The Colonel's Daughter. Debby Giusti
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