Broken Honor (14 page)

The recent attacks on Amy fostered the idea that something far more sinister than piecemeal theft had occurred, and that someone was afraid a continuing investigation might lead to them. He wondered then whether the commission had been hampered in any way. He planned to ask them. He certainly had had problems when he'd requested supporting documentation. He would have to go through the Freedom of Information Act, despite the fact that he was an Army investigator.

It hadn't made sense then. It was beginning to make sense now.

If someone was trying to limit the investigation, then it had to be someone very powerful. Someone powerful enough to influence a government commission. Someone with enough money to hire a professional killer. Someone ruthless enough to burn down a woman's home.

Powerful and wealthy
. Dustin Eachan fit that description.

He passed over a marsh, then a bridge, and finally another bridge, where he paid a toll. The sign read Jekyll Island. He'd never been to the Georgia coast and he was pleasantly surprised. The island was heavily wooded with windswept oaks trimmed with gray moss. He followed the tracking signal to a two-story motel that seemed to stretch a half-mile between the road and beach.

He pulled into a restaurant parking lot next to the motel lobby. He was probably about ten minutes behind her. He didn't see a car in the lobby area, so she must have registered. Then he saw her V.W. halfway down the row of buildings. He took note of the room number, then went into the motel office.

“Do you have a room?” he asked. “I have a friend staying in 226, and would like something near him.” Room 226 wasn't hers, but the one next to it.

The clerk looked at his computer. “I have one four doors down,” he said.

“I'll take it.”

He wanted to lean over and look at the computer. Had Amy Mallory used her name? She hadn't at the motel near Atlanta. He had placed a call to an Amy Mallory and found no one with that name was registered. Unless he'd missed another tracking device on her car or she'd told someone where she was going, or used a credit card, she would be difficult to find.

She was damned smart.

He gave her another fifteen minutes for unpacking her car, then went to his own room. He noted warily that his unit, and thus hers, had two doors. It wouldn't be easy to keep track of her.

He'd brought along a cooler of soft drinks and extra coffee, along with bread and some sandwich meats. After splashing water on his face, he set a chair next to the window where he could watch.

He wondered whether he was crazy. Whether this was a wild goose chase. Still, he had time. And all his instincts told him that Amy Mallory was the key to what he wanted—no, needed—to know.

He had his laptop with him. Time to find out a little more about the Eachan descendants while keeping an eye on the parking lot.

It was going to be a long evening.

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

The meeting seemed to last forever. Dustin fidgeted, something he never did. One of the reasons he was successful was his policy of always, always paying attention to whomever he was with. Or, at the very least, appearing to do so.

But Brian Jordan, chief executive of one of the country's largest defense contractors, had asked to meet with him. He had a major contract with the new leader of the African country now dominating most of Dustin's time.

“He is a friend of this country,” Jordan said.

“He's a friend to whoever fattens his Swiss bank account,” Dustin replied dryly.

Jordan shrugged. “They all are. But in this case he is the lesser of two evils, and he needs a loan to arm his military.”

And you are going to provide it. At a hefty profit
. Dustin didn't put his thoughts into words. Jordan was a friend and supporter of the current president. He was also a major campaign contributor.

But damned if he was going to recommend sending more money to another dictator.

He stood and extended his hand. “Thank you for your time and your recommendations. I'll be sure to follow up on them.”

It was standard Washington speak, but Jordan very nearly crushed his hand with his handshake. “By the way,” he said as he finally relinquished it, “I've been reading about that commission report.”

Dustin knew exactly what commission report he meant. There was a smug knowledge in the man's eyes. He knew why he had never liked the man despite his surface charm. There was a shark underneath it, and Dustin had always recognized it. He'd tried to stay away from him, but this time the blasted man had insisted on talking to him, and he'd used the vice president's name to get the appointment.

Dustin shrugged. “What commission report? God knows there are millions of them.”

“The one about your … is it your grandfather?”

Jordan was not just being obnoxious. Dustin didn't know why, but he knew a fishing expedition when he saw one. Did Jordan think he could find some advantage here? A hint of a threat to force a favorable recommendation?

“I haven't paid any attention to it,” he said lightly. “You must know how much theft—and how many mistakes—happen when an army's on the move.”

“Of course,” Jordan said. “I just thought you might have more information.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Dustin said. “If you've read the newspapers, you probably know as much as I do.” He guided his visitor to the door.

“When can I expect to hear from you?” Jordan asked.

Dustin examined the man. He was perhaps twenty years older than himself. Fifty-five or so. He had a rough charm, a kind of man's man certainty. Gray hair he didn't try to hide. In fact, it softened his chiseled features.

But Dustin knew him well, and his reputation better. Both he and his father were ruthless in their business practices, and there were plenty of rumors about the elder Jordan's flirtation with unsavory governments.

He would use anything in Dustin's past for leverage. He was now putting Dustin on notice.

But Dustin put his best smile in place as he opened the door. “I have very little to do with it. I only make recommendations.”

“I know it will be the right one,” Jordan said, and it was all Dustin could do to keep from slamming the door behind him.

Did Jordan know something he didn't?

He made a phone call.

“Is anyone else snooping around the records?” he asked.

“Just the CID colonel. He's put in a request. I don't think he's going to stop.”

“Doesn't he have anything better to do?”

The voice on the other end was silent.

“Give him something better to do,” Dustin said, and slammed down the receiver.

Who had been searching Sally's apartment? And why? What did they think they would find? Something they could use to blackmail him?

He didn't think Jordan's comments were just friendly conversation. They were a message. Even a threat. Dustin wondered how much Jordan would make on the potential sale to the African despot. He sold armored vehicles, among other things, and the sale would mount into many millions of dollars.

Dread filled him. Something was happening. Flaherty. The Mallory woman. The search of Sally's apartment. Now Jordan's comment. Dustin hadn't questioned his request for the meeting when it was made two days ago.

But now.…

A subtle kind of blackmail? But what could Jordan know that would give him any leverage? The newspaper story had made the incident public. He'd thought it would die a quick death.

Maybe if Flaherty stopped interfering.

Maybe …

eleven

J
EKYLL
I
SLAND

Amy felt safe enough to take Bo for a walk on the lawn between the beach and the hotel. She double-locked the front door from the inside. No one could get in there, and she planned to keep the sliding glass door in direct range of vision at all times.

The tangy salt air filled her with a sense of security. She almost felt as if she had come home. She often felt that way around the ocean. She had once read that many people had that same feeling of familiarity with the sea because life evolved from there. She had no idea whether that was true. She only knew it gave
her
a peace she didn't experience anyplace else.

Amy wanted to go down to the beach itself, but she wasn't going to let her door go unwatched. After everything that had happened, she wasn't taking anything for granted.

How long would she have to live like this? Why was she not allowed to enjoy several days like everyone else?

At least she felt better now that they were settled. A hot bath and an ordered-in pizza shared with Bo had made all the difference. After this brief walk, she would start a serious review of the boxes.

She returned to her room and piled the boxes on the sofa. She curled her feet under her and sat. Bo jumped up, stretching his body alongside hers.

She started reading.

Irish wearied of watching the front parking lot. He'd checked the locks of his own room, and with the door guard, he figured she would be pretty safe if she used them all.

He'd taken up a position then in front of the sliding door leading to the beach. An hour went by, and then he saw her. Framed by an outdoor light, she walked the dog, never going far from her own door. She didn't use the leash, but the dog stayed right at her feet. He saw her look toward the water, and could see the wistfulness in her stance if not her eyes.

He wanted to go out to her. Instead, he waited until she went back inside. He didn't like the sliding glass doors, but he thought he would hear any disturbance. He damn well hoped the dog barked.

He went out the front door, checked the parking lot again. Nothing suspicious here. It looked as if most of the occupants were attending some kind of conference. Little groups of people were returning with name tags. Most were wearing shorts and T-shirts.
A law enforcement seminar would be nice
.

Irish left his front door and walked past her unit. Curtains were drawn. Good. Her car was parked several doors down. He didn't see anyone loitering. Good again.

He decided to get a couple of hours' sleep. Otherwise he wouldn't be worth anything. It was nine. If anyone meant to strike, they would do it in the early hours of the morning. He would resume his watch then.

Amy looked at the red digital numbers of the clock by the bed. Two
A
.
M
. Time to quit. She'd been through one box, which held files dated in the spring of 1945. It seemed an odd collection to her. Why would her grandfather keep such things as duty rosters, sheets of them? Maps? Copies of orders? Written scribbles she couldn't read?

There was nothing that would incite murder.

She skipped through the other boxes. Not much there, either.

She went back to the rosters. Nothing was highlighted, singled out.

Amy was more puzzled than ever.

Her eyes were beginning to blur. She looked at the clock. An hour had passed. She might as well forget any more perusing tonight. Time to get some sleep.

With the dawn, perhaps the fear would leave.

Irish didn't know what startled him, what night sound was unusual.

He had slept several hours, then rose, refreshed, at one
A
.
M
. He was like a doctor that way. He could grab pieces of sleep, and that would be enough.

He had gone outside to the little patio. Each was shielded by walls that provided privacy from the adjoining patios. He pulled the chair out a little so he could watch the light in Amy Mallory's room. Sipping a cup of coffee, he relaxed in the cool sea breeze and the gentle lull of the tide washing up on the beach.

Patience again. Another day, and he would head toward Washington, where he hoped he could get his hands on the commission data. And talk to Dustin Eachan. Perhaps Eachan's cousin as well.

Amy Mallory should be through with those papers by then. He wondered how he could approach her. How would she feel about being followed? Watched? Even if the reason was protective, not malevolent. Would she believe that?

He wasn't sure he would, if he had gone through what she had.

Irish didn't know how long he had been sitting on the patio when her light went out. He debated whether he should continue to watch her room, get more sleep, or watch the front. Here was much more pleasant.

He might have dozed off when he suddenly jerked awake. A dog's alarmed bark cut the silence of the night. It was faint, but Irish had damned good ears.

He took running strides toward the sliding glass doors of her room. A light was visible, although the drapes were drawn. He didn't hear anything. He returned and ran through his own room, picking up his automatic as he went.

The door to her room was closed. That meant it would be locked, too. Should he knock? What if the dog had barked at a passing car? Or perhaps the bark came from another dog.

How in the hell could anyone get inside her room
?

He hesitated. A sharp bark, then a whine. A cutoff scream.

Then he saw that someone had backed into her car. That's how they had gotten inside. An apology. An explanation.

He could knock. Start a disturbance.
No
. They could kill her and get out the back. He slipped his revolver in his belt and took out his wallet, removing a plastic card. He slid it into the door. As long as the deadbolt wasn't fastened.…

It wasn't. He heard a click. The gun was back in his hand. He very quietly opened the door a fraction of an inch. No bark now.

He started in, but then heard a sound—little more than a breath of air—on the other side of the door. Someone was standing against the wall. Waiting for him. Using all his weight, he slammed the door against the wall, and he felt it hit flesh. A gun skittered across the floor as someone grunted with pain.

A man in a ski mask held a gun on Amy. The intruder turned to train it on him, and Amy drove her elbow into his chest. It was just enough to make him drop his aim. He fired just a second before Irish did. Irish heard the soft thud of a silencer and the loud crack of his own weapon. He was aware of a blow to his leg, but not yet pain, as red blossomed across the intruder's chest and he fell to the floor, releasing his hold on Amy.