The Colonel's Daughter (2 page)

A small table and chair sat nestled in an alcove behind the love seat. Michele tried to make out the dark outline on the pale carpet.

“Yolanda?” From the kitchen, Roberta called one more time. Her voice was filled with question and a tremble that signified she, too, sensed something was wrong.

Michele’s pulse quickened as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Newspapers lay scattered around an overturned lamp.

Her stomach tightened.

A roar filled her ears. She stepped around the couch and saw the woman lying in a pool of blood.

“No!” Michele’s hand flew to her throat in the exact spot where Yolanda’s neck had been cut.

A rustle sounded behind her. Before she could turn, a violent force lunged into her. She crashed against the back of the couch. Her ribs took the blow. Pain exploded along her side and mixed with air that whooshed from her lungs. She gasped, and for an instant saw only darkness.

Retreating footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Her mother screamed.

Michele fisted her hands and willed herself to remain conscious. A door slammed shut in the rear of the house.

Still gasping for air, she struggled to her feet and stumbled out of the living area, her only thought to find her mother and make sure she was alive.

Lightning turned the darkness bright for one terrifying second. Roberta lay slumped against the wall.

Dropping to her knees, Michele touched her mother’s shoulder. “Mama?”

Roberta moaned. Her eyes blinked open.

Relief rushed over Michele along with a wave of nausea. She hung her head to stave off the passing sickness and dug in her pocket for her cell phone.

A face flashed through her mind. Without weighing the consequences, she punched Speed Dial for a number she should have deleted ten months ago.

He answered on the second ring.

“Criminal Investigation Division, Fort Rickman, Georgia. This is Special Agent Jamison Steele.”

The memory of his warm embrace and tender kisses washed over her. For one sweet, illogical second, she felt safe.

“Hello?” He waited for a response.

“Jamison—”

A sharp intake of air. “Michele?”

“I need help.” Rubbing her free hand over her forehead, she tried to focus. “I’m at Quarters 122. In the Buckner Housing Area. Contact the military police.”

“What happened?”

“One of the wives... Her husband’s in Afghanistan. He’s in my father’s brigade. She was hosting a potluck for the brigade wives. Someone broke in—”

Jamison issued a series of commands to a person in his office. “I’m on the way, Michele. The military police are being notified. I’ll be there in three minutes. Are you hurt?”

“I...I’m okay. It’s Yolanda Hughes.”

Michele swallowed down the lump that filled her throat. “Yolanda’s dead.”

* * *

Heart in his throat, Jamison pulled to the curb and hit the ground running, weapon in one hand, Maglite in the other.

Stay calm.
Ignoring the internal advice, his gut tightened when he stepped into the house and spied Michele on the floor with her arm around her mother.

For an instant, he was once again the man who loved Michele more than anything. Swallowing hard, Jamison shoved aside any lingering hope for a future together, a future that had died when she walked out of his life.

Raw fear flashed from her blue eyes and cut through his resolve to remain neutral. Ten months ago, her smile had lit up his world. Today Michele’s face was as pale as death and furrowed with pain.

Head buried in her daughter’s shoulder, Mrs. Logan cried softly. Michele nudged her gently. “Jamison’s here, Mama.”

The older woman glanced up, her eyes red and swollen. “Oh, Jamison. Yolanda... A man raced past me and out the back door. I...I tried to stop him.”

“Did he hurt you?” His gaze fell on Michele. Tousled brown hair hung around her oval face.

“We’re both a little bruised. Nothing serious. But Yolanda—” Unable to continue, Michele raised a trembling hand and pointed to the living area.

“Stay where you are,” he cautioned, struggling to remain objective. “The ambulance is on its way.”

A rank, coppery smell greeted Jamison as he entered the living room. He aimed his light over the blood that had soaked into the thick carpet, blackening the fibers.

His gut twisted at the tragic sight.

The victim was an African-American female. Probably mid- to late-thirties. Shoulder-length brown hair. Dark eyes wide open. The look of terror etched on her face.

A deep laceration had severed her carotid artery. Massive blood loss pooled under her upper torso.

Kneeling beside the woman, he felt for a pulse, yet knew full well life had been heinously snatched from Yolanda Hughes. Her wrist was supple and still warm. No rigor mortis. Not yet.

He tried the light switch, then played the Maglite over the living room. His gaze settled ever so briefly on the family photograph above the mantel. The deceased was smiling warmly, her hands on the shoulders of a man in uniform. Major’s rank on his epaulets. Two children. A boy and girl.

The dread of finding the children dead roared through Jamison. He strode back to the hallway. “Mrs. Hughes had kids?”

Michele held up her hand, palm out. “They’re at the Graysons’. Lieutenant Colonel Grayson is my father’s executive officer. The two families are close. The Grayson kids invited Benjamin and Natalie to stay with them tonight.”

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Jamison moved quickly into the kitchen and edged open the back door. He stepped outside and studied the darkness, knowing the killer was long gone.

Retracing his steps, Jamison headed toward the flickering candlelight and checked the dining area before he scurried up the stairs to the second floor. Sirens screamed in the distance.

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.”

“Has he been to Mrs. Hughes’s home previously?” Jamison asked.

Mrs. Logan nodded. “Yes, of course. Yolanda entertains often.”

“Mr. Yates lives on post?”

“In Freemont. Greg has a son from a previous marriage, but I believe he’s in college. No telling who else knew about the potluck. Yolanda probably shared the information with some of her neighbors. She scrapbooks with a group of women in her housing area. Those wives might have known.”

“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.”