Debby Giusti - The General's Secretary

Now she wondered if she could trust him. How had he known about the motel room? Could he have been one of the people Granger claimed had framed him? If so, Dawson was the last person Lillie should meet. Yet, he now had the key that might unlock information about her mother’s disappearance.

Lillie needed to be smart and careful, which meant having something to hold over Dawson’s head if things got ugly. Grabbing her phone, she dialed her private line at work that hooked into the voice mail she checked each morning as soon as she arrived at her desk.

If something happened to her, General Cameron’s aide would eventually review the messages. “This is Lillie Beaumont,” she said once the call transferred to voice mail.

She glanced at the clock on her dash. “It’s four-thirty a.m. I’m on my way to the truck stop at the exit north of town to meet CID Special Agent Dawson Timmons concerning Granger Ford’s death. If something should happen to me, question Agent Timmons.”

Years earlier her mother had disappeared on a stormy night. She glanced at the leaves and branches strewn across the road. Meeting Dawson could put her own life in danger.

A shiver slipped down her spine. Lillie had to ensure that she wouldn’t disappear on this stormy night like her mother.

THREE

Dawson parked on the far side of the truck stop where his car wouldn’t be seen from the interstate. Quickly pulling out the wax kit he kept in his glove compartment, he made a mold of Lillie’s key. Later, if need be, he could make a duplicate.

Leaving his car, he rounded to the front of the one-story stucco building and glanced at the few cars driving along the highway, their lights cutting through the darkness. The rain had stopped, but a wind blew from the west. He rubbed his bare hands together as he approached the all-night diner and peered through the large windows. Standing behind the counter, a waitress poured coffee for two husky guys in parkas.

Dawson wiped his feet on the doormat, frustrated by the damp cold that gnawed at the old gunshot wound to his leg. He thought of the investigation that had left him injured, hating the ever-present limp and accompanying pain.

Stepping inside, Dawson unsnapped his windbreaker and nodded to the waitress, who raised a pot of coffee. He held up two fingers and pointed to the booth where Lillie sat. She watched him approach the table and slide into the seat across from her.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he said, adding a smile to counter her frosty glare.

“You have something that belongs to me,” she said in lieu of a greeting.

The waitress approached with two mugs she quickly filled. “You folks want breakfast?”

“Coffee’s fine.” Lillie dumped a packet of sweetener and a significant amount of cream into her mug.

“Two eggs over easy, hash browns, sausage and biscuits.” Dawson eyed Lillie. “You like grits?”

“Of course, but—”

“Make that two orders with grits.”

The waitress scurried back to the kitchen.

Lillie raised her brow. “I don’t need breakfast.”

“Maybe not, but it’s been a long night.” He glanced at the men at the nearby counter and lowered his voice. “I’m glad you decided to meet me.”

She wrapped her fingers around the chunky mug. “Did I have a choice?”

“You could have gone home.”

“I need my key.”

She held out her hand, palm up, which he ignored.

“You tried the key at the motel,” Dawson said, “thinking it would open the door. Evidently Granger didn’t tell you what it unlocked when he called you.”

She tilted her head and braced her shoulders before she leaned across the table, her voice low. “When did he call nine-seven-one-four, the number on your business card?”

Touché. Ms. Beaumont had a mind and wasn’t afraid to use it. He stretched back in the booth. “You’ve developed a bit of an attitude since you left your house, Lillie. What happened?”

“I realized you may be more of a problem than an asset.”

“Which means?”

“I thought I could trust you.”

He shrugged. “I’m working for Uncle Sam. I’m trustworthy.”

“Really, Dawson?” She raised a brow and stared at him across the table.

He almost smiled at the cute way her nose turned up and the handful of freckles that dotted her cheeks, neither of which he had noticed earlier. “Let’s make a trade. Okay? You go first.”

She shook her head. “I’ve already told you everything.”

“Why did Granger pick tonight to stop by your house?”

“He was on the run. As I mentioned, someone found him and beat him.”

“But why?”

“Because he was trying to uncover the truth about what happened to my mother.” Lillie glanced at the waitress then back at Dawson. “I overheard the prosecuting attorney talking to my foster parents before Granger’s trial began. The lawyer was worried the evidence wouldn’t be enough to find him guilty. Everyone wanted to pin the crime on someone. Granger was the logical choice.”

Dawson’s muscles tensed. “Do you know that for sure?”

She leaned in closer. “All I know is someone wanted my mother dead, only I never knew who. At the time, it was easier to believe Granger was guilty.”

“And now?”

“Now I want everything to go back to the way it was before Granger knocked on my door.” She sighed. “Only there’s no going back.”

“Why would someone want to kill your mother?”

“I thought it was because of me. That I had done something wrong.”

“Which doesn’t make sense, Lillie.”

“Not to an adult, but children always believe they’re at fault when something bad happens.”

Dawson thought of his own childhood. For too long, he had blamed himself for his absentee father.

Lillie pointed a slender finger at him. “Now it’s your turn, Mr. CID Agent. How are you involved?”

“I’m representing the military in the investigation.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

She was right, but Dawson wasn’t ready to reveal anything else.

His cell rang. He pulled the mobile phone from his pocket. “Timmons.”

“Pritchard here. Thought you might be interested in the latest.”

“Hold on a second.” Dawson glanced at Lillie. “I need to take this call.”

Without waiting for her response, he slid from the booth and hustled outside. The chilly night air swirled around him. He pushed the phone to his ear. “Go ahead.”

“The victim rented a room at the Hi-Way Motel. We’re there now.”

“Did you find anything that has bearing on his death?” Dawson asked.

“A photo cut from the local newspaper of a guy named Billy Everett was hidden in the motel Bible.”

The one place Dawson hadn’t looked.

“Everett got into trouble a few years back,” the cop continued. “The news photo was taken when we hauled him in for questioning. We didn’t have enough evidence and eventually had to release him.”

“Had he been arrested before?”

“For possession. Did some time. Claimed he had cleaned up his life, but the guy’s got problems. Not too smart, and years of abusing drugs haven’t helped.”

“So why would Granger have his picture?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Do me a favor,” Dawson said. “Fax me a copy of the photo.”

“Will do.”

“Any indication Everett was involved in tonight’s shooting?”

“A lamp was overturned, and the bedding was disheveled. Looks like there could have been a scuffle.”

Or someone was looking for something, such as a key, which Dawson didn’t mention. He raked his hands across his face, needing the coffee he hadn’t had a chance to drink.

“If they had argued—” Dawson went along with Pritchard’s theory “—why would Granger go to Lillie’s house?”