bulb shone through a bathroom window. Slowing his speed, he studied the area around the house, looking for anything that could signal danger for the women inside. Extending his search, he checked the entire block before he returned to her street.
A military police patrol car approached from the opposite direction. Not wanting to explain why he was in the area, Jamison turned at the next intersection and headed back to CID headquarters.
Along the way, he tried to convince himself that he would have done the same thing no matter who had been a witness in the investigation. Deep down, he knew the truth. Michele had been the only reason for his late-night detour.
Once behind his desk, Jamison placed a call to the CID in Afghanistan and filled them in on what had happened at Fort Rickman. A special agent by the name of Warner took the information and assured Jamison he’d see what he could uncover about Major Shirley Yates. If she had previously had a romantic relationship or was currently having an affair, Warner would find out who was involved and contact Jamison with the information. He would also check out Major Hughes to ensure that the murder wasn’t an act of revenge against the victim’s husband.
For the rest of the night, Jamison pored over the crime scene photos and information collected so far. By morning, his shoulders ached. He scooted his chair back and picked up a photo taken of the Hughes’ kitchen and the door through which the killer had escaped.
In the corner of the same picture, the photographer had also captured Michele, standing by the table, arms wrapped across her chest. The look on her face provided a clear image of the turmoil she must have been experiencing internally. The shock of finding a murder victim was hard on anyone, especially so for a woman who ran from conflict. Michele might consider herself strong and determined, but Jamison knew better.
They had met a little over a year after the helicopter crash that had taken her brother’s life. Michele worked with insurance actuary tables and knew the dangers those in the military faced, especially when deployed or training for combat. A job with the CID brought danger even closer to home, something she wasn’t willing to face.
Ten months ago, Michele had run away from a relationship that would have required her to look deep within herself and determine whether she cared enough about Jamison to live with the constant threat a job in law enforcement entailed.
Since she had never told him why she had moved back to Atlanta, Jamison had been left with two possible conclusions. Michele had decided he wasn’t worth the risk or she hadn’t been able to determine what she wanted in life.
On occasion, she had mentioned her struggle with God. If she didn’t feel loved by the Lord, chances were she didn’t feel worthy of anyone’s love, including Jamison’s. Either way, she had run to Atlanta, where she thought she could live life on her own terms. Her own safe terms.
Love involved risk, and Michele wasn’t ready to put her heart on the line. At least, that’s the excuse Jamison had used to work through his own pain. He thought he had healed, but coming face-to-face with Michele made him realize he wasn’t over her yet. For some reason—maybe lack of sleep or the horrific crime scene that had been captured in the photos on his desk—Jamison felt raw as if being near Michele had opened the old wound to his heart.
Tossing the picture of her back onto his desk, he looked up as Dawson entered the cubicle with two steaming mugs of coffee in hand.
“Otis perked a fresh pot,” Dawson said in greeting.
“God bless him.” Jamison reached for a mug and inhaled the rich aroma.
Dawson’s gaze trailed over Jamison’s desk and stopped at the photo of Michele. Inwardly, Jamison flinched, waiting for a jabbing comment about a pretty face and a former love.
Relieved when the other CID agent raised his gaze without commenting, Jamison asked, “What about the door-to-door search in the neighborhood? Anything turn up yet?”
“Only questions about the maintenance man who fixed the wiring at the Hughes quarters last night.”
“The guy from Prime Maintenance?” Jamison took a swig of the hot brew. High-test, loaded with caffeine, just what he needed after a long night without sleep.
Dawson nodded. “A couple folks mentioned seeing his truck drive through the housing area earlier in the evening.”
“Their main office isn’t far from the Post Shopping Area. I’ll stop by and talk to the supervisor.” Jamison straightened the stack of photos on his desk and pulled out an eight-by-ten of Yolanda’s dining room. He tapped his finger on the bouquet of cut flowers in the center of the table. “The crime scene team found a floral wrapper from the post flower shop in the victim’s trash. I plan to question the florist, as well, after I shower and change. He may have seen something when he delivered the bouquet.”
“Let me know what you find out.”
“Will do.” Jamison took another sip of his coffee. “Send one of our guys into Freemont to talk to Mr. Yates. We need to know why he never showed up at the potluck last night. And keep an extra detail of military police on the front gate. Every vehicle leaving and entering Fort Rickman needs to be searched. If the killer got away last night, we don’t want him coming back on post and doing more harm.”
“You worried he’ll strike again?” Dawson asked.
“Aren’t you?”
The other agent shrugged. “Maybe I’m being optimistic, but knife wounds are personal, which is what I keep thinking this crime was. The perp knew Yolanda Hughes. He wanted to kill her for some reason we need to determine. Maybe it involved a love triangle or maybe it was something else and she’s his only intended victim. Once we learn his motive, we’ll be able to track him down.”
“And if he kills again before we find him?”
“Then I’ll have to admit I was wrong.” He stared at Jamison for a long moment. The memory of walking into the ambush ten months ago hung between them.
Jamison still felt responsible. “Look, Dawson—”
As much as he wanted to clear up what had happened, the words stuck in his throat. Instead of his own voice, he heard his father’s taunts about his inability to do anything right. “Jamie-boy, you’re a failure,” replayed over and over in his mind. Not that anything his father said should have bearing on his life today.
Frustrated that the long-ago censure still affected him, Jamison let out a lungful of air and placed his cup on his desk. “After I shower at the gym, I’ll talk to the maintenance company and the florist. Call me if anything new surfaces.”
When he left the gym, Jamison planned to stop by the maintenance office, but just as last night, he ended up in front of Colonel Logan’s quarters. A number of cars were parked at the curb. Jamison hustled up the steps and rang the bell. Mrs. Logan answered the door. Women’s voices sounded from the living room.
“Morning, ma’am. I wanted to ensure that you and Michele had an uneventful night and are doing okay.” He peered around her to the women inside, recognizing many of the wives who had gathered at the Hughes residence last night.
“We’re fine, Jamison, but it’s nice of you to stop by and inquire about our well-being. Michele’s right here—”
Mrs. Logan stepped away from the door.
“Ah,
