looking over her shoulder. Especially now, with her suspicion that the general had been murdered.
She slathered mustard on a fat bratwurst and took a healthy bite, which she immediately regretted. Her throat was too tight to swallow. And her stomach twisted in a knot.
Forcing herself to gulp down the brat, Julia realized that she had to be really, truly upset if she was having trouble eating. Usually, she had a cast-iron stomach. “Paul, there’s something else.”
“Okay.” He led her to a round table, and gallantly held her chair while she sat.
Though there was no one nearby, she lowered her voice. “It’s about the general. I have reason to believe he was murdered.”
“Tell me why.”
She hesitated. Supposedly, confession was good for the soul. But she hated admitting what she’d done. Throughout her career with the FBI, she’d been an exemplary agent. No mistakes. No black marks on her record.
Quietly, Paul said, “All the evidence points to suicide. The door to the general’s bedroom was locked. Your surveillance tapes show that no one entered or exited. We checked the window, and it showed no sign of tampering. There were other fingerprints in the room, but none on the gun. No sign of a struggle. No blood spatters to indicate he was shot somewhere else, then laid out on the bed.”
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