Yellow Ribbons (9 page)

“I’d have the clerk bring in more chairs, but I suspect this won’t take long, nor do I anticipate I’m going to be happy over the lack of information,” he said. “Tell me everything you
do
have, and God help you if you purposefully leave out a single detail.” He flicked his hand through the air. “No, I don’t want to hear that casualty assistance officers and investigation officers have been assigned. I want the meat of what’s going on. Master Gunnery Sergeant Landess, you first. Tell me what you found at the Kenyon house.”

A slap in the face to Cornwall, a kudo for Greg that the general had more faith in his word than that of the lieutenant.

“Sir, Lieutenant Cornwall and I arrived at Major Kenyon’s home this morning for a health and comfort check and determined from the stench of decomposition he was deceased. I called . We didn’t enter the scene. Deputies found the major dead from an apparent accidental overdose, alcohol and sleeping pills. Empty bottles of both were found beside him. He wore only his boxers. Subsequent search by deputies found bloodied clothing in the laundry. I contacted Captain Hollister. Lieutenant Cornwall and I left the scene upon the arrival of Detective Ron Pattison.”

The general’s chin snapped a nod. “Captain Hollister?”

“I learned this morning that Major Kenyon’s wife left him several months ago and filed for divorce. She cited escalating alcohol problems as the reason and indicated the major was now seeing someone else. I have notified her of his death. Though she filed for divorce, she’s—”

A slice of his hand cut her off. “Are the deaths related?”

The spotlight bore down on Jordan. “Sir, at this point we can’t be sure. We’re waiting for the lab to process the evidence. Sheriff’s deputies are also on the watch for a vehicle seen at the initial crime scene. There are some things in common: two members of PMO killed, both apparent suicides from a first glance…” He drew a shallow breath. “Both houses bearing yellow ribbons.”

A subtle yet collective gasp sucked the air from the room.

“What the fuck are you suggesting?” Colonel Reynolds asked. “That we have a killer targeting yellow ribbon houses?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, sir. The general wanted what we have. That’s it. Evidence is sketchy at best. The person who killed Staff Sergeant Tipton and Regina Whittaker left no trail. That implies some knowledge of forensic and evidence collection. Then we find bloodied clothes in Major Kenyon’s house. It’s hard not to connect dots under the circumstances, but we have to make sure they’re the right dots. Responding deputies and detectives presumed they were looking at murder/suicide with Tipton and Whittaker. A closer look revealed otherwise, yet the lack of footprints leaving—”

“And Major Kenyon?” General Drake asked. “Murder or suicide?”

“It’s impossible to know at this point. If it’s murder, then he’s being set up. If it’s suicide—”

“It still could be a setup,” Lieutenant Colonel Seaberg threw in. “God, why did I—” Leaning forward, he buried his face in his palms.

Greg put a hand on his shoulder, lending support. “Why didn’t any of us, sir?”

General Drake slapped his hand on his desk and leaned back, surveying each person in the room. “Things don’t add up, and I don’t like that.”

Silence dragged out. Lani tried not to fidget.

“But a few things
are
clear to me,” he finally said. “Starting Monday morning, every person—military and civilian—working on this base will attend mandatory substance abuse lectures. Set it up. I want those in trouble ferreted out. Better to accuse and be wrong than to ignore a person in need. I also want every yellow ribbon removed from every house—”

“Sir, think of the panic that’s going to create.” This came from the staff judge advocate, Colonel Dwight Turner, a man just as imposing as General Drake but with a soft-spoken demeanor that could soothe Tasmanian devils. “Think of the media attention that’s going to bring us. There’s no proof at this point, just a coincidence that both scenes have yellow ribbons. Heightened PMO patrol through housing should deter any menace.”

“And what do we do about those people living off base?” Drake’s voice raised two decibels.

Lieutenant Colonel Seaberg recovered his emotions enough to lift his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and moist.

Greg pulled upright. “It’s too vast an area, sir. Citizens Patrol can only do so much.”

Drake snorted. Red flushed his face. “I have had it with the lack of discipline and total disregard for military regulations aboard my base!” He stabbed his finger into the leather armrest. “And there
is
something I can do about that. Someone was fucking Regina Whittaker, be that Staff Sergeant Tipton, Major Kenyon, or a so-far-unknown third person. Someone was fucking the wife of one of our marines serving his country in a war zone. I. Have. Had. It. Adultery. Fraternization. No more! It stops here and now. People will be held accountable!”

Dread and fear raced Lani’s heart.

“I want a task force created to ferret out any and all perpetrators. No one is immune, and everyone will be charged.”

“Sir, our office is overtasked as it is with real criminals—” General Drake cut off the staff judge advocate’s voice of reason, slamming both hands on his desk and vaulting to his feet.

“People are dead, Turner! All because someone couldn’t keep his dick out of someone else’s wife. Imagine what the news media’s going to do with that? Compound that with a staff sergeant dead in a captain’s house… No.” He shook his head. “Heads are going to roll. I don’t want the commandant up my ass. It ends now. All of it.”

Turner wouldn’t back down. “It’s a witch hunt, sir.”

“More like a bitch and bastard hunt, Colonel,” Drake snapped back. “I’m not ordering you to target gays, Turner, although the temptation—” He cut off the words. “I want those individuals who are violating the Uniform Code of Military Justice taken to task.”

More silence as sweat trickled down Lani’s back.

“PMO will take care of it, sir,” Greg said.

“PMO?” Drake laughed, yet was clearly not amused. “Your unit’s the biggest violator!”

Lani saw Greg’s mouth tighten and his gaze grow hard. “With all due respect, sir, that’s not a fair assessment. Two of our people have been caught up in something. Maybe they did something wrong, maybe they didn’t, but PMO deserves the chance to redeem this blot on our otherwise pristine record.”

Considering their personal relationship, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Greg’s motive. He wanted control of the information gleaned so that they would not be suspects.

“And how do you plan to go about this, Master Gunnery Sergeant?” Drake asked.

Greg didn’t hesitate. “We meet the advance party returning tomorrow afternoon, ascertain who’s there to greet them, who isn’t, and whose heart/spirits/balls have been crushed. It’s a good opportunity, since Captain Whittaker will be on that particular bus.”

It was a bullshit move, but it might be enough to appease the general. He wanted action, not excuses, no matter how valid those excuses were. Greg would have to figure out the logistics of his plan later.

“I like it.” He plopped into his chair. “Work with NCIS and the SJA. I want daily accountings given to Lieutenant Colonel Seaberg, and by accountings, I mean names uncovered. Dismissed. Special Agent Beck, you stay. We need to have a word.”

Lani didn’t want to be Jordan right now. Judging from how quickly everyone scattered, she wasn’t the only one who wanted to put some distance between herself and the commanding general.

“We’ve got time for a quick meeting to coordinate our plan for tomorrow,” Turner said as they trotted down the front steps en masse.

“If it’s all the same, sir, tomorrow around twelve hundred works better for me,” Greg said. “The bus arrives at fourteen hundred; that gives us time to coordinate. I have plans tonight. I had to bail on my lady last night and was really hoping to make up for it this weekend.” Greg’s foot hit the asphalt as he turned a knowing smile toward the other men that jumpstarted Lani’s heart. “I’d planned candlelight, dinner, and a nice bottle of wine at my place. Maybe she’ll forgive me, especially since I’ll be heading out to work again tomorrow.”

Turner clapped his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Hell, I’d be swayed.” He snapped his head Lani’s way. “What about you, Captain? From a woman’s perspective.”

Heat rushed her from head to toe. Lani knew it showed. She prayed Turner, Seaberg, and Cornwall took it as embarrassment. Still, she heard her throat click with her swallow. “Well…” She fought hard to keep from looking at Greg…and failed. “The right woman will understand the type of job you have calls you away unexpectedly.” Her nipples tightened. Thank God the military blouse hid it well, giving new meaning to the word
camouflage
. “She should also understand you’ve had a rough couple of days. The right woman might even make
you
dinner.” Greg’s eyebrow lifted. A hint of a smirk set her motor running.

“Would she?” he asked.

“She would.”

“Maybe we could cook together.” Damn, he was playing with fire.

And, God help her, Lani wanted to get burned. “Isn’t that the point?” She managed a smile of her own and brushed by the men. “Tomorrow, gentlemen.”

Did Lani know how hard it was for him to not run after her? Did she know she had them
standing at attention
? With the possible exception of Cornwall, of course. Not that Greg had looked—he just knew. No straight man in his right mind would be immune to a beautiful woman once she turned it on. He loved that she’d taken an awkward moment and turned it around on Turner. Loved the flush that crept into her cheeks, followed by the mischief that danced in her eyes when she’d found the comeback she’d needed to cover her ass. Now said ass twitched beneath the heavy camouflage material as she walked on to her car, and every man’s gaze was glued to it—even Cornwall’s.

“Something wrong?”

Jordan’s voice on the steps above pulled their attention around. A frown creased a canyon between his eyebrows. He looked like he’d aged ten years in the last twenty-four hours. Stress and lack of sleep did that to a person.

“Nope. Making plans for tomorrow and calling it a night,” Colonel Turner answered.

Jordan’s gaze followed Lani’s car from the parking lot. “Damn, I’d hoped to talk to her.” He pulled his cell from his trouser pocket and started to dial.

Greg clamped his hand over Jordan’s wrist, then let go when Jordan glanced up. “Cut her some slack, and let her have a break. You could use one yourself, along with a good night’s rest. Trust me. This will all be here tomorrow.”

Jordan’s shoulders slumped. His head drooped with his hand. “It’s one thing after the other. I don’t know if I could sleep if you paid me.” Weary eyes sought the departing vehicle once more, but Lani was already down the street. Greg half expected Jordan to get in his car and track her down. He wouldn’t allow it.

“I thought we’d all go grab a beer. Join us.” Lieutenant Colonel Seaberg’s announcement surprised the hell out of Greg and widened Jordan’s bleary eyes.

“Fraternizing? What will the parents say?” Jordan replied.

Lieutenant Colonel Seaberg scanned the building behind them. “At this point, I don’t think I give a damn.”

Jordan stuffed his phone into his pocket. “At this point…I don’t think I do, either.”

“Officers’ Club it is.” Turner did a crisp pivot and started for his Jeep. “If anyone’s got a problem with that, they can take it up with me.”

Refusing wasn’t an option. This was more an order than an invitation. Career-minded marines obeyed. Cornwall looked like a trapped rabbit, his back stiff with every step he took to his vehicle. Greg knew how he felt. In the limited privacy of his truck, he texted Lani that he’d been delayed and the reason why. Then he held his breath for her response.

I’ll be waiting to cook with you.

The promise chased away his displeasure. He’d give an hour at most to the impromptu gathering, then he was headed home.

In less time than it’d taken to talk about it, they had a corner table at happy hour, cold beers at the ready. Drinking them was another issue. Happy hour equaled networking, and the officers there knew the ropes. One by one, then in groups, others used their appearance as a chance to socialize, offer sympathies about the deaths, and pump them for information about the investigation. Before long their small table of five had grown to over thirty, and there were two more beers in front of Greg when he’d yet to sip the first. People were buying rounds left and right. Cornwall was feeling no pain. Jordan still looked like shit.

Holy fuck. I am
not
going to be everyone’s designated driver tonight
. He had to get out of there.

Greg made a big show of looking at his watch. They knew he had a date, and it’d give him a quick exit if he played it right. Before he could open his mouth, Lieutenant Colonel Seaberg lifted his bottle.

“Drinking a toast to an alcoholic who OD’d on pills and booze is… Well, I can’t think of anything less appropriate, but I need to honor a fallen comrade, and no alternative comes to mind. For all his recent missteps, Major Kenyon was once a good marine and friend.” Grief underscored his words. Confusion bound them together. He lifted the bottle higher. The group around them, now silent, followed suit.

“To Mick Kenyon.”

Bottle necks clinked.

Seaberg pinched the bridge of his nose after he drank. “The wife is inconsolable, and here I am, kicking back with a cold one.”

Discomforted by the show of emotion, the group peeled off into their own factions until only the five of them remained at their table.

Turner clapped Seaberg on the shoulder, offering comfort the way Greg had in the general’s office. “No doubt it’s been a helluva day for all of us…with more to come, unfortunately.” He raised his bottle again. “Here’s to the bitches we’ve been unwillingly sent to hunt.”

“And the bastards who were stupid enough to fuck them,” Greg added.

Halfhearted chuckles went around the table.

“Hits a little close to home for you, doesn’t it, master guns?” Turner’s bottle thunked to the table. He folded his arms around it and leaned in close.