The Colonel's Daughter Page 4

“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.

&nb
sp; 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.

  THREE

  Michele drummed her hand on the steering wheel as she sat in the line of cars snaking their way through the Main Gate. Up ahead a military policeman worked with two civilian gate guards, checking the vehicles leaving post.

  Across the median, a swarm of MPs searched the interior—as well as under the hood and in the trunk—of every car entering the garrison. Trucks were subject to more detailed scrutiny. With Fort Rickman on lockdown, law enforcement was ensuring that no one brought anything suspicious on or off post without their knowledge.

  Though she was reassured by the thoroughness of the military police, Michele was frustrated by the delay. Her eyes turned upward, taking in the darkening sky and the wind that picked through the Spanish moss hanging from the stately oaks that lined the side of the road. If she didn’t reach the cemetery soon, she could get caught in a downpour.

  The whole post was on edge, and rightfully so. Anyone with a smattering of knowledge about army operations could easily learn the names of the deployed soldiers. A quick search of a Fort Rickman phone book would provide home addresses where family members would be easy targets.

  Had Yolanda been a random victim? Or was she chosen because her husband was deployed and she was alone?

  A number of times last night, Michele had heard cars driving by outside. Looking from her bedroom window, she’d seen a steady stream of military police sedans patrolling the area. The added protection should have made her feel more secure but only drove home the fact that a killer was on the loose. The only time she’d felt safe was when Jamison was with her. But his presence created its own set of problems.

  Michele rubbed her hand over her stomach in an attempt to quell the nervous confusion eating at her. She needed to push thoughts of him aside and concentrate on getting to the cemetery before the next round of storms.

  The line of traffic moved forward. Michele edged her car toward the gate and stopped in front of the guard. He glanced into the interior of her vehicle and then checked her trunk before he waved her on.

  As she left the post, she passed three media vans parked in a clearing at the side of the road. Camera crews stood in a huddle, no doubt eager to broadcast the latest news about Yolanda’s death.

  Once she was on Freemont Road, Michele increased her speed and after a series of turns spied the front entrance to the cemetery up ahead. Putting on her signal, she turned onto the narrow road, full of twists and turns, that meandered through the sprawling grounds of gentle knolls and stands of trees.

  Lance had loved the outdoors, and her parents had chosen a secluded burial plot atop a small rise that provided a clear view of the surrounding grounds. Michele parked on the grass just short of the rise.

  As a precaution and noting the recent drop in temperature, she grabbed a raincoat off the backseat and, with her purse and flowers in hand, trudged up the incline. The ground, still damp from last night’s rain, cushioned her footfalls.

  Over her right shoulder, she noticed a car parked near a cluster of monuments shaded by a giant oak tree. A man stood nearby. As she watched, he raised binoculars to his eyes and stared in her direction.

  The hair on the back of her neck tingled. Unable to ignore the warning, she shivered, not from the wind that whipped around her but from her own nervousness. Lightning danced across the sky followed by the rumble of thunder.

  Thankful for the waterproof slicker, Michele shrugged into the thick vinyl and pulled her hair free from the neck of the coat. She felt violated by the man’s prying gaze and wrapped the coat across her chest as she hurried on to the crest of the hill.

  Once there, she glanced back, relieved to see that the man with the binoculars had climbed into his car to leave the cemetery. Turning her thoughts to Lance, she approached the rear of his monument.

  Instead of a small and simple military marker, her parents had chosen a larger memorial with Lance’s picture etched into the front of the stone. As a template for his likeness, they had used a photograph Michele had taken at his graduation from flight school.

  She and her parents had attended the ceremony at Fort Rucker, Alabama, and had been so proud of Lance, standing tall in his uniform in front of the American flag he loved. Three months later, his chopper crashed and exploded into a flaming inferno that took his life.

  Stopped by the painful memory, Michele touched the cool granite. “Oh, Lance,” she sighed, wishing she weren’t alone with her grief. Her mother never came with her, never even wanted to, which Michele didn’t understand.

  She thought of Jamison. Would he have accepted her invitation if she had asked him? Probably not. He had a murder to solve.

  From out of nowhere, the smell of blood wafted past her. Yolanda’s bleeding body swam before her eyes. Michele bristled, annoyed with the tricks her mind was playing.

  Struggling to shrug off the frightful memory, she rounded the monument and peered down, expecting to find her brother’s likeness smiling up at her.

  At first unable to comprehend what she was seeing, Michele leaned closer. Then, like an arrow to her heart, realization hit.

  She gasped. The flowers dropped to the rain-dampened earth. Lightning ripped across the sky. Seconds later, thunder mixed with the roar of her pounding pulse.

  Vandals had chiseled thick gashes into Lance’s image, turning his handsome countenance into a macabre caricature. The marks cut into the stone exactly where the killer’s kn
ife had slashed Yolanda’s flesh. A dark, viscous substance covered the mutilation and dripped like blood over his name and the date of his death.

  Unable to look any longer at the defacement, Michele turned and ran away. Down the hill she fled, trying to distance herself from the desecration of her brother’s grave. Fat raindrops pummeled her face and mixed with the tears cascading down her cheeks.

  She skidded. Her feet slipped on the wet grass. Stumbling, she righted herself and hurried on. Michele reached the road on the opposite side of a sharp curve from where she had parked her car.

  The sky opened up as if it, too, were weeping for the dead. She dug in her purse, searching for her keys, and raced around the bend, hardly able to see because of the tears flooding her eyes.

  The sound of tires rolling over asphalt startled her. She glanced up. Her heart jammed in her throat.

  A car loomed in front of her.

  Black sedan, tinted windows. The chrome hood ornament was headed straight for her.

  She lunged, trying to jump clear.

  The fender and outer side panel swiped against her thigh and sent her flying like a rag doll. Hot streaks of pain ricocheted through her body. She fell to the ground, clutching her leg and gasping for breath.

  Unable to cry for help, Michele lay in pouring rain enveloped by darkness.

  * * *

  Jamison’s heart stopped as he pulled into the cemetery. In one terrifying flash, he saw it all play out.

  Michele!

  Accelerating, he raced forward, taking the turns at breakneck speed. Please, God, let her be okay.

  Punching Speed Dial on his cell, he connected with the local police. “Hit-and-run at the Freemont Cemetery. Send an ambulance and police. Now!”

  Fear clamped down on his gut. Would he get to her in time?

  Halfway into the last curve, the tires lost traction. Jamison eased up on the accelerator and turned the wheel into the skid. Once the car had straightened, he put his foot on the gas and closed the distance to where she lay.

  Leaping from his car, he charged across the rain-sloshed grass. His only thought was Michele.

  Fingers of dread clawed at his throat. The rain eased as he dropped to his knees beside her.