All the Wrong Moves (11 page)

So Dan-O or his boss had come through with the names Mitch requested. The Constitution must have weighed as heavily on his shoulders as it had on mine! Shoving aside a pile of yet-to-be-read magazines, I dropped on the sofa and curled my legs under me.

“Those interviews led us to Mr. John Armstrong,” Donati continued. “Mr. Armstrong lost his only son, Gunnery Sergeant John Armstrong Jr., in a similar raid two months previously. Mr. Armstrong at first denied any involvement in Hooker’s death, but his neighbors indicated he became increasingly angry after the charges against Hooker were dismissed. One neighbor quoted him as vowing ‘to make things right.’ We then obtained a search warrant and matched a boot in Mr. Armstrong’s closet to a print found at the scene.”

Well, whaddaya know! EEEK and ole Rock’s data synthesizer had provided the evidence that cracked the case. I basked in a reflected glow of pride for my team’s sleuthing skills as Donati continued.

“At that point we advised Mr. Armstrong of his rights. He then confessed to shooting both Patrick Hooker and Juan Sandoval.”

The guy confessed? That would save the government big bucks on what would no doubt have become a sensational trial. I might even have been called as a witness. I was feeling a little miffed again at missing out on my few minutes of fame when the camera cut back to the reporter.

“FBI agents arrested Armstrong at his ranch outside Sierra Blanca earlier this afternoon. He was brought to the El Paso County Jail for booking and transport to a federal containment facility.”

The next scene showed a white-haired, handcuffed individual being led into the jail, flanked by a platoon of uniformed and plainclothes officers. As is typical of so many in this part of the country, the sun had baked his lined, craggy face to leather. His shoulders were hunched and he kept his head down to avoid the cameras. But when another reporter dropped a boom mike a foot from his face and yelled a question, his chin snapped up.

“Yeah, I shot ’em,” he shouted back, his eyes as savage as his voice. “Murdering bastards, both of them. They and their kind killed my son. They deserved to die.”

Ooooh-kay.

I wanted to sympathize with a man who’d lost his only son to druggers but to tell you the truth, Armstrong looked and sounded more than a little scary . . . until the man’s shoulders slumped and tears began to course down his leathery cheeks. Then he just looked like a broken-hearted father.

The perky blond reporter embellished on that image in the clips that followed. Several neighbors and friends talked about Armstrong’s devastation at the loss of his son, his loneliness after his wife died of cancer, his increasing bitterness over a flawed justice system that would release a murdering renegade like Hooker. The reporter confirmed Armstrong had written several scathing letters to the editor calling for impeachment of bleeding heart, left-wing judges like the one who’d ordered Hooker’s release, and he had talked about petitioning the White House to intervene.

The last clip panned across a small, dust- and wind-swept country cemetery before zooming in on the meticulously tended graves of Margaret Catherine Armstrong and her son, John Armstrong Jr. The last image viewers saw was the small American flag planted beside Gunnery Sergeant Armstrong’s grave whipping in the wind.

Effective.
Very
effective. I’d felt sorry for an obviously grieving father a few moments ago. Now I was ready to whip out my checkbook and contribute to his defense fund.

“In other news . . .”

I hit the remote and surfed the channels. I caught bits and pieces of the story on all local channels, with more details promised at ten.

O’Reilly called again while I was surfing. I could hear him clicking a keyboard while he peppered me with questions via his hands-free phone.

“Did you catch the story?”

“Yeah.”

“Whaddaya think? Did Dead Guy Number One get his just deserts?”

“Well . . .”

“That was something about the boot print, wasn’t it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Think Armstrong is the one who set fire to our lab? Or hired someone to do it?”

Well, duh! The possibility hadn’t occurred to me. I’d been too caught up in all the murder stuff.

“He didn’t confess to arson,” I pointed out, “only to shooting Hooker and Sandoval.”

“Yeah, but the two gotta be connected. Armstrong could have nosed out the identity of the military officer who found the bodies. Learned what kind of testing we do out there at the site. Maybe the old man got a hint through his son’s Marine Corps connections that we’d collected data from the murder scene.”

I chewed on my lower lip and replayed snippets of my meeting with Dan-O in my head. Squirming a little, I recalled whining about having to put my team’s test schedule on hold while we processed data collected at the scene. I couldn’t believe Danny would deliberately leak that information to any of his other acquaintances. But then I hadn’t intended to leak it, either.

Another possible charge to add to my list of sins! Desertion, liability for the loss of thousands of dollars’ worth of government equipment, and now unauthorized disclosure of sensitive investigative information. I was envisioning how I’d look in black-and-white prison stripes when I remembered a law enforcement officer had sat right beside me during the tête-à-tête with Dan-O. Mitch hadn’t issued any warnings or reprimands for my slip at the Smokehouse. Nor when he’d called yesterday morning, after the fire.

I had a sudden nasty thought. Maybe that’s why Mitch hadn’t kept me posted on the unfolding developments as promised. He couldn’t trust me not to blab ’em. Or maybe it was more a case of out of sight, out of mind. I didn’t particularly care for either alternative.

I thought about calling
him
and asking what gives, but decided to wait another day or two. I was glad I had when he showed up at my apartment the next evening.

I was once again wearing my favorite gray drawstring shorts but had donned a slightly more reputable red tank top. An Eiffel Tower picked out in sequins was splashed across my breasts, compliments of my previous place of employment.

When I peered through the peephole, it took me a few seconds to recognize the distorted apparition on the other side of the door. His cheeks and chin were stubbled, his eyes bleary. Nary a trace of a green uniform showed at his neck or shoulders.

He must have noticed my eyeball blocking the light from the inside. Scraping a hand over his chin, he ID’ed himself. “It’s Mitch, Samantha.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I muttered as I slid back the safety chain.

I don’t usually hook the chain. It’s not exactly industrial strength and probably wouldn’t keep out a determined ten-year-old. Besides, as I think I’ve mentioned, I live in a friendly apartment complex. Especially on Friday and Saturday nights.

Last night was no exception. But I’d ignored the splashes and other sounds of revelry outside my sliding glass doors and kept my nose to the grindstone. I’d spent hours double-checking inventory numbers and polishing my report. Seeing those long columns of numbers and realizing how much valuable test instrumentation we’d lost to an arsonist really pissed me off. It had also made me just a tad nervous to think someone had deliberately set out to destroy our lab. Thus the peephole and chain.

All thoughts of arson and inventory numbers dissipated the moment I opened the door to Agent Mitchell. Even scruffy and bleary-eyed, the man got to me. Pure reflex had me chanting my personal mantra. The one designed to prevent my hormones from sabotaging my brain.

“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.”

I didn’t realize I’d muttered my chant aloud until Mitch leaned a tanned forearm against the doorjamb, a quizzical expression in his gold-green eyes.

“Charlie Who?”

“Charlie Spade. My jerk of an ex. I invoke his name whenever . . . Uh . . .”

I floundered around for an explanation that wouldn’t make me sound like a total nympho.

“Whenever men who promise to call me and keep me apprised of unfolding events, don’t.”

“Sorry ’bout that. Everything happened so fast I didn’t have time to call. That’s why I’m here. To apologize.”

“Oh. Okay. Apology accepted.”

I started to ask how he’d tracked me down at home but realized just in time what an asinine question that was. Law enforcement types had access to all sorts of databases unavailable to lesser mortals.

That thought led instantly to another. Did I pay my last speeding ticket? Or the one before that? I must have. Mitch didn’t look as though he was ready to slap on a pair of cuffs and haul me down to traffic court.

Although . . . I wouldn’t have minded the cuffs part. Especially when a smile crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t one of his full-out grins, but it came close enough to generate some
extremely
salacious thoughts.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

As I indicated before, my place is cozy but small. The addition of a broad-shouldered male shrank it to minuscule proportions. He took a moment to look around. I took the same moment to look at him.

I couldn’t fail to note the aforementioned shoulders were encased in a faded navy blue T-shirt that also show-cased a very nice set of pecs. The muscular thighs hugged by his well-washed jeans weren’t bad, either, but I wondered at the stubble on his cheeks and chin. Ditto the red rimming his eyes.

“Long weekend?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “After the Armstrong arrest went down, I drove back out to Dry Springs.”

“Why?”

“I kept thinking I’d missed something. And I wanted to take a look at your lab. Pretty grim.”

“I know. I was there.”

I ushered him into the living room, scooped some glossies off the sofa and dumped them on the coffee table.

“Would you like a drink? I don’t have anything diet, but I could put some coffee on. Or I have bottles of green tea in the fridge.”

He sent me an odd look.

“It’s Lipton’s,” I hastened to assure him. “Not the seaweed and sunflower brew Pen—Dr. England—forced on you out at the site.”

I realized I’d misinterpreted his look with his next comment.

“Just out of curiosity, why did you assume I wouldn’t want a beer? Or a scotch?”

“I saw what you were drinking at Pancho’s.”

His eyes narrowed at my deliberately nonchalant tone. “And . . . ?”

“And Tess Garcia mentioned you were fighting your way back from a rough patch.”

He started to close up and retreat inside a defensive shell. I recognized the signs. I should. I’d seen them often enough. Reluctantly, I shared some of my less-than-stellar family history.

“I know what those rough spots can do to people, Mitch. My grandfather got drunk and drove a semi into a bridge abutment. My mother and middle brother have both been in AA for years. And I worked my way through college as a cocktail waitress in Vegas. I can tell when someone really wants a drink but won’t let himself have it.”

He dropped his glance, shielding his eyes and his thoughts for several moments. When his lids lifted again, he nodded to my stretchy tank top.

“You worked at the Paris Casino?”

“Right.”

“I lost a bundle there my last trip to Vegas.”

He didn’t want to talk about whatever had sent him to the bottle. Fine. I could live with that.

“So what will it be?” I quipped, smart-mouthed as ever. “Coffee, tea or me?”

His glance zoomed to my sequined Eiffel Tower again and a real, live grin slipped out.

“Why don’t we start with the coffee and see where it goes from there?”

Yowza!

Struggling to remember my ex’s name, I retreated to the kitchen. While the coffeemaker gurgled, I extracted the Triple Chocolate Meltdown I’d ordered in a moment of sheer gluttony at the Applebee’s on Airway Boulevard. Since I’d also ordered an Ultimate Trio of appetizers, I’d ended up bringing the dessert home and sticking it in the freezer.

I zapped the frozen white chocolate, ice cream and brownie just long enough to make it cuttable into halves. When I returned to the living room with coffee mugs and the sinfully rich desert, Mitch was flipping through the latest edition of
Cosmo
.

“Five Different Sex Positions to Test on Your Man?” he read aloud. “Confessions of a Hopeless Shoe Addict? Great Summer Glows?”

I bristled and was ready to defend my choice of educational materials when he shook his head.

“I can’t believe my wife lets my daughter read this.”

I unbristled, intrigued by the comment. Interesting that he didn’t brand his former spouse with a big, fat
EX
as I always did. Even more interesting, he had a hitherto un-mentioned offspring.

“How old is your daughter?”

“Fourteen.”

“She probably reads
CosmoGirl
. It’s geared more toward teens.”

“God, I hope so!”

“What’s her name?”

“Jenny. She lives in Seattle with her mother.” His attention swerved to the plates I’d carried into the living room. “That looks good. What is it?”

“Applebee’s infamous Triple Chocolate Meltdown.”

I settled in at one end of the sofa with my coffee and ice cream. Mitch eased back at the other end. When he hooked an ankle over his knee, I caught a glimpse of a black, Velcro’ed holster.

“You always come armed on visits to friends?”

“We make as many enemies as friends here on the border,” he said with a shrug, digging into the Meltdown.

I let him scoop down most of his share before demanding details. “Okay, fella, talk to me about John Armstrong.”

Mitch’s account pretty well dovetailed with the chain of events described by FBI Agent Donati on Channel Six. Information supplied by the USMC Avenger/Stinger school commandant had led to interviews with various marines, including one who’d served with Gunnery Sergeant Armstrong prior to his death. That interview had in turn led to John Armstrong Sr., who’d kept in touch with members of his son’s unit and echoed their disgust over Hooker’s release.

What Donati
hadn’t
mentioned was that Gunnery Sergeant John Armstrong Jr. had trained as a sniper and had been specifically selected for the joint U.S.-Colombian task force because of that skill.