Читать книгу The Colonel's Daughter - Debby Giusti - Страница 11

TWO

Post security was imperative when a killer was on the loose. Jamison drove around Fort Rickman to ensure that the roadblocks were in place and the gates were well guarded. Heading back to his office, he realized, too late, that he had passed the turnoff to the CID headquarters and ended up in the area where the ranking officers lived.

The large brick quarters, built in the 1930s and ’40s, circled a parade field where units marched and bands played in better times. Tonight the post was locked down and on high alert.

His headlights cut through the foggy darkness, revealing the two-lane street littered with fallen leaves and branches stripped from the trees during the earlier storms. Had the murderer chosen tonight because of the adverse weather conditions, or had something else triggered his assault?

At the onset of any investigation, Jamison felt like a man in a rowboat, paddling through uncharted waters in the middle of a black night, never knowing where his journey would end. The fog lifted momentarily, revealing the Logans’ quarters.

Jamison almost smiled. He didn’t need to check on Michele. Military police were patrolling the colonel’s area. They were trained and competent, but for some reason, his radar had signaled the need to ensure that Michele was safe.

The front porch light was on and mixed with the glow from a lamp in the living room. Upstairs, a single bulb shone through a bathroom window. Slowing his speed, he studied the area around the house, looking for anything that could signal danger for the women inside. Extending his search, he checked the entire block before he returned to her street.

A military police patrol car approached from the opposite direction. Not wanting to explain why he was in the area, Jamison turned at the next intersection and headed back to CID headquarters.

Along the way, he tried to convince himself that he would have done the same thing no matter who had been a witness in the investigation. Deep down, he knew the truth. Michele had been the only reason for his late-night detour.

Once behind his desk, Jamison placed a call to the CID in Afghanistan and filled them in on what had happened at Fort Rickman. A special agent by the name of Warner took the information and assured Jamison he’d see what he could uncover about Major Shirley Yates. If she had previously had a romantic relationship or was currently having an affair, Warner would find out who was involved and contact Jamison with the information. He would also check out Major Hughes to ensure that the murder wasn’t an act of revenge against the victim’s husband.

For the rest of the night, Jamison pored over the crime scene photos and information collected so far. By morning, his shoulders ached. He scooted his chair back and picked up a photo taken of the Hughes’ kitchen and the door through which the killer had escaped.

In the corner of the same picture, the photographer had also captured Michele, standing by the table, arms wrapped across her chest. The look on her face provided a clear image of the turmoil she must have been experiencing internally. The shock of finding a murder victim was hard on anyone, especially so for a woman who ran from conflict. Michele might consider herself strong and determined, but Jamison knew better.

They had met a little over a year after the helicopter crash that had taken her brother’s life. Michele worked with insurance actuary tables and knew the dangers those in the military faced, especially when deployed or training for combat. A job with the CID brought danger even closer to home, something she wasn’t willing to face.

Ten months ago, Michele had run away from a relationship that would have required her to look deep within herself and determine whether she cared enough about Jamison to live with the constant threat a job in law enforcement entailed.

Since she had never told him why she had moved back to Atlanta, Jamison had been left with two possible conclusions. Michele had decided he wasn’t worth the risk or she hadn’t been able to determine what she wanted in life.

On occasion, she had mentioned her struggle with God. If she didn’t feel loved by the Lord, chances were she didn’t feel worthy of anyone’s love, including Jamison’s. Either way, she had run to Atlanta, where she thought she could live life on her own terms. Her own safe terms.

Love involved risk, and Michele wasn’t ready to put her heart on the line. At least, that’s the excuse Jamison had used to work through his own pain. He thought he had healed, but coming face-to-face with Michele made him realize he wasn’t over her yet. For some reason—maybe lack of sleep or the horrific crime scene that had been captured in the photos on his desk—Jamison felt raw as if being near Michele had opened the old wound to his heart.

Tossing the picture of her back onto his desk, he looked up as Dawson entered the cubicle with two steaming mugs of coffee in hand.

“Otis perked a fresh pot,” Dawson said in greeting.

“God bless him.” Jamison reached for a mug and inhaled the rich aroma.

Dawson’s gaze trailed over Jamison’s desk and stopped at the photo of Michele. Inwardly, Jamison flinched, waiting for a jabbing comment about a pretty face and a former love.

Relieved when the other CID agent raised his gaze without commenting, Jamison asked, “What about the door-to-door search in the neighborhood? Anything turn up yet?”

“Only questions about the maintenance man who fixed the wiring at the Hughes quarters last night.”

“The guy from Prime Maintenance?” Jamison took a swig of the hot brew. High-test, loaded with caffeine, just what he needed after a long night without sleep.

Dawson nodded. “A couple folks mentioned seeing his truck drive through the housing area earlier in the evening.”

“Their main office isn’t far from the Post Shopping Area. I’ll stop by and talk to the supervisor.” Jamison straightened the stack of photos on his desk and pulled out an eight-by-ten of Yolanda’s dining room. He tapped his finger on the bouquet of cut flowers in the center of the table. “The crime scene team found a floral wrapper from the post flower shop in the victim’s trash. I plan to question the florist, as well, after I shower and change. He may have seen something when he delivered the bouquet.”

“Let me know what you find out.”

“Will do.” Jamison took another sip of his coffee. “Send one of our guys into Freemont to talk to Mr. Yates. We need to know why he never showed up at the potluck last night. And keep an extra detail of military police on the front gate. Every vehicle leaving and entering Fort Rickman needs to be searched. If the killer got away last night, we don’t want him coming back on post and doing more harm.”

“You worried he’ll strike again?” Dawson asked.

“Aren’t you?”

The other agent shrugged. “Maybe I’m being optimistic, but knife wounds are personal, which is what I keep thinking this crime was. The perp knew Yolanda Hughes. He wanted to kill her for some reason we need to determine. Maybe it involved a love triangle or maybe it was something else and she’s his only intended victim. Once we learn his motive, we’ll be able to track him down.”

“And if he kills again before we find him?”

“Then I’ll have to admit I was wrong.” He stared at Jamison for a long moment. The memory of walking into the ambush ten months ago hung between them.

Jamison still felt responsible. “Look, Dawson—”

As much as he wanted to clear up what had happened, the words stuck in his throat. Instead of his own voice, he heard his father’s taunts about his inability to do anything right. “Jamie-boy, you’re a failure,” replayed over and over in his mind. Not that anything his father said should have bearing on his life today.

Frustrated that the long-ago censure still affected him, Jamison let out a lungful of air and placed his cup on his desk. “After I shower at the gym, I’ll talk to the maintenance company and the florist. Call me if anything new surfaces.”

When he left the gym, Jamison planned to stop by the maintenance office, but just as last night, he ended up in front of Colonel Logan’s quarters. A number of cars were parked at the curb. Jamison hustled up the steps and rang the bell. Mrs. Logan answered the door. Women’s voices sounded from the living room.

“Morning, ma’am. I wanted to ensure that you and Michele had an uneventful night and are doing okay.” He peered around her to the women inside, recognizing many of the wives who had gathered at the Hughes residence last night.

“We’re fine, Jamison, but it’s nice of you to stop by and inquire about our well-being. Michele’s right here—”

Mrs. Logan stepped away from the door.

“Ah, ma’am—”

He didn’t need to talk to Michele.

“Jamison?” Dressed in a pretty floral blouse and cotton slacks, Michele appeared in the doorway, looking like a summer garden.

Internally, he groaned. “I was just checking to see if you’re all right.”

“Yes, of course.” Her lips smiled, but her eyes remained guarded. “The military police are patrolling our area and keeping us safe.”

Her tone caused him to bristle. Note to self, Michele doesn’t need you in her life.

“Sounds like you’ve got a full house.”

“The wives wanted to be together. They’re worried and grieving and ready for their husbands to return home.” She stepped onto the porch and pulled the door closed behind her. “How’s the investigation going?”

“We don’t have much at this point. A few people to question. We’re checking everyone coming on and off post and have enhanced security in all the housing areas.”

“I noticed the military police driving by a number of times last night.”

From the look on her face, Jamison wondered if she had seen his car. He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the smoothness of her cheeks and the way her hair gleamed in the morning light. “Any word on the Hughes children?”

“Their dad plans to talk to them tonight on Skype.” Her voice softened and sadness tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Jamison’s heart ached for the children. His own mother had died when he was young, and he knew how hard life could be for kids without a mom.

“I made chocolate chip cookies and took them over early this morning. Yolanda’s sister is scheduled to arrive later today. She and the kids will stay in the VIP guest quarters until Major Hughes arrives home.”

“Any idea about the burial?”

“They have a plot in Missouri. Once everyone is reunited, Major Hughes and the children will fly her body home. Mother and Dad will probably attend the funeral. I’m not sure what I should do.”

Knowing Michele, she would probably run back to Atlanta. Just as she had done ten months ago.

He glanced at his watch, needing to distance himself from the colonel’s daughter. “You have my number. Call if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Jamison.”

He hurried back to his car. Five minutes with Michele and suddenly his ordered life was anything but. His focus needed to center on the investigation and the supervisor at Prime Maintenance he planned to question, as well as the florist on post.

Pulling away from the Logan quarters, Jamison shook his head, frustrated with the swell of feelings that were bubbling up within him.

A woman murdered.

A killer on the loose.

A very personal complication he hadn’t expected that tangled up his ability to be objective.

“Oh, Michele,” he groaned aloud. “Why’d you have to come back to Fort Rickman now?”

* * *

Traffic was light as Michele drove across post. The gray sky and the weather forecaster’s prediction that another round of turbulence would hit the area added to her unease.

Over the last few hours, Michele’s mood had dropped as low as the barometer. She needed time away from her mother and the women who filled the Logan home. Sweet as they were, their long faces and hushed tones as they spoke of what had happened forced her to confront the terrible tragedy she had stumbled upon last night.

Knowing two children had been left without a mother added to her struggle. Seeing their sweet faces earlier in the day had put an even heavier pall around her shoulders. Michele needed fresh air and time to process her emotions, but no matter how hard she tried to block the crime scene from her memory, the gruesome pictures of

Yolanda’s death continued to haunt her.

The expression on Jamison’s face when he had come crashing into the house, gun in hand, mixed with the other still frames. Ten months ago, she had thought she loved him, but when an investigation almost claimed his life, she realized her mistake. Maybe in time, she’d find Mr. Right. At the moment, she was more concerned about her confrontation last night with Mr. Wrong. Seeing him again this morning had added more confusion to the day.

Despite his good qualities, Jamison wasn’t the man for her. Everything inside her warned that a U.S. Army warrant officer, who was also a CID special agent, was off-limits and could end up being a deadly combination. Plus, her recent history with the military wasn’t good.

In quick flashes, she thought of her brother’s death, her father’s injury soon after he arrived in Afghanistan and the shoot-out on post that could have left Jamison wounded. Or dead.

Dawson had taken the bullet meant for Jamison. In spite of the close call, Jamison continued to handle investigations that put him in danger, which further proved the CID agent wasn’t for her.

So why had she called him yesterday? Jamison, of all people. She’d reacted without thinking. Now she had to pay the price for seeing him again.

Last night, he had been cool, calm and totally in control, dressed in a starched white shirt, a silk tie and a sports coat expertly tailored to fit his broad shoulders and trim waist.

Instead of a military uniform, CID agents wore civilian clothes to ensure that rank didn’t get in the way of their investigations. Maybe that’s what had attracted her to Jamison the night they’d met at the military club on post. He had looked drop-dead gorgeous in his coat and tie when he extended his hand in greeting, along with a smile that instantly melted her heart.

Slipping her right hand into his and gazing into his deep-set brown eyes had made her world stop for one breathless moment. Something had clicked inside her, and she had been instantly smitten by the very special, special agent.

He’d been equally put together last night, although his eyes had been darker than she remembered. Probably because he had refused to hold her gaze, which bothered her more than she wanted to admit. This morning he’d seemed a bit on edge, although it was no wonder after what had happened.

Anyone who didn’t know him wouldn’t notice the tiny lines around his eyes or the fatigue that played over his features. Committed as he had always been to his job, he had probably slept little last night.

Heaving a sigh, she turned into the main shopping area on post and parked across from the floral shop. A bell tinkled over the door as she entered the air-conditioned interior and stepped toward the counter.

The florist, in his early forties and with a muscular build and military flattop, glanced up. “May I help you?”

“I called in an order last week for a bouquet of cut flowers.”

“Name?”

“Logan. Michele Logan.”

Recognition played over his angled face. “You’re Colonel Logan’s daughter.”

“That’s right.”

“I served with your dad in Iraq when he was a battalion commander. Best commander I ever had.”

Michele never tired of hearing good things about her father. Three years ago, after bringing his battalion of soldiers home from Iraq, her dad had been promoted to full colonel and selected for brigade command. Some said he was a shoo-in for general officer. Not that he allowed praise to impact the way he did his job.

Their family’s only dark moment during that time had been Lance’s death. A helicopter crash shortly after her brother had graduated from flight school and moved to his new military assignment at Fort Knox, Kentucky. A freak accident that never should have happened.

The hardest part was knowing she could have prevented the tragedy. Lance wouldn’t have been flying if Michele had accepted his invitation to visit him that weekend. She had made the wrong decision, a decision that led to her brother’s death.

Unable to work through her grief and her guilt, Michele had eventually buried her pain. Finding Yolanda yesterday had brought everything to the surface.

The florist stretched out his hand. “Name’s Teddy Sutherland.”

Michele returned the handshake, noting his firm grip and thick, stubby fingers. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“I’ve got your order. You said you wanted a container appropriate for your brother’s grave site?”

“That’s right.” She momentarily averted her gaze, blinking back unexpected tears that flooded her eyes. Her emotions hovered close to the surface today.

Teddy flipped through a stack of order forms. “I remember hearing about the helicopter crash. Wasn’t your brother the only one on board who died?”

She nodded, wondering yet again about the inequity of the accident. Not that she had wanted anyone else to lose a loved one in the crash. She just didn’t understand why her brother had to die.

“About this time of year, as I recall?”

The florist’s concern touched her. She nodded, her voice halting when she spoke. “It...it happened two years ago today.”

“Tough on your mom, no doubt, especially after last night.”

“You heard about the murder?”

“News travels fast on post. Wonder if they’ll ever find the guy.” He reached into the large walk-in refrigerator and pulled out a bouquet of red gladiolas and white mums arranged with miniature American flags and wrapped together with a blue ribbon.

Placing the flowers on the counter along with a plastic vase and a small attachment to anchor the arrangement into the ground, the florist glanced up, waiting for her reaction.

“They’re beautiful, Mr. Sutherland.”

“It’s Teddy, please. Tell your mother I’m ordering flowers for the welcome-home ceremony.”

“To give to the wives in the brigade?”

He nodded. “Mrs. Grayson, the executive officer’s wife, asked me to help.” He glanced down, somewhat embarrassed by his gesture. “The way I feel about your dad, it’s the least I could do.”

“I know my mother and the other wives will appreciate your generosity.”

The bell over the door tinkled. Michele turned, expecting to see another customer. Her breath caught in her throat as Jamison entered the store.

She smiled, trying to override the tension that wrapped around her as tightly as the wire holding the floral bow in place. He nodded, then glanced away for a moment in an obvious attempt to cover his own unease.

Turning back to the flowers, Michele fiddled with the ribbon.

Jamison stepped closer and touched the plastic vase lying on the counter. “Two years ago, wasn’t it, Michele?”

She hadn’t expected him to remember. The empathy she heard in his voice caused her eyes to cloud again. Jamison had understood when no one else seemed interested in how a younger sister felt about the death of the brother she idolized. Even her parents hadn’t wanted to talk about their son’s future cut short.

Teddy swiped her credit card and ripped off the tape register receipt. Holding out the thin strip of paper, he handed Michele a pen. “I just need a signature to complete the transaction.”

Relieved to focus on something other than the special agent, Michele hastily signed her name. Grabbing the flowers and vase, she turned to find Jamison standing much too close.

She dropped her gaze, trying to ignore his muscular shoulders and the manly scent of his aftershave. Instead her focus settled on his right hip, where—beneath the smooth line of his sports coat—he carried a SIG Sauer, loaded and ready to fire.

“Sorry.” He stepped aside. His demeanor and voice, now devoid of inflection, reminded her that their involvement had ended months ago. Just as with Lance, she had no reason to think about what might have been.

Ironically, on her brother’s last trip home, Lance had laughingly teased that only a military guy would make her happy. Michele had agreed, but his death had changed her mind. Now she just wanted to guard her future and her heart.

The bell tinkled as she pushed the door open and stepped into the Georgia humidity, grateful no one was standing close enough to see the confusion she couldn’t hide and shouldn’t be feeling. She’d left Jamison months ago. A good decision, or so she’d thought.

Slipping behind the wheel of her car, she glanced back at the florist shop. Would she have felt differently if her brother hadn’t died?

Maybe then she wouldn’t have been afraid of her feelings for the CID agent. But Lance had died and her father had been injured in Afghanistan, and then Dawson had taken a bullet meant for Jamison in a bloody shoot-out that had made her run scared.

Now Yolanda.

If only Michele could run away again, just as she had done ten months ago. She wanted to go back to the secure life she’d made for herself in Atlanta, but she couldn’t leave her mother alone after the tragedy that had happened. The brigade would return sometime next week. Michele would wait until her father came home before she left Fort Rickman and the military.

By then, Jamison would have found the killer.

Her stomach tightened and a gasp escaped her lips as she realized that finding the killer would, once again, put Jamison in the line of fire.

* * *

Why did Michele continue to get under his skin?

Jamison clamped down on his jaw and pulled in a deep breath, needing to distance himself, at least emotionally, from the colonel’s daughter and concentrate on the florist, who continued to stare at him.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked a second time.

Glancing at the clerk’s name tag, Jamison held up his CID identification. “I need information about any floral deliveries you’ve made in the last couple days, Mr. Sutherland.”

The florist nodded. “You’re here because of that murder on post.”

A crime everyone seemed to have heard about by now. “What can you tell me?”

“Mrs. Hughes ordered a bouquet for yesterday afternoon.” Sutherland flipped through his order forms. “Here it is. A bouquet of cut flowers, carnations and daisies, interspersed with a few yellow roses.”

Glancing up at Jamison, he added, “Yellow roses are a popular homecoming flower. As you probably know, Major Hughes’s unit is scheduled to return to Fort Rickman next week.”

“Did Mrs. Hughes discuss her husband’s return to post?”

The florist shook his head. “Not to me, but it’s common knowledge. Plus, the local chamber of commerce keeps track of all the homecomings. Having the brigade back will be good for business.”

Jamison pulled his notebook and pen from his pocket. “What time did you deliver the flowers to the Hughes residence?”

“I didn’t. Mrs. Hughes stopped by the shop yesterday and placed the order before she went to the commissary. I had the table arrangement ready when she finished shopping.”

“Did she say why she wanted flowers?”

“No, sir, but Mrs. Hughes bought flowers once a month or so. Usually for a wives’ event. Sure is a shame.”

“How’d you learn about her death?”

“One of her neighbors stopped in earlier today. She was pretty shook-up. Fact is everyone’s upset.”

“Do you recall the neighbor’s name?”

“I can find it if you give me a minute.” Once again, he sorted through the order forms. His face lit up as he pulled a paper from the pile and held it out to Jamison. “Ursula Barker bought an arrangement shortly after I opened this morning. She lives down the street from the Hugheses and shared that the whole neighborhood is worried. Course, I don’t blame them with a killer on the loose. I’m worried, too. You guys have any idea who did it?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” A pat answer, but the truth was that the CID and military police had nothing concrete to go on so far.

The florist pursed his lips. “Guess I shouldn’t have asked, but just like everyone else on post, I’m looking over my shoulder, if you know what I mean.”

Jamison did know. No one wanted a murderer on the loose. He continued to question the florist but learned nothing more that would have a bearing on the victim’s death. After leaving the floral shop, Jamison called CID headquarters. He quickly filled Dawson in on his interview with the florist before he turned the discussion to his earlier stop at Prime Maintenance.

“I talked to the supervisor. The only maintenance man on duty last night was Danny Altman. He’s prior military, worked in Atlanta and was questioned when his girlfriend died unexpectedly. Her death was ruled accidental.” Jamison passed on Altman’s Freemont address. “Find out more about the girlfriend.”

“Roger that. I’ll talk to Mr. Altman and see if he remembers anything pertinent concerning last night, as well.” Dawson paused for a long moment. “I talked to

McGrunner.”

Both Dawson and Jamison thought highly of the young military policeman who had a good work ethic and the makings of a future CID special agent. He had been on patrol last night, and Jamison knew where Dawson was headed.

“Look, Dawson, I drove by Colonel Logan’s quarters,” Jamison admitted. “That’s all.”

“Military police were on patrol in the colonel’s housing area. You didn’t need to worry about Michele.”

“The killer left two witnesses behind.”

“Yes, but neither Michele nor her mother can identify him.”

“He may not realize that. If I were a killer, I’d get rid of everyone involved.” The muscles in Jamison’s neck tensed as he thought about what could happen. “Did any of the neighbors hear sounds of a struggle?”

“Negative.”

“I blame that on the storm. Most folks were probably hunkered down inside their quarters. Thunder and wind would have muffled any noise coming from the victim’s quarters.”

“Roger that,” Dawson agreed. “And if the killer had used a stun gun, Mrs. Hughes would have quickly lost muscle control and couldn’t have screamed for help.”

What about Michele? The thought of her with the killer made Jamison clamp down on his jaw.

Thank God she and Mrs. Logan hadn’t been hurt.

He pushed the cell closer to his ear. “Any word from the medical examiner?”

“Negative.”

Seemed they were still batting zero. Although it might be a long shot, Jamison thought of another person who needed to be questioned. “The florist said a neighbor by the name of Ursula Barker told him about the victim’s death. Have one of our people check with Ms. Barker and verify the florist’s story.”

“You think he’s lying?”

“I just want to be sure.”

Dawson was quiet for a long moment. “You’re still stalled because of the last case we worked on together.”

“I told you, I’m okay.”

“You can trust your instincts, buddy. Whatever you think you did wrong—”

Jamison let out a blast of pent-up air. “Dawson.”

“Seeing Michele yesterday...” The CID agent sighed. “I know how you felt about her.”

“It’s over, Dawson. End of discussion.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Don’t forget Ursula Barker. Then get back to me.”

Frustrated, Jamison disconnected and hustled to his car. His mind relived visions of when Dawson had taken the hit meant for Jamison. Fast-forward to yesterday and what could have happened to Michele.

Climbing behind the wheel, he started the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot. At one time, his instincts had been good, but he and Dawson had walked into an ambush any rookie cop could have seen coming. Now he had to check and double-check his actions to keep from making another mistake.

Dark clouds billowed in the sky overhead, and a strong gust of wind tugged at his car. Gripping the steering wheel, Jamison eyed the rapidly worsening weather.

What had he missed last night? Mrs. Logan and Michele hadn’t provided information that could identify the killer, but just as he’d told Dawson, if the perpetrator thought they could ID him, wouldn’t he come after them?

Jamison called Dawson back. “Increase surveillance around Colonel Logan’s quarters.”

“Did something happen?”

“Not yet, but I want to make sure it doesn’t.”

Disconnecting, he increased his speed.

Michele was driving along narrow back roads with a storm rolling into the area. More threatening than the weather was the out-of-the-way location of the cemetery, where she would be alone and at risk. This time, he didn’t need to double-check the facts.

Michele was vulnerable and unprotected.

Every instinct warned Jamison to hurry.