Debby Giusti - The Colonel's Daughter

Finding nothing out of place and no one upstairs, he returned to the main landing and ensured that Michele and her mother were all right before he opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. Three military police cars screeched to the curb. An ambulance followed close behind. Across the street, neighbors came out of their homes and stared with worried expressions at the activity.

Jamison directed the military police. “The victim’s in the living room, first floor. Two children are spending the night with friends. Husband is deployed. Colonel Logan’s wife and daughter are in the hallway and need medical attention. The electricity is down. Get some temporary lighting in there ASAP.”

A military policeman began to cordon off the area with crime scene tape.

“Someone go door to door,” Jamison ordered. “Question the neighbors. See if anyone saw anything suspicious.”

“Roger that, sir.” A stocky military policeman motioned for another MP to join him, and the twosome hustled to a nearby set of quarters.

The medics raced up the front steps. Jamison followed them inside. One man moved into the living area. The other two knelt beside Mrs. Logan and Michele.

Assured they were being adequately cared for, Jamison returned to the porch to oversee the bevy of activity. A young military policeman approached him.

“Sir, the power line to the house appears to have been severed. The on-post maintenance company has been notified. They’re sending someone to fix the line.”

“Dust for prints first.”

“Roger that, sir.”

“How long until he arrives?”

“They said he’d be here shortly.”

“Did they give you an exact time?”

“No, sir.”

A car pulled into the driveway. CID special agent Dawson Timmons—a tall blond with a thick neck—climbed onto the sidewalk. Favoring his right leg, he approached Jamison, who quickly filled him in.

“What do you need me to do?” Dawson asked.

“Take care of the crime scene. I want to question Mrs. Logan and her daughter and get them out of here as soon as possible. The victim was hosting a potluck for the brigade wives. The guests should be arriving soon. Talk to them individually to see if they have information pertinent to the case.”

“How many ladies are we expecting?”

“Eighteen plates were stacked on a table in the dining room.”

Dawson glanced at the unit insignia plaque on the front door. “First Brigade, Fifth Infantry Division should be home next week.”

Jamison nodded. “Contact Lieutenant Colonel Grayson, the unit’s executive officer, in Afghanistan. Tell him I need to talk to Colonel Logan. Once the other wives arrive, word about the murder will get out. I don’t want Major Hughes to learn what happened to his wife via Twitter or Facebook.”

As Dawson placed the call, Jamison reentered the house. Huge battery-operated floodlights illuminated the earlier darkened interior. The medics had moved Mrs. Logan and Michele to the kitchen, where the women sat at the small breakfast table.

Mrs. Logan sported a bandage on her forehead and stared up at one of the EMTs. “If my blood pressure is okay after all that, young man, I’m not going to the hospital. But I appreciate your advice and the excellent care you’ve provided tonight.”

“I still think you and Miss Logan should have a doctor check you, ma’am.”

Michele stood and stepped toward Jamison, her voice low when she spoke. “Mother insists she’s okay, although I’d feel better if a doctor looked her over.”

“Are you planning to take your own advice?” Frustrated by Michele’s attempt to slip back into their old familiarity, Jamison realized his tone was sharp.

She stared at him for a long moment, then turned and walked back to her seat. “If Mother has any problems, we’ll reconsider her decision.”

She was closing herself off from him. Again. He shouldn’t be surprised. Being with Michele drove home the point Jamison had known for months. The colonel’s daughter wasn’t for him. She had left him high and dry without as much as a so long, see you later. He thought he had healed, but tonight the memory festered like an open wound.

“Jamison, any clue who the murderer might be?” Mrs. Logan asked once the medics had cleared the room. Her face was blotched, but she seemed more in control than she had been earlier.

“No, ma’am. But I ordered a post lockdown on the way over here. No one goes on or off Fort Rickman until the military police search the garrison. Right now they’re crisscrossing the post in an attempt to find the perpetrator.”

“Curtis Hughes needs to be told.”

“We’re placing a call to your husband so he can personally notify Major Hughes.”

Mrs. Logan nodded her approval. “I want to talk to Stanley after you do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Michele’s cheeks had more color than when he’d first spotted her in the hallway, but her jaw was tight and her eyes guarded.

He pulled a small notebook and a U.S. government pen from his coat pocket and kept his face impassive as he thought of questions that begged to be answered. Why’d you leave me, Michele? What happened that made you run away?

Shoving them aside, he asked instead, “Did you see anything out of place, Miss Logan, before you noticed the body?”

“Miss Logan?” She narrowed her gaze and squared her shoulders in an attempt to cover the flash of confusion that clouded her face. Evidently, she didn’t understand his decision to forgo first names.

No matter how alluring Michele might be, Jamison refused to expose his own inner conflict. He needed to remain professional and aloof, firmly grounded in the present.

Michele tugged at a wayward strand of hair and glanced down as if struggling to find the right words to express what had happened.

“I...I heard a noise and decided to investigate.” She pulled in a deep breath. “A lamp...the room was dark...the smell of blood. Wh...when I stepped closer, I...I saw Yolanda.”

“What happened next?”

“Someone shoved me into the couch.”

Jamison tensed. His mouth went dry. He swallowed, knowing all too well what the killer could have done to Michele. “Can you describe the person?”

She shook her head. “He struck from behind. I never saw him.”

Jamison turned to Mrs. Logan. “Did you see him, ma’am?”

“I’m afraid not. My eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness, and everything happened so fast.”

“Before entering the quarters, did either of you notice anyone outside? Or anything that seemed out of the ordinary?”

“Mother and I were talking as we drove up. I’m afraid we weren’t being observant, Agent Steele.”

Jamison almost smiled at her attempt to play hardball. Evidently, she didn’t realize he’d built a wall around his heart and added armor for protection. Michele wouldn’t hurt him again. He’d learned his lesson and had the scars to prove it.

“You’re still working for that insurance company?” he asked.

“That’s right. Patriotic Life.”

“Doing risk management?”

“And working from home, if that’s your next question.” She crossed her legs and braced her spine, confrontation evident as she shifted positions.

The pulse in his neck throbbed. “Do you have a list of tonight’s guests?”

“Mother does on her computer. I can print a copy for you.”

“How many people, other than the eighteen women who were invited, may have known about the potluck?”

Michele glanced at her mother for help. “I’m not sure.”

“Seventeen women and one man,” Mrs. Logan corrected Jamison. “Major Shirley Yates is in charge of logistics for the brigade. Her husband, Greg, usually attends the events when we get together.”