Dawson groaned inwardly, dropped his feet to the floor and stood. “General Cameron’s secretary? The commanding general?”
“Yes, sir. The deceased pounded on the secretary’s door in the middle of the storm. She answered the knock just before the victim was shot.”
“A drive-by shooting?”
“I’m not sure, sir.”
“We’re talking about Lillie Beaumont?”
“Affirmative.”
“Was she hurt?”
“Negative, sir.”
“The victim...” Dawson swallowed, hoping to keep his voice level and free of inflection. “Do you have a positive ID?”
“Granger Ford. The guy was serving time for the murder of Ms. Beaumont’s mother. Fifteen years ago he was tried and found guilty. His case was recently reviewed, and new DNA testing exonerated him. Ten days have passed since he got out of prison in Atlanta. Now he’s dead.”
Dawson hung his head. Ringing filled his ears. His stomach soured, and for an instant, his world went dark. Granger had called him three nights ago. Not that Dawson had expected or wanted the phone call from his past.
“Shall I notify the staff duty officer at post headquarters?” Ray asked.
“Let headquarters know, and call General Cameron’s aide as well. Tell him I’ll check out the situation and report back to the general when I return to post.”
Dawson would tell the commanding general what the Freemont police had determined about the shooting and Lillie Beaumont’s involvement in the case. He wouldn’t reveal the truth about Granger Ford and the child he had fathered thirty-one years ago. A little boy raised by an unwed mother who had hardened her son’s heart to his drifter dad.
Dawson could forgive his mother’s bitterness, but he never forgave his father’s rejection. Now, with his death, the truth would come out. The last thing Dawson wanted was for the military to know his father was a murderer.
* * *
The storm had subsided by the time Dawson climbed behind the wheel of his Camry. Twigs and leaves cluttered the roadway as he left post and headed to the far side of Freemont, where Lillie lived. Turning his headlights to high beam, he pressed down on the accelerator and reached for his cell phone.
“I’m on my way into town,” Dawson said when Jamison Steele answered. Working together, the two agents had formed a strong friendship. Trust ran deep, and just days earlier Dawson had told Jamison about his past and the father he had never met.
“Otis said you agreed to handle the shooting.” Jamison let out a breath. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened and that you have to be the one to handle the case.”
“It’s not like Granger and I had a relationship. The last thing he wanted was a kid. My mother said he hightailed it out of town as soon as she told him she was pregnant. I never met him.”
“Still, it puts you in a difficult spot. I’ll explain the situation to Chief Wilson when he gets back to work on Monday.”
Dawson pursed his lips. “No need. I can fight my own battles. Besides, tonight should be fairly straightforward. I’ll ensure the Freemont cops handle the case appropriately. Once I share the information with General Cameron concerning his secretary, I’ll file my report and move on to the next case.”
“It’s Friday, Dawson. I’m hoping the weekend is crime-free.”
“Which might be wishful thinking.”
Jamison hesitated. “Have...have you told anyone else about your dad?”
“I didn’t see the need.” Dawson stared into the roadway ahead. “Of course, his death changes everything.”
“We’ll talk at the office.”
“Roger that.”
Dawson disconnected and shook his head with frustration. Granger had made a huge mistake visiting the daughter of the woman he was supposed to have murdered. From what Dawson had pieced together about his wayward father, Granger’s life had been as littered as the pavement with a series of wrong places, wrong times. Exactly what tonight felt like—a wrong turn that could end up detouring Dawson off the straight course he had chosen for his career in the army.
When he saw the secretary’s house in the distance, his gut tightened. Police lights flashed from the driveway. The crime-scene crew hovered around the front porch, where a man’s body lay spotlighted in the rain. Maybe this homicide wouldn’t be as cut-and-dried as he had first imagined.
Pulling to a stop, Dawson sucked in a deep breath before he stepped into the wet night. His left leg ached. More than a year had passed since he’d taken a bullet, but the pain remained and grew more insistent with the cold weather.
He rubbed his hands together and grabbed the keys from the ignition, his mouth dry. Steeling himself against any unwanted rush of emotion, he approached the crime-scene tape and held up his identification to the closest cop.
“CID, from Fort Rickman. Who’s in charge?”
The guy pointed to the house. “Head through the kitchen. Sergeant Ron Pritchard’s inside with Ms. Beaumont.”
“Is she a suspect?”
The cop shrugged. “All I know is that we found her huddled in the hallway, crying like a baby.”
Dawson hesitated for a moment and then glanced down at the victim’s twisted body. Regret washed over him. This wasn’t the way life should end. Granger had been shot in the back, probably with a forty-five caliber hollow point from the appearance of the wound.
In stark contrast to the grisly death scene, beds of yellow pansies edged the small front stoop. Ignoring the flowers, Dawson circled the house, picking his way through the wet grass. The back porch, trimmed in white latticework, was graced with more winter blooms that danced in the wind, oblivious to the crime that had recently been committed.
Stepping into the kitchen, he opened his navy windbreaker and wiped his shoes on the small entry rug. The smell of the wet outdoors followed him inside and mixed with the homey scent of pumpkin and spice. A large melon-colored candle sat on the counter near a bouquet of yellow mums and a plaque that read, God bless this home and all those who enter.
The irony wasn’t lost on Dawson, yet surely death hadn’t been Granger’s just reward. The estranged son might have argued the point before the phone call, before Granger had asked forgiveness. Something Dawson hadn’t been able to give. Now he wasn’t sure how he felt. A little numb, a bit confused, even angry. Long ago, he had realized it was better not to feel anything than to feel too much.
Entering the living area, he signaled to the officer in charge, held up his badge and nodded as the local cop continued to question the woman huddled on the couch.
Lillie’s life had been inexplicably intertwined with Dawson’s, although he doubted she was aware her mother’s killer had a son. They’d never been introduced, but Dawson had
