glanced at the street where the military policeman had parked his car. Memories of other times they had said good-night on this very same porch flashed through his mind.
Pushing aside the thoughts, Jamison squared his shoulders. “You had best get inside. Be sure to lock the door behind you.”
She let out a frustrated breath. “Can’t we, at least, go back to first names?”
“All right.” He waited to see if she had anything else to say.
Michele tapped her hand against the wrought-iron banister and stared into the darkness, the silence heavy between them.
Finally, she broke the standoff. “How many military policemen will be in the area, Jamison?”
Her need for reassurance touched a chord in his heart. “Enough to keep you safe.”
“I guess—” She raised her chin and regarded him with questioning eyes. “That’s all we have to discuss.”
“Michele—”
Before he could say anything else, she opened the front door. “Good night, Jamison.”
The door closed, and the lock clicked into place.
If only we could go back in time. The thought came unbidden. Jamison slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand to dispel the temptation.
He was finished with Michele. End of story. Going back would only cause more pain.
Jamison double-timed back to his car, slid behind the wheel and pulled onto the roadway. He needed to distance himself from the colonel’s daughter.
He had been hurt once.
Michele would never break his heart again.
TWO
Post security was imperative when a killer was on the loose. Jamison drove around Fort Rickman to ensure that the roadblocks were in place and the gates were well guarded. Heading back to his office, he realized, too late, that he had passed the turnoff to the CID headquarters and ended up in the area where the ranking officers lived.
The large brick quarters, built in the 1930s and ’40s, circled a parade field where units marched and bands played in better times. Tonight the post was locked down and on high alert.
His headlights cut through the foggy darkness, revealing the two-lane street littered with fallen leaves and branches stripped from the trees during the earlier storms. Had the murderer chosen tonight because of the adverse weather conditions, or had something else triggered his assault?
At the onset of any investigation, Jamison felt like a man in a rowboat, paddling through uncharted waters in the middle of a black night, never knowing where his journey would end. The fog lifted momentarily, revealing the Logans’ quarters.
Jamison almost smiled. He didn’t need to check on Michele. Military police were patrolling the colonel’s area. They were trained and competent, but for some reason, his radar had signaled the need to ensure that Michele was safe.
The front porch light was on and mixed with the glow from a lamp in the living room. Upstairs, a single bulb shone through a bathroom window. Slowing his speed, he studied the area around the house, looking for anything that could signal danger for the women inside. Extending his search, he checked the entire block before he returned to her street.
A military police patrol car approached from the opposite direction. Not wanting to explain why he was in the area, Jamison turned at the next intersection and headed back to CID headquarters.
Along the way, he tried to convince himself that he would have done the same thing no matter who had been a witness in the investigation. Deep down, he knew the truth. Michele had been the only reason for his late-night detour.
Once behind his desk, Jamison placed a call to the CID in Afghanistan and filled them in on what had happened at Fort Rickman. A special agent by the name of Warner took the information and assured Jamison he’d see what he could uncover about Major Shirley Yates. If she had previously had a romantic relationship or was currently having an affair, Warner would find out who was involved and contact Jamison with the information. He would also check out Major Hughes to ensure that the murder wasn’t an act of revenge against the victim’s husband.
For the rest of the night, Jamison pored over the crime scene photos and information collected so far. By morning, his shoulders ached. He scooted his chair back and picked up a photo taken of the Hughes’ kitchen and the door through which the killer had escaped.
In the corner of the same picture, the photographer had also captured Michele, standing by the table, arms wrapped across her chest. The look on her face provided a clear image of the turmoil she must have been experiencing internally. The shock of finding a murder victim was hard on anyone, especially so for a woman who ran from conflict. Michele might consider herself strong and determined, but Jamison knew better.
They had met a little over a year after the helicopter crash that had taken her brother’s life. Michele worked with insurance actuary tables and knew the dangers those in the military faced, especially when deployed or training for combat. A job with the CID brought danger even closer to home, something she wasn’t willing to face.
Ten months ago, Michele had run away from a relationship that would have required her to look deep within herself and determine whether she cared enough about Jamison to live with the constant threat a job in law enforcement entailed.
Since she had never told him why she had moved back to Atlanta, Jamison had been left with two possible conclusions. Michele had decided he wasn’t worth the risk or she hadn’t been able to determine what she wanted in life.
On occasion, she had mentioned her struggle with God. If she didn’t feel loved by the Lord, chances were she didn’t feel worthy of anyone’s love, including Jamison’s. Either way, she had run to Atlanta, where she thought she could live life on her own terms. Her own safe terms.
Love involved risk, and Michele wasn’t ready to put her heart on the line. At least, that’s the excuse Jamison had used to work through his own pain. He thought he had healed, but coming face-to-face with Michele made him realize he wasn’t over her yet. For some reason—maybe lack of sleep or the horrific crime scene that had been captured in the photos on his desk—Jamison felt raw as if being near Michele had opened the old wound to his heart.
Tossing the picture of her back onto his desk, he looked up as Dawson entered the cubicle with two steaming mugs of coffee in hand.
“Otis perked a fresh pot,” Dawson said in greeting.
“God bless him.” Jamison reached for a mug and inhaled the rich aroma.
Dawson’s gaze trailed over Jamison’s desk and stopped at the photo of Michele. Inwardly, Jamison flinched, waiting for a jabbing comment about a pretty face and a former love.
Relieved when the other CID agent raised his gaze without commenting, Jamison asked, “What about the door-to-door search in the neighborhood? Anything turn up yet?”
“Only questions about the maintenance man who fixed the wiring at the Hughes quarters last night.”
“The guy from Prime Maintenance?” Jamison took a swig of the hot brew. High-test, loaded with caffeine, just what he needed after a long night without sleep.
Dawson nodded. “A couple folks mentioned seeing his truck drive through the housing area earlier in the evening.”
“Their main office isn’t far from the Post Shopping Area. I’ll stop by and talk to the supervisor.” Jamison straightened the stack of photos on his desk and pulled out an eight-by-ten of Yolanda’s dining room. He tapped his finger on the bouquet of cut flowers in the center of the table. “The crime scene team found a floral wrapper from the post flower shop in the victim’s trash. I plan to question the florist, as well, after I shower and change. He may have seen something when he delivered the bouquet.”