Broken Honor (8 page)

The nurse looked startled, then turned to the doctor, who straightened and eyed the I.V. uncertainly. “You don't think …?”

Irish shrugged. “I don't think he had time to touch it, but this is the second attack on Miss Mallory.”

The doctor nodded at the nurse, and she started to unhook the bag.

“I think you should preserve it,” Irish said, looking at the security officers. The older one nodded. “I'll take it,” he said, putting on a pair of gloves and taking the half-full bag.

Irish looked down at Amy Mallory. Her gray eyes were wide, filled with confusion and pain and fear.

“I don't understand,” she said.

“I saw a deliveryman bring flowers in the room. He wore gloves. It seemed a little strange, since it's so hot outside, so I followed him. I'd just arrived with some flowers of my own—an apology for bothering you earlier.” He looked at the crushed flowers strewn around the floor, mixed with the more expensive blooms of the intruder.

He hesitated, then said, “I saw him lean over you with a pillow in his hands. It's the best way to.…” He wasn't sure how to put the rest of the sentence. Her eyes had already widened with realization.

Then they locked with his. Weighing him. Judging him.

Believing him?

He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything.

“I should thank you, then,” she said softly, but with no conviction.

His explanation did sound lame. Arriving late at night with flowers? Following someone because he wore gloves?

The doctor finished his examination. “She appears to be all right.” He hesitated. “Perhaps we should have security post a guard tonight.”

“I'll stay,” Irish said.

“No.” It was a flat rejection from the woman in the bed. “Security would be fine, thank you.”

“I'll see to it, then,” the doctor said, and left just as the nurse returned with a new I.V. bag. She attached it to the stand, then stood aside as someone knocked on the door and two uniformed Memphis police officers appeared at the door.

One of the security officers went out in the hall for a moment, then all three came back into the room.

The nurse hesitated. “Hon, do you want me to stay?”

Amy Mallory shook her head. “It's all right. I'll be fine.”

“I'll send someone to clean up. If you need anything hon, you just press that button.”

Irish watched as the patient tried to smile. It was a brave if wobbly attempt. “Thank you.”

“Miss,” one of the uniformed officers started as he took out a notebook. “We need some information. Why.…”

She shook her head. “Some detectives were here earlier in the day. Someone shot me last night, and a few days ago my house was destroyed by fire. The fire department said it was arson.” She was talking in reasoned tones, but Irish saw the shock in her eyes.

“Their names?” the officer asked.

“They left cards.…”

She looked helplessly where the stand had been. Irish leaned down and straightened the stand, the pitcher, the glass, and two sodden cards. He handed them to one of the officers, who hadn't taken his eyes from him. The two security men stood behind them.

“He says he's some kind of army cop,” one of them told the officers. He held out the pistol. “He also says the gun isn't his.”

Irish patiently held out his wallet again. It was scrutinized far more carefully by the police officers than it had been by the security guard. “Do you have any other weapons with you?” the older one asked.

He shook his head. “The gun isn't mine. It belongs to the intruder.”

“Stand away from the bed, and stay there until we get some word from the detectives.”

Irish glanced at the woman in the bed. Her face was white, her fingers clenched on the blanket. Her gray eyes were huge. It was obvious she was trying to stifle the terror she must feel.

“It'll be all right,” he said to her even as he wondered whether anything would be all right for her again. He knew what it was like to have your life hang in the balance. A movement to the right rather than the left could mean death. But it came with his chosen profession, not hers. That kind of fear should never have invaded her life.

And his gut told him it wasn't over. He also knew no police department would provide the kind of protection she might need, not even on the basis of events during the past few days.

He listened as the police asked all the expected questions. Who might want to hurt her? Then they turned to him. Doubt and suspicion laced their questions as they listened to his recital of the facts. Had he actually seen the man place the pillow over her face? How did he know that the man was, in fact, trying to kill her? Couldn't he simply have been picking up something that had fallen on the floor?

“He pulled a gun when I appeared,” Irish said dryly. “I don't think he was a Good Samaritan.”

One officer looked at him suspiciously. “You sure the weapon didn't belong to you?”

He knew, suddenly, that his were the only prints on the gun. The only other witness was the distracted nurse at the station, who probably wouldn't remember anything about the intruder except that he looked like any other deliveryman.

It was his word, and his word only; and no one, including Amy Mallory, seemed inclined to accept everything he said.

Thirty minutes later, the detectives Irish had talked to earlier came into the room, and the two policemen gave a brief account of what had happened.

Then they turned to Irish. All friendliness was gone. He surmised that they had checked on him and discovered he was here unofficially. “Colonel,” one said, “your commanding officer would like to talk to you.”

“But first we do,” said the other. “Can you give us a description of the … assailant?”

“An inch shorter than I am. A little thinner. Light brown hair, cropped short. Brown eyes. I could give a description to a police artist.”

“We'll take you down to the department when we finish here. But first I want to know your interest in this. And your interest in Miss Mallory, especially since it's not official.”
As they had been led to believe
. The detective didn't have to say the words. They hung unsaid in the air but were evident in their suspicious eyes.

Irish
had
led them to believe he was on a case. Now they knew he'd lied. He wished now he had been more forthcoming, but he'd always known how he'd felt when outsiders wanted information.

It was too late now.

“Miss Mallory and I have a connection,” he said. “Our grandfathers served together during World War II.”

“And they were both accused—by implication, anyway—of stealing Nazi loot,” Amy Mallory said, her gaze confronting his directly.

He nodded. “I came to talk to Miss Mallory about it, to ask whether she had any papers of her grandfather's.”

The detective's eyes sharpened. He turned back to Amy. “Papers?”

Amy Mallory's gaze moved from Irish to the detective and back again. He could feel her indecision.

“Miss Mallory?” the detective said.

Her eyes met Irish's, then turned back to the detectives. They were defensive. “I told you earlier that Jon Foster had three boxes of my grandfather's papers in his office. That's why I went up there last night. I wanted to look through them. The … burglar had a box in his hands when I encountered him. I don't know if it was one of my boxes or not. There's no reason to think it was.…”

“After we talked to you, we checked with campus security. We'll pick up the boxes from the security office,” the detective said. His gaze went to Irish, then back to her.

“I don't even know whether the … burglar had one of
my
boxes. They're just old documents. Bits and pieces of things.”

“We'll look through them later,” one of the detectives said.

Amy tensed. “I want to go through them myself.”

“We'll look through them first.” He turned to Irish. “And what did you hope to find, Colonel?”

“Yes, Colonel,” Amy said, “what did you hope to find?”

Irish shrugged. He'd learned years ago to protect himself, to reveal as little as necessary. It had been vital to his survival when he'd been pulled first one way, then another, by parents who detested one another. He'd never known a sense of belonging until he'd gone to live with his grandfather; now he was not about to betray that grand old man.

“A commission virtually accused my grandfather of theft,” he said. “I didn't believe it. I hoped that Miss Mallory's grandfather had some journals or accounts of the incident, some clues as to what happened during those months. I planned to contact the families of each of the men mentioned in the report. Miss Mallory was first on my list.”

“You could have told us that earlier,” one of the detectives said.

“I didn't want any more publicity than there's already been,” Irish said, “especially if there's no connection with what's been happening to Miss Mallory.”

“There's nothing in those boxes,” Amy insisted again. “I've been through them.”

“What was the professor doing with them?”

“He specialized in World War II. I thought he might find something useful, even if I hadn't.”

“What was there, exactly?” Irish asked.

“Maps, battle plans, notes. As I said, I didn't find anything really useful, but decided to keep them because Grandfather apparently put value on them. I mentioned them to Jon several months ago, and he asked to see them.”

“He never mentioned finding anything?”

“Whenever I asked about them, he said he'd just taken a quick glance and was waiting until this summer, when he had some time to study them thoroughly.”

“Anything from April 1945?”

“I don't know,” she said, then added hopefully, “The burglar might well have thought he had something else,” she said. Hope and defiance, and a certain resigned knowledge were in her eyes. She flushed when her gaze met his, and Irish knew immediately that Amy Mallory was not a devious soul. Not like he'd learned to be. Her emotions were written all over her face.

One of the detectives interrupted. “This is
our
investigation,” he said curtly, frowning at Irish. “I would rather you wait outside. Then you can come to the station for that artist's sketch.”

Irish hesitated. Then he looked back at Amy. “I'm sorry to be persistent, but those papers must have something to do with the attacks. If they didn't, I don't think someone would have attacked you again tonight.”

She swallowed. Sympathy coursed through him. Sympathy and something else. A feeling of protectiveness. Their eyes met, locked for a moment, and he felt his heart beat faster.

“Why?” she said. “Why would this have started now?”

He hesitated. He had started checking into the commission report two weeks ago. Her house was destroyed ten days ago. Had his questions sparked a train of events? Was he responsible for all that had happened to her?

But before he could consider that possibility further, one of the detectives turned to the security guards still in the room. “Take the colonel outside and wait with him,” he said.

One of the policemen put a hand on Irish's arm.

Irish shrugged it off, then turned to Amy. “I want to help.”

Her eyes met his again, and for a split second he saw the fear she'd been so valiantly trying to hide. Fear and suspicion. Then she turned back to the detective, effectively dismissing him.

Irish turned and followed the security guards out. He'd lost this round.

Dammit! How was he going to get her to trust him? And if not, how in the devil was he going to get those boxes? They had to be the key to something. Just what, he didn't know.

But someone must. He realized that now.

For a moment he wondered whether he really wanted to pry into fifty-year-old secrets. What if his grandfather …?

Also, his career might be on the line. His commanding officer would not approve of what he was doing.

But now he had no choice. Someone else was in the game, and he, or she, had deadly intentions. If Irish had unintentionally opened Pandora's box, then he was responsible for closing it again. Even if it meant ending his career. Or worse.

seven

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

Dustin Eachan looked down at the pile of messages. It had been an endless day, and he knew he'd been uncommonly distracted by personal worries. Usually, he could direct his attention to the immediate problem and wipe everything else from his mind.

Not today.

He'd asked his secretary to hold his calls as he'd tried to put together a list of options and recommendations concerning a coup in an African country. There were pleas for American help from the ousted government and a request for recognition by the new regime. He'd requested the latest intelligence on both parties and asked his staff to prepare alternative plans.

Dammit, the process of putting together options and making recommendations just didn't appeal to him today, and not only because there weren't any good ones.

He continued to flip through messages, stopping at two. One from a Colonel Flaherty, another from Sally with “Urgent” on it.

Dustin looked at his watch. After seven. Sally should be home. He hesitated over Flaherty's number. He knew a great deal about Flaherty. He had made the man his business since the Army officer first sought information from the commission, and none of what he'd learned made him feel good.

Flaherty was a bulldog. A maverick who got results. He'd been promoted despite some less than glowing reports, perhaps thanks to important champions.

That's what worried Dustin.

He'd done what he could to keep the commission report as low-key as possible. Then some damned reporter got hold of it, and now Flaherty was making waves that threatened to become a tidal wave.