He had expected that question, and it was easy enough to answer. “This is the first time I’ve been close enough to do anything about it. And the first time in a long time that my life has slowed down enough to follow through.”
With special tactics training and assignments in both Bosnia and Kosovo, he’d just not had the time to do it. But after he’d attended the funeral for Dave Krukshank, who had been killed in that training accident, Rich had begun to see how empty his life had been. And he’d begun to think about his own mortality. If he died, who would mourn for him?
He didn’t think he’d ever have a family of his own, but maybe Sherry would. Rich looked too much like his abusive father, and he didn’t want to put any other children through what he’d been through as a child. He was big, he was strong, he was well trained. He could use what he had to save the world. But, he didn’t dare dream about a family of his own.
Rich had hopes that world events would not intrude for a while, or at least that he wouldn’t be required to participate in them. He’d been on the fast track far too long. He needed time to breathe.
“You’re from Fort Walton Beach, then?” She started to write on a yellow pad.
“No, Val-P,” he said, referring to Valparaiso, a town just to the east of sprawling Eglin Air Force Base—the huge military installation that dwarfed Hurlburt, where he was assigned.
Jennifer looked up from the pad. “I sure don’t want to send away a paying customer, but have you tried to find her yourself? Surely, you have friends in common. Other relatives?”
Rich shook his head. “Sherry’s my only family. I tried looking myself, but nothing panned out. Called the high school. Looked in the phone book. Directory assistance. Everything I could think of. Even found a listing for the Parkers, our foster family. They haven’t heard from her in years.” He blew out a long, tired breath. “I came up with zip. That’s why I’m here. Hell, I don’t even know if she’s still in the area.”
He slumped back into the uncomfortable, straight-backed chair, and it creaked with the added weight.
Jennifer smiled. “It sounds like you’ve made a good start, but there are still some avenues I can try.”
He sat up straighter. “Like what?”
“Mostly computer stuff. You’d be surprised what you can find online if you know where to look. If you can give me some basic information about your sister, I should be able to track her down.”
She asked several questions, jotted down the answers, took his address and phone number, then put down her pen. “I’ll start working on this right away, Mr. Larsen.”
“Tech Sergeant,” he corrected, then smiled. “Rich.” He started to offer his hand again, then remembered the jolt he’d gotten the last time. He stuck it in his pocket, instead. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”
He got up and headed for the door. Turning and looking back over his shoulder, he smiled. She didn’t look like much of a detective, but maybe she could do the computer search thing. Besides, she did have an ex-combat controller for a partner. “Thanks. I hope you’ll have something for me soon.”
JENNIFER couldn’t believe her first case had been as easy as this. She’d spent an afternoon on the computer, searching through data bases, and had come up with the information Rich—Tech Sergeant Larsen, she reminded herself—wanted. She wavered between waiting a little longer to make it look as though she’d worked harder, or calling him right away.
She called.
She wouldn’t have charged him for the extra time anyway, but she knew how much he’d wanted to find his sister. He hadn’t said so, but she’d seen the wistful look in his blue eyes when he’d spoken about her.
Of course, she’d gotten his machine.
So, now she was whiling away her time working on her plants. If only another customer would walk in off the street. Just not one as potent as TSgt. Larsen. And, maybe with a slightly more challenging request.
She puttered in her indoor garden, losing herself in Zen-like meditation. Working with the plants soothed her. When life with her ex had been at its rockiest, her plants had been her salvation. She smiled as she loosened the soil around a split-leafed Philodendron she’d nursed back from near death.
The phone rang.
Jennifer jerked out of her trance-like state and dropped the cultivator on her foot. That brought her back to her senses, and she limped to the phone. “Yes? I mean, Checkmate Detective Agency,” she said sharply as she sat down and massaged the red mark.
It was Rich Larsen returning her call.
“I’ve found an address for your sister,” she said, ready to provide the details.
To her surprise, Rich uttered a too-familiar exclamation. “Hoo-ah!” Then he hung up.
Stunned by what that single two-syllable word, the all-purpose cry of exclamation that combat controllers used, meant, Jennifer stood, holding the receiver until the phone company off-the-hook signal chimed in.
Her ex-husband was a combat controller. Was Rich Larsen one of them?
RICH MADE the ten-minute drive from his apartment just outside Hurlburt AFB in five. Good thing the afternoon rush wasn’t yet in full swing. He hadn’t bothered to change from his camouflage battle dress uniform; he’d just rushed out. He wasn’t supposed to be wearing BDUs on the street, but he didn’t give a damn about the regulations. This was too important.
He was pulling into a parking spot across from the agency when he realized that Ms. Bishop could have told him over the phone. He shrugged. He was here now.
He grabbed his scarlet beret, jammed it on his head, then locked the truck. He had to know what Ms. Bishop had uncovered. God, he hadn’t even thought to ask whether it was good news or bad.
Preparing for the worst, but hoping for the best, he shouldered open the door.
Ms. Bishop was waiting at the desk. Today she had her hair pulled back from the sides and anchored at the nape of her neck with a large barrette. She had on another flowered dress, and until she stood, she again looked like a member of the church choir.
The dress did nothing to disguise the sinful curves below that angelic face, however, and when she rose to greet him, he drew in a short breath. He said nothing, just waited for the blood to rush back to his brain.
“I’ve typed everything up for you,” she said, handing him a sheet of paper. “She’s married now….” Ms. Bishop glanced down at her notes. “To Michael Connolly. They live in Pensacola. Here’s the phone number,” she said, tapping the spot on the sheet.
Rich took the paper from her and held it gingerly as if it were a live grenade. He looked down at the information, neatly typed, and wondered at the ordinariness of it. A name, a social security number, an address and phone number. Name, rank and serial number. Everything you needed to prove you were real.
Was it real? Had Ms. Bishop really located his sister so quickly? He looked up from the paper, and he swallowed. “Did you call?” Why was his voice so thick and husky?
She
