The Colonel's Daughter

“Had she mentioned anyone acting strangely in the neighborhood? Or had she reconnected with anyone from her past recently?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Is she on Facebook or Twitter?”

“Yolanda emailed her husband and kept up with the brigade news on our wives’ loop. She never mentioned being on any social media sites.”

“How about her marriage?” Jamison glanced at both women. “Were there problems?”

Michele forced a sad smile. “They seemed to be the perfect couple. Devoted to each other and to their children.”

“Any other men in her life? An old friend?”

Mrs. Logan held up her hand. “You can stop that line of questioning, Jamison. Yolanda was a devoted wife. She adored her husband. I’ll vouch for their love and their marriage.”

“What about Greg Yates, the major’s husband? Were he and Mrs. Hughes friendly?”

“Friends but that’s all.”

“And his marriage?”

Mrs. Logan dropped her gaze and thought for a moment before she spoke. “Deployments are tough, Jamison. There’s been some talk, but only that.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Shirley and Greg plan to separate once she returns home with the unit.”

“How’s Mr. Yates handling the situation?”

“In my opinion, he’s in denial.”

“And Major Yates?”

“Stanley’s said she seems withdrawn.”

Jamison made note of the information. “Major Yates asked for the separation?”

“Evidently Shirley told Greg she was leaving him. He suggested they go through a period of separation first.” Mrs. Logan pursed her lips momentarily. “A few wives thought Shirley was interested in someone else.”

“Someone in the brigade?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could she be involved with Major Hughes?”

Mrs. Logan’s eyes widened in protest. “Absolutely not.”

“Is there anything about Major Hughes that seems questionable, ma’am? As far as you know, does he get along with the other officers in the brigade? Is there anyone who might hold a grudge against him?”

“My husband has always given Curtis high praise. He went to Iraq with Stanley, when my husband commanded his battalion some years ago. Stanley was thrilled when Curtis was assigned to the First of the Fifth shortly before the brigade deployed to Afghanistan.”

Jamison turned to Michele. “You’ve known Major and Mrs. Hughes since he worked for your father in the battalion?”

She nodded. “I used to babysit their kids. But if you think either Yolanda or her husband were involved in something that led to her death, you’re wrong.”

“I don’t suspect anything at this point.” Although he wanted to question Greg Yates. A spurned husband might retaliate against the man he perceived had stolen his wife. Even though Mrs. Logan vouched for Major Hughes’s fidelity, things happened, especially during a deployment.

Jamison closed his notebook and tucked it into his sports coat pocket. “What about the children, ma’am? Does Major Hughes have family in the area?”

“No one close by. Yolanda and Curtis are both from Missouri. I’m sure Benjamin and Natalie can stay at Erica Grayson’s house until relatives arrive.”

Dawson entered the kitchen. He handed the phone to Jamison. “Lieutenant Colonel Grayson is on the line.”

Jamison quickly explained the reason he had phoned. Grayson relayed the information to the commander. Colonel Logan knew Jamison from when he and Michele had dated, but there would be nothing personal about tonight’s call.

The commander’s voice was husky with emotion when he came on the line. “Was Roberta hurt? What about Michele?”

“They’re okay, sir.” As much as he hated giving Colonel Logan bad news, Jamison had to be forthright. Being deployed half a world away meant the colonel couldn’t protect his wife and daughter. Jamison could relate. Once upon a time, he had wanted to be the man keeping Michele safe.

“The perpetrator was in the house when Mrs. Logan and Michele arrived on the scene. Both women were shoved to the floor, sir. The medics checked them out. At this point, I don’t believe they’re going to need further medical care.”

“Thank God.”

“My sentiments exactly, sir.”

“How did it happen, Agent Steele? Aren’t the military police patrolling the housing areas? I’ve got a brigade of soldiers over here fighting to ensure that our world remains safe. Their families need to be protected, yet a killer gets on post and attacks my S-3’s wife.”

“Sir, we’ll use every resource available to apprehend the perpetrator and bring him to justice.”

“I want more than that. I want your assurance no one else will be injured.”

“That’s our goal, sir.”

The colonel let out a sigh. “I know you’re not to blame, but it’s hard to believe something like this could have occurred.”

Jamison filled him in on the few remaining details he knew, although he didn’t mention his concern about Greg Yates and his wife’s rumored infidelity. That could wait until the CID had more information.

“How’s Roberta taking it?” the colonel asked.

“As well as can be expected, sir. She wants to speak to you.” Jamison glanced at Michele before handing the phone to Mrs. Logan.

“I’m fine, Stanley,” she said immediately.

Jamison left the kitchen. Major Bret Hansen, the medical examiner, had arrived and was examining the body. The major looked up as Jamison entered the living room.

“Appears the perp used neuromuscular incapacitation to subdue her,” Hansen said.

“A stun gun?”

“More than likely.”

“That explains how he got in. Mrs. Hughes probably thought one of the wives had arrived early when she opened the door. The killer incapacitated her with the stun gun and was able to walk in without confrontation.”

“I’ll do the autopsy in the morning and let you know the results.”

“Sounds good, sir.”

Returning to the kitchen, Jamison caught Mrs. Logan’s eye. She raised her hand as if ready to finish her conversation.

“Erica should be able to keep the children until

Yolanda’s sister arrives. Have Curtis call me when he feels like talking.” Mrs. Logan nodded. “I love you, too, dear.”

Handing the phone to Michele, she said, “Your father wants to speak to you.”

Taking the cell from her mother, Michele walked to the corner of the kitchen to talk privately with her father.

Jamison helped Mrs. Logan to her feet.

“I’m sure Stan’s telling our daughter to take me home and keep me there. The man has enough to do without being concerned about my safety.”

“He loves you, ma’am.”

She nodded. “I’m lucky, Jamison. God gave me a wonderful husband and a good daughter, although she has an independent streak that worries me at times.”

“She knows what she wants.”

Mrs. Logan cocked her head and stared up at Jamison. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Hearing noise outside, Jamison headed to the front of the house. Opening the door, he saw three women standing on the sidewalk, their faces twisted in disbelief.

“Excuse me, Jamison. Those are some of the brigade wives.” Mrs. Logan shoved past him onto the porch. Pulling up the crime scene tape, she hurried toward the women.

Knowing her determination and desire to help the others, Jamison let her go. Any questions he still needed answered could wait.

Michele stepped onto the porch and handed him the phone. Her blue eyes had lost their brilliance, but they still had the power to draw him in just as they had done the first night they’d met at the club on post.

He turned from her, remembering the bitter taste of betrayal when Michele had left without explaining why. Usually he wasn’t prone to hold a grudge, but in this case, he couldn’t get past the sting of rejection. Maybe if she had told him what he had done wrong, Jamison might have been able to move on.

A beige van bearing the post maintenance company’s logo pulled into the cul-de-sac. A tall, lanky fellow, mid-forties, eased to the pavement, toting a toolbox and a flashlight. “Someone called in an emergency request?”

One of the military policemen motioned for him to follow. “Right this way.”

The tall guy smiled at Jamison. “Sir.” His gaze took in Michele. “Evening, ma’am.”

She nodded and, once again, wrapped her arms across her chest.

Extricating Mrs. Logan from the other brigade wives took longer than Jamison had expected. The women huddled around her like chicks surrounding a mother hen. She tried to assuage their fears, while Jamison cautioned them to remain vigilant until the killer was apprehended.

Michele knew most of the women and seemed as much a part of the group as her mother. She had the makings of a good army wife. Not that she seemed interested in marrying into the military. Her hasty departure from Fort Rickman had been ample proof she wanted nothing to do with Jamison or the army.

When the questioning had been completed and all the wives had left the area, Jamison drove Michele and her mother back to their home. A military policeman followed in Jamison’s car.

“We’re increasing patrols, especially in the housing areas, Mrs. Logan. I don’t want to alarm you, but as I told the other women, you need to be careful and cautious.”

“We will be, Jamison.”

“Did you hear from Greg Yates? I didn’t see him tonight.”

Mrs. Logan checked her phone. “He didn’t call. Maybe the weather kept him away.”

Maybe. Or maybe not.

After saying good-night, Mrs. Logan hurried inside, leaving Michele to linger on the front steps. Gazing down at the cement, she chewed her lower lip.

Finally, she glanced up. “Thanks for responding to my call for help.”

Jamison gave her a halfhearted smile that revealed nothing. “It’s my job.”

“Right.” She looked away but not fast enough to hide the frown that tightened her brow.

He glanced at the street where the military policeman had parked his car. Memories of other times they had said good-night on this very same porch flashed through his mind.

Pushing aside the thoughts, Jamison squared his shoulders. “You had best get inside. Be sure to lock the door behind you.”

She let out a frustrated breath. “Can’t we, at least, go back to first names?”

“All right.” He waited to see if she had anything else to say.

Michele tapped her hand against the wrought-iron banister and stared into the darkness, the silence heavy between them.

Finally, she broke the standoff. “How many military policemen will be in the area, Jamison?”

Her need for reassurance touched a chord in his heart. “Enough to keep you safe.”

“I guess—” She raised her chin and regarded him with questioning eyes. “That’s all we have to discuss.”

“Michele—”

Before he could say anything else, she opened the front door. “Good night, Jamison.”

The door closed, and the lock clicked into place.

If only we could go back in time. The thought came unbidden. Jamison slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand to dispel the temptation.

He was finished with Michele. End of story. Going back would only cause more pain.

Jamison double-timed back to his car, slid behind the wheel and pulled onto the roadway. He needed to distance himself from the colonel’s daughter.

He had been hurt once.

Michele would never break his heart again.

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.