There was a lot more he wanted to ask, but Paul had promised Julia that he wouldn’t harass her guests. “Enjoy your stay.”

Before they left the kitchen, Julia directed a question toward RJ Katz. “Do you know if David is in his room?”

“He’s in the basement,” she said, “playing with his precious computer.”

“I’d appreciate if you asked him to come up here and speak with the deputy. So we don’t have to go downstairs.”

An unspoken communication passed between the two women, but Paul couldn’t guess why. He was beginning to think that something strange was going on at this rustic little resort. There was the cook with a shoulder holster. And the feline Ms. Katz who seemed determined to hide her identity. And, of course, a general who gunned down jackrabbits from the porch.

When Paul first arrived, he had noticed three satellite dishes that might be for extra-fine television reception or for some other kind of communication. Clearly, he needed more information about Julia and the lodge.

She led him through the dining room to the front area where a cheery fire burned in the moss rock fireplace. Comfortable was the first word that popped into his head. The sturdy leather sofas and chairs looked big enough to sink into and relax. “Nice,” he said. “I could see myself sitting in that big chair on a Sunday afternoon watching the football game.”

“How about those Broncos?”

“Are you a fan?”

“Actually, I prefer hockey.”

“Me, too.”

Damn, he liked this woman. He really hoped there was nothing sinister going on here.

She stepped in front of him and looked him directly in the eye. “I want to level with you, Paul.”

“Go ahead.”

“All five of my guests are from the Washington, D.C., area. They’re here for a retreat and meetings.”

The presence of the high-profile general who appeared on talk shows suggested a topic for those meetings. “Something political.”

“I really shouldn’t say.”

“What you’re telling me is that any one of your guests might be acquainted with the man who was killed.”

“Yes,” she said.

Paul was sure that if they knew anything about the death of John Maser, these people wouldn’t be forthcoming with information. More in-depth questioning and investigation was necessary. He needed to verify their alibis and arrival times.

On the other hand, he might be bothering these people for no reason at all. John Maser might have died as a result of careless driving. Nothing more.

After the autopsy, Paul would have a better indi-cation of foul play. Right now, his only evidence was the whispered word of the dying man who might have been out of his head. Murder.

“I have a thought,” Julia said. “It’s almost time for dinner, and everybody will be gathered in one place. You can talk to all of them at the same time.”

Not a great idea from the aspect of police procedure. One-on-one questioning was a more effective tool. But this wasn’t really an investigation. Not yet anyway. “Fine with me.”

This time Julia held the front door open for him. “After you.”

He stepped onto the covered porch that stretched all the way across the front of the lodge. From this vantage point, there was a clear view of the gravel drive leading up to the lodge and the vehicles that were parked in the front, including a Hummer that probably belonged to the general.

He sat in one of the rocking chairs, and Julia climbed onto the porch swing. She didn’t speak right away, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. He liked her self-assurance—a maturity that didn’t require the constant chatter that filled his house when his girls got revved. “How do you feel about kids, Julia?”

“Love them.” Her face lit up. “My one regret about living here is that I don’t get to spend more time with my niece and nephew back in Wisconsin. They’re practically teenagers now.”

“I have two daughters. Seven and nine.”

“They must keep your wife busy.”

“Not so you’d notice. My ex-wife left a long time ago. I guess we didn’t have much in common.” Not like you and me, he wanted to add.

“Raising two little girls on your own must be hard.”

The way she looked at him, giving him her full attention, made Paul feel like spilling his guts. He wanted to tell her about how frustrated he got when the girls burst into tears for no reason he could understand. Or how confused he was when they changed clothes five times before walking out the door. He wanted to tell Julia about the feeling of sheer happiness when one of the girls hopped onto his lap and told him he was the best daddy in the world.

Julia’s smile encouraged him, and he wanted to tell her everything, wanted to hear her laugh. Or maybe he just wanted to sit here on the porch and watch as the last rays of sunset tangled in her thick, curly hair. His gaze stuck on her lips, and his thoughts turned toward kisses. Caresses. Making love in the afternoon.

“What are their names?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Your kids.”

“Jennifer and Lily.” His thoughts had moved far beyond the kids. “Maybe sometime when you’re not busy, you’d go out to dinner with me.”

Those beautiful lips pinched, and he was pretty sure she was going to tell him to take a hike. Instead, she said, “Next week?”

“It’s a date.”

He leaned back in the rocking chair and grinned. A date with Julia. Damn, this was going to be good.

A glint of sunlight caught his eye. When he looked toward the roof of the covered porch, he spotted the camouflaged lens of a surveillance camera. Again, he wondered what was really going on here.

SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE agreed to go out with him. Alone in the kitchen, Julia loaded the last of the dinner dishes into the washer. And she thought about her date with Paul Hemmings. The pros and the cons. Her mind seesawed.

A chirpy little voice whispered in one ear, “Go on the date. Paul’s a good-looking man. Have some fun for a change.”

In the other ear was a stern professional tone. “Paul is too smart. He’ll figure out that this is a safe-house. Your career will be ruined.”

She couldn’t take that chance. Julia had worked too hard to get to this level. Her FBI career was her whole life.

“That’s pathetic,” said the chirpy voice that sounded a little bit like her mother. “You’re thirty-two years old. Don’t you want to have a family? Children of your own?”

Paul already had a family. Two girls.

Julia shook her head. She was getting way ahead of herself. He hadn’t asked her to marry him, after all. It was only a date.

David Dillard, the FBI computer specialist, saun-tered into the kitchen. “Any coffee left? I’m going to be up late.”

“I was just about to make a fresh pot.” Julia and the other two agents at the safehouse would be staying up all night in shifts to monitor the surveillance cameras that were posted in the hallways and outside. To stay alert, caffeine was a necessary evil.

David pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and took a seat at the kitchen table. Of all the Homeland Security specialists who were staying here, she liked David best. He was an average looking guy—pleasant and unassuming. “This is a excellent facility,” he said.

“You’ve hardly been outside.”

“I was talking about the lower level.”

“The basement? But it’s all white and sterile.”

“For a computer geek like me, that’s heaven.”

To each his own. Julia spent as little time as possible in the basement where the charming, rustic lodge transformed into a high-tech operation with computers, communication devices and surveillance monitors. Most of the meetings for the Homeland Security group would take place in a bland windowless room on the lower level.

“I thought you brought your own computer with you,” Julia said. “And that collapsible screen thing.”

“Tools of the trade.” He gave her a weary grin. “I’m setting up a series of simulations over the next several days.”

“Simulating what?”

“Our project is to establish a protocol for first response teams handling crisis situations. We want to set up five-person teams of experts who can step in and run things in the chaos following a disaster. They would be the ultimate authority.”

Thus far, no one else had bothered to explain the purpose of this meeting. Though Julia had been curious, she was accustomed to FBI people who played it close to the vest. Apparently, David didn’t have reservations about talking.

“Isn’t there already a chain of command?” she asked as she ground the fresh beans for coffee.

“Too many commanders,” he said. “That’s the problem. The people who are here represent various authorities. The senator to handle political issues. The general for military. RJ is a financial specialist. I’m a communications person. And, of course, there’s Gil representing the CIA.”

“What’s Gil’s specialty?”

David shrugged. “He looks like an assassin to me.”

A charming thought. But she suspected David was correct. The sneaky but muscle-bound Gil Bradley looked like the kind of guy who could be dropped behind enemy lines to take out the opposition.

“What kind of crisis would you deal with?” she asked.

“There’s the obvious big stuff, like a terrorist bombing. I have that simulation set up for the last day, and it’s got really amazing effects. But there are smaller issues. Attacks on a high-profile target, like the Golden Gate bridge. A siege at a survivalist compound. Hostage-taking.”

Julia shuddered as she watched the coffee slowly drip through the filter into the pot. “That’s the worst,” she said. “Hostages.”

When it came to her own personal safety, she was fearless. But a threat to someone she loved? To her mother and father? She remembered the horror and pain she’d felt when she learned of her older brother’s death three years ago. He’d been a Marine. In harm’s way.

“Setting up an official response team is an exciting project,” David said. “On paper, it looks like a snap. The problems come in dealing with all these authoritative personalities. Like the general, for example. His plan is always the same—Send in the Marines.”

“Like my brother,” she said. “He was a Marine.”

“No kidding,” David said. “Mine, too.”

“So you know that the Marines are well trained for crisis.”

“If it’s a military crisis, yes. But there’s so much more to consider. RJ with her financial expertise brings a whole different perspective.”

The aroma of brewing coffee filled the kitchen. “What do finances have to do with homeland security?”

“If you close down the money spigot, the terrorists are left high and dry.”

The coffee was done, and she poured a mug for David. “Thanks for the explanation. It’s nice to have some idea about what’s going on.”

“Simulations are only half of what we’re doing. There’s also going to be team-building stuff.”

“So you’ll all learn to like one another?”

“That’s too much to hope for,” he said with a wry grin. “We’ll be doing well if we don’t all kill one another by the end of the week.”

He grabbed his coffee and disappeared into the lower level. Julia probably should have followed him. There were daily reports she needed to file, but they weren’t due until morning and that computer work would give her something to do while watching the monitors.

In spite of the coffee, it was nine o’clock when she fell into bed exhausted. Her alarm was set for three, when she was scheduled to take her shift at the monitors.

When she closed her eyes, her thoughts immediately flashed on Paul Hemmings. In her mind, she saw his chocolate eyes and the deep dimples in his cheeks. And his body. His large muscular body.

Her arms wrapped tightly around her pillow, and she imagined what it would be like to embrace him. It would take at least three pillows for that simulation.

It wasn’t safe to feel this way. If only he hadn’t asked her out, she could dream about Paul without regret. But he wanted to see her again, and that might be her undoing.

THE NEXT MORNING, everyone was up early except for the general, which seemed odd for a military man who ought to be accustomed to morning exercises. Julia was a bit worried when she stood outside the locked door of the general’s bedroom and knocked. “Sir? Are you awake?”

She pressed her ear against the door and listened. There was no sound from inside.

Though she hated to disturb his privacy, Julia unlocked the door to the general’s bedroom.

He was flat on his bed, dressed in his uniform with medals and ribbons arrayed across his chest. In his right hand was his Colt Double Eagle handgun. General Harrison Naylor had shot himself in the head.