The General's Secretary Read online

  “I...ah...” She searched for an answer.

  “Do you always open your door to strangers, Ms. Beaumont?” Pritchard pressed.

  She shook her head. “Of course not, but—”

  Once again, she glanced at Dawson, as if asking him to clear the confusion written on her oval face.

  “Had you been asleep?” Dawson knew better than to prompt a witness, yet the question sprang from his lips before he could weigh the consequences.

  She nodded, her brow raised and lips upturned for the briefest of moments. “I was dreaming. The knock sounded. Before I realized what I was doing, I was staring at him through the open doorway.”

  Pritchard cleared his throat and jotted her answer in a notebook. After recording the statement, he glared at Dawson. “I’m finished questioning Ms. Beaumont. If there’s anything you want to ask her, go right ahead. I’ll be outside.”

  Dawson read between the lines. Pritchard didn’t want his interrogation compromised by a newcomer from post. A subtle reprimand, perhaps? Not that Dawson would be intimidated by a small-town cop.

  As Pritchard left through the kitchen, Dawson took a seat on the chair next to Lillie and held up his identification.

  “Special Agent Dawson Timmons, ma’am. I’m with the Criminal Investigation Division at Fort Rickman. The Freemont Police Department is handling the murder investigation, but the CID was called in because you work on post. I’m here as a liaison between the local police and the military.”

  “Does...does General Cameron know what happened?” Lillie asked.

  “He’s being notified.”

  “I don’t want anything to—”

  “To jeopardize your job? I don’t see how that could happen. Unless your position as the general’s secretary has a bearing on this crime.”

  “No, no.” She held up her hand. “This has nothing to do with General Cameron.”

  “What does it involve, Ms. Beaumont?” He leaned closer. “May I call you Lillie?”

  She nodded. “You’re not from around here?”

  “Georgia born and raised, but my home’s in Cotton Grove, close to the Florida border.”

  She swallowed, the tendons in her graceful neck tight. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “How ’bout at the beginning.”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was born in Atlanta and moved to Freemont with my mother when I was a baby. We lived in a remote area, not far from the highway.”

  Dawson pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket.

  “My...my mother disappeared when I was four.” Lillie’s voice was weak. She cleared her throat. “Most folks thought she had abandoned me and returned to Atlanta with a man.” She shrugged. “Her lover. Sugar daddy. Whatever you want to call him.”

  “Granger Ford?”

  “No. The man she was seeing at the time.”

  “How can you be sure it wasn’t Granger?”

  “There was a storm the night she disappeared. The thunder awakened me. I was frightened and ran to my mother’s bedroom.”

  Dawson’s could envision young Lillie, green eyes wide with fear, golden-brown hair tumbling around her sweet face, scurrying down a darkened hallway.

  “The door opened and he...he told me to go back to bed.”

  “Who was he, Lillie? Do you know his name?”

  She shook her head. “But the memory of that night still haunts me, especially when it storms.”

  “Can you still see his face?”

  “Enough to know it wasn’t the man who died on my doorstep tonight.”

  Dawson did the math. “It’s been twenty-five years. Appearances change.”

  She straightened her shoulders. “I know what I saw. The man that night was someone else.”

  Dawson made a notation on his tablet. “Who raised you after your mother disappeared?”

  “Sarah and Walter McKinney took me in. They were an older couple and didn’t have children of their own.”

  “Good people?”

  She nodded. The gloom lifted for an instant, revealing her love for her foster parents.

  “They wanted to adopt me, but I...” Once again, her eyes sought his. “Maybe it was foolish, but I kept thinking my mother would come back for me.”

  A nail to Dawson’s heart. Did all kids give wayward parents the benefit of the doubt? Must go with the territory. Children wanted to be loved. Hope provided comfort during the dark times. When hope gave out, the reality of life had to be accepted, although some people never made the transition and spent a lifetime looking for the love they never received as a child.

  “But your mother didn’t come back,” Dawson prompted.

  Lillie licked her lips as if gathering courage to continue. “When I was fourteen, the river flooded. Not long afterwards, a steel drum was found close to the water, on Fort Rickman property.”

  Dawson knew about the raging waters that had washed the drum downriver. Dental records confirmed the decomposed body found within was Irene Beaumont, who had gone missing ten years earlier.

  “The last time you saw your mother was that stormy night?” He repeated what he already knew to gauge her response.

  “That’s correct. The night she disappeared.”

  “You were four years old?”

  She nodded.

  “Ten years later, your mother’s remains were uncovered in a steel drum.”

  “And found along the river, although I’ve never visited the actual site. Someday...” Her voice was wistful. “Someday I hope to be strong enough to do just that.”

  Dawson made another notation on his tablet. “At the time of her disappearance, the townspeople thought your mother had run off to Atlanta with her boyfriend.”

  “That’s...that’s what I thought too.”

  “Finding her remains must have changed local opinions.”

  “The folks in town started to realize my mother had probably been killed the night she disappeared.”

  “What did you think, Lillie?”

  “I didn’t know what to believe.”

  Dawson heard the confusion in her voice. “What happened next?”

  She hesitated before she spoke. “Granger Ford worked for Nelson Construction at the time. The police were investigating the employees and found a picture of my mother under his mattress in the motel where he was staying. They accused him of murder. He was found guilty and sent to jail.”

  Dawson tapped his pencil against his notepad. “Did you testify at the trial?”

  “Supposedly, the case was open and shut. They didn’t need to place me on the stand.”

  Hearing Lillie’s response ignited a fire deep within Dawson’s belly. From what he had read about the trial, the prosecution had deemed the case open and shut because Granger was a drifter who worked construction when he needed money. Personnel records at Nelson Construction verified the laborer had been on the payroll at the time of Irene Beaumont’s disappearance and again when the steel drum, bearing the Nelson Construction name and logo, had been found.

  “Do you know anything about the case?” Pritchard stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Dawson hadn’t heard him come back inside.

  “I did an internet search before I got here.” Dawson pocketed his notebook. “Easy enough to access news stories about Granger’s release from prison. The article included information about Irene Beaumont’s murder.”

  “The article probably didn’t mention that they found the T-shirt she must have been wearing in the drum along with her decomposed body.” Pritchard sniffed, unaware of the pained expression on Lillie’s face. “Two blood types were identified on the fabric. A-positive, which was Irene Beaumont’s blood type, and B-negative. That matched Granger Ford’s type.”

  Anger well
ed up within Dawson. He had read the transcript of the trial and knew Granger had denied, under oath, ever seeing the bloodied T-shirt or having known the victim.

  Dawson made sure his voice was even, his gaze level, before he spoke again. “Yet Mr. Ford was recently released from prison?”

  The cocky cop nodded. “Law students from the University of Georgia got wind of the case. They probably hoped to make a name for themselves.”

  “And the outcome?” Dawson knew too well what the determination had been.

  Pritchard pursed his lips. “Something about the blood type being incorrect.”

  Granger’s blood had proved to be a rare “Du”-positive, which would appear negative on an initial rapid-slide test. More definitive blood typing had not been run prior to his trial, and the jury found Granger guilty because of a bloodied T-shirt and an inaccurate blood type. In addition, DNA testing had not been done, and as Lillie had mentioned, a photo of the deceased had been found under the mattress in Granger’s motel room, which anyone on the housekeeping or janitorial staffs could have accessed.

  “An open-and-shut case, eh?” Dawson couldn’t resist the barb that went over Pritchard’s head.

  “Recent DNA testing verified the B-negative blood on the T-shirt wasn’t Granger’s. He was released from prison ten days ago, but we’re not sure when he arrived in Freemont.”

  At least seventy-two hours earlier, judging from the phone call Dawson had received when Granger got to town. He kept the information to himself. Pritchard could do his own investigation.

  A second cop opened the back door. “Sarge, we’re ready to transport the body.” Pritchard followed him outside.

  Once they were alone, Dawson turned back to Lillie. “What did Granger say when you opened the door tonight?”

  “That someone had found him and beat him. I heard the shot. He fell forward.” She stared at her hands. “I...I tried to catch him.”

  “Did he mention who had found him or did he say anything about your mother?”

  She shook her head, but something about her expression told Dawson the secretary knew more than she had revealed.

  “Do you think Granger killed your mother?”

  She chewed her lip. “I...I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know or won’t say?”

  She hesitated.

  “Did Granger contact you after he was released from prison?”

  “He called me and wanted to meet. I refused. He said he had information about my mother’s death.”

  “Yet you turned him down?”

  “Part of me didn’t believe him. The other part wanted to keep the past locked away.”

  She lowered her gaze and picked at her sleeve.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?” Dawson asked.

  “I know it sounds crazy after a man has died, but...” She pulled in a nervous breath. “I’m worried about what this will do to military and civilian relations in the local area.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’ve heard about the new Fort Rickman Museum scheduled to be built on post?”

  Dawson narrowed his gaze, trying to make the connection. With construction ready to commence, the huge, multistoried structure promised to be state of the art, with an extensive collection of historical memorabilia and artifacts. In addition, a grand ballroom, auditorium and banquet facilities would attract large-scale events and needed revenue to this part of Georgia.

  “I know the museum will be a boon to the local economy,” Dawson said, “but I don’t see how one man’s death could adversely affect the project.”

  “Funding is the problem.” She sighed. “Which sounds so inconsequential compared to the taking of a human life.”

  “But—”

  “That’s why I didn’t want to meet Granger when he called a few days ago. I knew if anything about my mother’s death was brought to light, the construction project could be affected.”

  Dawson rubbed his hand over his jaw and let out a frustrated breath. “I still don’t get the tie-in.”

  “You’re not from around here so you probably don’t know Karl Nelson.”

  “Only by name. Didn’t the stolen barrel your mother’s body was found in belong to his company?”

  “That’s right. Nelson Construction Company was the low bid on the museum. Mr. Nelson has been more than generous keeping the projected costs at a minimum.”

  “He also owns a number of businesses in town?”

  “And is known for his charitable contributions. Over the years, he and his father before him have done a lot for the local area. Mr. Nelson has also donated heavily to the museum building fund and has been working with General Cameron to attract more donors. They’re hosting a special ceremony on Wednesday to secure the remaining pledges.”

  Dawson was aware of the event. “The CID, along with the military police on post, will be providing security for the high-profile guests.”

  Lillie nodded. “General Cameron wants everything to go without a glitch. Mr. Nelson personally assured the donors that Freemont and Fort Rickman are exemplary communities that will showcase the best in Georgia living and draw new businesses and attractions to this part of the state.”

  “You’re afraid the murder investigation could cause the donors to change their minds?”

  She nodded slowly, as if struggling to find the words to express her feelings. When she finally spoke, she splayed her hands. “I work in General Cameron’s office and am the contact person for those attending the ceremony. A pending murder investigation that involves the company, especially since Granger was killed on my property, could shed the wrong kind of light on Freemont and the project, maybe even on General Cameron. Especially if information leaks out about my mother’s murder.”

  After everything that had happened, Lillie wasn’t thinking rationally, but Dawson understood her concern. The museum project had been the talk of the post for months and everyone was eager for construction to commence. Small-town gossip could get out of hand, and with an abundance of charities needing funding, negative publicity could sway donors into changing their minds about supporting the building project.

  Before Dawson could offer her reassurance, Pritchard stepped back inside.

  “We’re ready to wrap things up.” He glanced at Lillie. “The front step is sealed off. Some of my men will return in the morning to go over the crime scene again. Use the kitchen entrance until I give you the all clear, and stay in the area in case we have more questions.”

  “I’m not planning to leave town.”

  Dawson stood and pulled two business cards from his pocket. He gave one to Pritchard. “The CID office phone number and my personal cell are under my name.”

  Retrieving the pen from his pocket, Dawson jotted down an additional number on the back of the card he handed Lillie. “I live in the bachelor officers’ quarters on post. The handwritten digits are for the direct line to my apartment at the BOQ.”

  A uniformed cop approached Pritchard. “We found some numbers scratched on a scrap of paper tucked in the victim’s jacket.”

  Pressure pushed on Dawson’s chest as Pritchard read from the paper. “Nine-seven-one-four.”

  Lillie stared at Dawson’s business card and silently mouthed the last four digits of his BOQ phone number. Nine-seven-one-four. The same numbers found in Granger’s jacket.

  She glanced up at Dawson. Her forehead furrowed.

  Oblivious to her questioning gaze, Pritchard pulled out his cell. “Might be a portion of a phone number. I’ll add the local prefix and see what we get.”

  Pritchard tapped in the digits and then shook his head as he disconnected. “The number’s not in service.”

  Dawson needed to leave the little house in the woods before the Freemont cop tried the unique prefix for Fo
rt Rickman phone lines.

  He turned to Lillie, who continued to stare at him. “Don’t hesitate to call me, ma’am, if you think of anything else that might have bearing on this case.”

  One of her finely arched brows rose ever so slightly. “Shall I use your cell phone or your BOQ number?”

  The muscle in Dawson’s neck twitched. “My cell.”

  Lillie knew he was withholding information from Pritchard. Just as she was.

  Maybe they could trade secrets.

  TWO

  The CID agent climbed into his car as Pritchard and his men prepared to leave the area. Instead of returning to Fort Rickman, Dawson turned right out of the driveway and sped along the rain-washed road that headed north toward the interstate. Rounding a bend, he passed under a train trestle and spied the lights from the Hi-Way Motel in the distance.

  The triangle of red, green and blue neon pointed toward the one-story brick building that offered small rooms at a modest rate for those who couldn’t afford the larger chain motels closer to Freemont. Vacancy, the sign flashed, begging for business.

  Pulling into the drive, Dawson cut his lights and circled to the rear of the complex. He parked under an oak tree away from the handful of cars in the back lot.

  Grabbing a pair of latex gloves from his console, Dawson hustled toward the last room on the far end of the building, the room where his father had said he was staying when he called three days ago. Dawson slipped his hands into the gloves and tried the knob, relieved when it turned.

  His eyes adjusted to the darkness. The bed was rumpled, pillows and comforter strewn over the nearby throw rug. Two dresser drawers hung open. An unzipped duffel bag sat on the floor next to a small desk and overturned lamp.

  Either a scuffle had ensued or someone had ransacked the room. Maybe both.

  Using his cell phone for light, Dawson checked the duffel, finding only underwear and socks. He opened the remaining dresser drawers. Empty except for a hardcover Bible. Standard toilet articles in the bathroom. Two shirts and a pair of jeans hung in the closet.