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 he could say anything else, she opened the front door. “Good night, Jamison.”
The door closed, and the lock clicked into place.
If only we could go back in time. The thought came unbidden. Jamison slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand to dispel the temptation.
He was finished with Michele. End of story. Going back would only cause more pain.
Jamison double-timed back to his car, slid behind the wheel and pulled onto the roadway. He needed to distance himself from the colonel’s daughter.
He had been hurt once.
Michele would never break his heart again.
TWO
Post security was imperative when a killer was on the loose. Jamison drove around Fort Rickman to ensure that the roadblocks were in place and the gates were well guarded. Heading back to his office, he realized, too late, that he had passed the turnoff to the CID headquarters and ended up in the area where the ranking officers lived.
The large brick quarters, built in the 1930s and ’40s, circled a parade field where units marched and bands played in better times. Tonight the post was locked down and on high alert.
His headlights cut through the foggy darkness, revealing the two-lane street littered with fallen leaves and branches stripped from the trees during the earlier storms. Had the murderer chosen tonight because of the adverse weather conditions, or had something else triggered his assault?
At the onset of any investigation, Jamison felt like a man in a rowboat, paddling through uncharted waters in the middle of a black night, never knowing where his journey would end. The fog lifted momentarily, revealing the Logans’ quarters.
Jamison almost smiled. He didn’t need to check on Michele. Military police were patrolling the colonel’s area. They were trained and competent, but for some reason, his radar had signaled the need to ensure that Michele was safe.
