right. Nelson Construction Company was the low bid on the museum. Mr. Nelson has been more than generous keeping the projected costs at a minimum.”
“He also owns a number of businesses in town?”
“And is known for his charitable contributions. Over the years, he and his father before him have done a lot for the local area. Mr. Nelson has also donated heavily to the museum building fund and has been working with General Cameron to attract more donors. They’re hosting a special ceremony on Wednesday to secure the remaining pledges.”
Dawson was aware of the event. “The CID, along with the military police on post, will be providing security for the high-profile guests.”
Lillie nodded. “General Cameron wants everything to go without a glitch. Mr. Nelson personally assured the donors that Freemont and Fort Rickman are exemplary communities that will showcase the best in Georgia living and draw new businesses and attractions to this part of the state.”
“You’re afraid the murder investigation could cause the donors to change their minds?”
She nodded slowly, as if struggling to find the words to express her feelings. When she finally spoke, she splayed her hands. “I work in General Cameron’s office and am the contact person for those attending the ceremony. A pending murder investigation that involves the company, especially since Granger was killed on my property, could shed the wrong kind of light on Freemont and the project, maybe even on General Cameron. Especially if information leaks out about my mother’s murder.”
After everything that had happened, Lillie wasn’t thinking rationally, but Dawson understood her concern. The museum project had been the talk of the post for months and everyone was eager for construction to commence. Small-town gossip could get out of hand, and with an abundance of charities needing funding, negative publicity could sway donors into changing their minds about supporting the building project.
Before Dawson could offer her reassurance, Pritchard stepped back inside.
“We’re ready to wrap things up.” He glanced at Lillie. “The front step is sealed off. Some of my men will return in the morning to go over the crime scene again. Use the kitchen entrance until I give you the all clear, and stay in the area in case we have more questions.”
“I’m not planning to leave town.”
Dawson stood and pulled two business cards from his pocket. He gave one to Pritchard. “The CID office phone number and my personal cell are under my name.”
Retrieving the pen from his pocket, Dawson jotted down an additional number on the back of the card he handed Lillie. “I live in the bachelor officers’ quarters on post. The handwritten digits are for the direct line to my apartment at the BOQ.”
A uniformed cop approached Pritchard. “We found some numbers scratched on a scrap of paper tucked in the victim’s jacket.”
Pressure pushed on Dawson’s chest as Pritchard read from the paper. “Nine-seven-one-four.”
Lillie stared at Dawson’s business card and silently mouthed the last four digits of his BOQ phone number. Nine-seven-one-four. The same numbers found in Granger’s jacket.
She glanced up at Dawson. Her forehead furrowed.
Oblivious to her questioning gaze, Pritchard pulled out his cell. “Might be a portion of a phone number. I’ll add the local prefix and see what we get.”
Pritchard tapped in the digits and then shook his head as he disconnected. “The number’s not in service.”
Dawson needed to leave the little house in the woods before the Freemont cop tried the unique prefix for Fort Rickman phone lines.
He turned to Lillie, who continued to stare at him. “Don’t hesitate to call me, ma’am, if you think of anything else that might have bearing on this case.”
One of her finely arched brows rose ever so slightly. “Shall I use your cell phone or your BOQ number?”
The muscle in Dawson’s neck twitched. “My cell.”
Lillie knew he was withholding information from Pritchard. Just as she was.
Maybe they could trade secrets.
TWO
The CID agent climbed into his car as Pritchard and his men prepared to leave the area. Instead of returning to Fort Rickman, Dawson turned right out of the driveway and sped along the rain-washed road that headed north toward the interstate. Rounding a bend, he passed under a train trestle and spied the lights from the Hi-Way Motel in the distance.
The triangle of red, green and blue neon pointed toward the one-story brick building that offered small rooms at a modest rate for those who couldn’t afford the larger chain motels closer to Freemont. Vacancy, the sign flashed, begging for business.
Pulling into the drive, Dawson cut his lights and circled to the rear of the complex. He parked under an oak tree away from the handful of cars in the back lot.
Grabbing a pair of latex gloves from his console, Dawson hustled toward the last room on the far end of the building, the room where his father had said he was staying when he called three days ago. Dawson slipped his hands into the gloves and tried the knob, relieved when it turned.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness. The bed was rumpled, pillows and comforter strewn over the nearby throw rug. Two dresser drawers hung open. An unzipped duffel bag sat on the floor next to a small desk and overturned lamp.
Either a scuffle had ensued or someone had ransacked the room. Maybe both.
Using his cell phone for light, Dawson checked the duffel, finding only underwear and socks. He opened the remaining dresser drawers. Empty except for a hardcover Bible. Standard toilet articles in the bathroom. Two shirts and a pair of jeans hung in the closet.
A car pulled to a stop outside. Footsteps approached on the walkway that edged the rooms. Dawson’s pulse kicked up a notch, realizing, too late, he had failed to flip the latch.
Rap, rap, rap.
He glanced at the bathroom that offered no place to hide. The closet hung open. Small, dark, confining. Exactly where he didn’t want to go.
A key scratched against the lock. The knob turned.
Sweat pooled around his neck. He didn’t have a choice and slipped into the closet’s confining darkness. His heart skittered in his chest. He left the door ajar and peered through the crack.
Someone stepped into the room.
Five-seven and slender with shoulder-length hair and big eyes that took in the room with one glance.
Lillie?
* * *
The last place Lillie wanted to be was Granger Ford’s motel room, but she had thought the key would unlock the door and lead to information about her mother’s death.
Three nights ago, Granger had phoned and asked her to meet him here. In hindsight and despite her concern about the
