Duplicity (15 page)

The headline made her stomach flip. Beauty Defends the Beast … Page one, no less. Tracy groaned. Terrific. She scanned the rest of the paper but found nothing about the fire or Adam’s death. Word evidently hadn’t leaked out prior to press time. Should she rejoice, or mourn?

Mourn, she decided. Tomorrow’s headlines would be, even worse. The press would hear about his bequest, and Tracy and Adam’s relationship-though it bore no resemblance whatsoever-would be touted as some kind of romantic tragedy. She’d be either crazy or a victim, and he’d be, guilty Adam really had died. Died.

A deep ache sank into her, right below her breastbone. Everything in her wanted to just close the file and forget this case ever had happened. But she couldn’t do irregardless of Jackson’s orders. Not even to avoid the inevitable mudslinging and professional repercussions.

She glanced at the phone. What the hell. Adam was already dead. If they had killed him, they couldn’t kill him again. She was still vulnerable, but she had known the risks from the start. Enormous. And she would lose big, just as Janet had predicted. Her career. Maybe her life. But she owed Adam a debt, and she had to pay it.

She grabbed the receiver. Her palm clammy against the plastic, she dialed Gus O’Dell’s number. Connie Mumford answered and put Tracy straight through.

O’Dell came on the line. “WHAT do you want now, Keener?”

So much for civility. Forget courtesy. Well, she wasn’t much in the mood for them, either. She wanted answers, damn it. “I went to the facility last night after the fire.”

She stared at her gleaming desktop. “I was surprised Adam Burke’s body had already been moved to the morgue.”

“Yes?”

Deliberately obtuse. Tracy resented that. “I learned at the morgue there’s a Command block against him being autopsied. I’d like that position reconsidered.”

“Why?”

Tracy used their own philosophy against them. “This is, a very visual case, Major. And it’s becoming more visual as we speak. I don’t think Higher Headquarters wants to risk the appearance of impropriety or a coverup.

He laughed. “I appreciate your concern for our reputation, as I’m sure Colonel Hackett will, but there aren’t two people on the planet who doubt Adam Burke is guilty as hell. The press won’t give us any trouble now.”

“Is that why Colonel Hackett refused to request an autopsy?”

“Actually, he didn’t.”

“Oh?” Tracy clamped down on the receiver. Dr. Kane had expressly said Hackett hadn’t requested one and he “General Nestler issued that order,” O’Dell clarified. “Because of the possible negative impact and the explosive nature of this case, the general felt it wise to put this Burke matter to bed expeditiously. I’m sure you agree with the wisdom of his decision.”

“Yes, I do-theoretically.” How could she disagree with the general?

Truth was truth, and she did see the wisdom in his decision, but O’Dell’s confidence in her agreement warned her a coverup was definitely in hiding. “That course of action does seem logical, sir, but-”

“I’m glad you agree, Captain.” Sounding amused, he cut her off.

That grated at Tracy, and she heard Adam’s “fluff in her mind. “But I think-”

O’Dell interrupted again. “We strongly advise you to close your file.”

Tracy glanced down at the newspaper’s headline and came face-to-face with the temptation to do just. that. She dragged her thumb over the handle of her coffee mug. With these doubts festering inside her, could she just close the file?

No more so than she could just let the nightmare end. Not and live with herself.

Realizing she was opening a can of worms that would had released the body to the family.

probably prove lethal to her career, she stared at the paper. “We have to know what happened to him, sir. Beyond a reasonable doubt. Otherwise, the Air Force risks similar situations in the future.”

“Burke was a cold-blooded killer. A coward and a traitor to his country and his men, Captain,” O’Dell said stiffly. “That’s not a situation we face with monotonous regularity.

“But it has happened, and we shouldn’t risk it happening again needlessly. The country deserves our every effort to prevent such incidents, and I’d be remiss in my duty if I didn’t do everything humanly possible to unearth the.findings and offer them for future strategic studies.”

“I’m not happy to hear this, Captain. Your motives are simple and pure, but they’re also idealistic and misplaced. Colonel Hackett and General Nestler will agree. We’re too close to the end of the fiscal year to be exposing our underbelly.”

Money. Why did so much that shouldn’t, reduce down to money? “But sir-”

“This was an assignment, not a crusade. Close the file, Captain. That’s a direct order.”

Tracy stared at the newspaper until its black print blurred. Her stomach soured and her chest tightened. For the first time in her five-year career, she had no choice but to deliberately disobey a senior officer’s direct order. That, or be forever haunted by Adam Burke and the guilt of failing him yet again-without even trying to do the right thing. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I appreciate your time.”

O’Dell hung up the phone.

Tracy slumped in her chair, certain hell was coming to call. Worse, she’d summoned it.

That inauspicious beginning to Tracy’s day set the tone for the rest of it. By lunchtime, she had received messages for three more requests for interviews-word of Adam’s death was definitely out-and half a dozen more phone threats from crazies who obviously hadn’t yet tuned in to the news.

Janet breezed into her office. “Your appointment is in half an hour.”

Raw-nerved and soul-weary, Tracy rubbed at her temples. With everything else, she had to put up with a headache, too? “What appointment?”

Tension. It was tension.

“You need a little nurturing, so I booked you at Elegance for a facial. I’d have gone for the massage, too, but I wasn’t sure your budget could stand it.” Janet dropped a file on the desk, then turned back for the door. “Don’t be late-and don’t forget your checkbook.”

More than ready to escape the office for a while, Tracy grabbed her purse. Leave it to Janet to realize before Tracy that if she didn’t take time out to nurture herself, she wouldn’t have anything left with which to nurture anyone else-including Adam.

The rain had stopped. In the parking lot, she straddled a mud puddle to get into her car, and that eerie feeling of being watched returned in full force. She covertly glanced around the lot, but noted nothing unusual. She had to quit letting the stupid threats get to her.

Putting them out of her mind, she keyed the ignition(in and glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes. Plenty of time to make it down to Elegance.

She left the base and stopped at the red light just outside the gate. Thankfully, the entrance/exit was free of reporters. Ahead, wooded reservation hugged both sides of the straight-stretch, four-laned Freedom Way. Just off its right shoulder stood a drainage ditch five feet wide. Swollen full, rainwater gushed through it.

With all of the signs of habitation behind her and the gray sky above her looking dreary and ready to split open and dump more rain, she felt isolated and vulnerable. Why couldn’t she shake the sensation of being watched?

In a cold sweat, she again checked. Only one other car in sight: a blue standard-issue Air Force sedan. It pulled up behind her, and then stopped.

The traffic light changed. Letting out a little sigh of relief, she stomped the accelerator, chiding herself for letting empty threats get to her like this. People were just venting their anger. Nothing would come of them. Thank God she hadn’t been so foolish as to report them to the OSI. That decision definitely had been right. Occasionally, threats went with the job. The last thing she needed to show the promotion board was that she couldn’t handle the heat.

The threatening rain fell, splattering against the windshield. Tracy tapped the wipers on Medium, then checked her speed. Twenty-five in a fifty-five. No wonder the sedan whipped around her. She let it get a fair distance ahead of her, and then pressed on the gas.

The Caprice’s hood flew up, blinding her.

Startled, she stomped on the brakes, slid on the wet pavement. Grappling for control, she turned into the skid, but the car didn’t respond. It lurched off the road. Mud and loose gravel pinged against the undercarriage and fenders. The car fishtailed and slammed into the ditch, nose first. Water gushed over the hood, splashed against the windows.. Tracy flew forward. Her seat belt snapped tight, dug into her thighs, her chest, knocking the breath out of her. Her forehead cracked against the steering wheel. Pain exploded inside her skull and she screamed.

The car abruptly stopped.

Woozy, she shook her head to clear her vision. The Caprice had seated itself inside the muddy ditch. Water lapped at the car doors, and the ditch walls were too close; no way could she open the door to get out.

The window. She’d get out through the window.

Power windows.

The car wouldn’t crank; the engine was submerged under frothy, gushing water. “Oh, God.” Her, hand shaking violently, panic clawing at her stomach, she again turned the key.

Nothing happened.

She had to get out of the car. One way or another, she had to get out, or drown.

Frantically searching for anything she could use to break the window, she found only the crumpled note, threatening her. Angry, outraged, she pulled off her pump, released her seat belt, and beat at the window with the heel of her shoe.

The window cracked. Safety glass. It didn’t shatter.

She kept pummeling at the glass, urgently, hysterically, until she had hammered an opening large enough to crawl through, then tapped down protruding sharp slivers so she didn’t spear herself. Rushing water slapped at the sides of the car, splashed inside, running in rivulets down the door panels to the floorboard and sloshed, already ankle deep. More weight inside would cause the car to sink. The ditch was dirt; saturated mud was soft. If she didn’t hurry, she would end up buried and unable to get out. She beat at the slivers, harder, faster, darting a panicky gaze toward the street, praying someone would appear and help her.

Where the hell was the driver of that sedan? He had to have seen her accident. Why hadn’t he stopped?

Fear turned to anger. “No one wants to get involved. No one cares about anything that doesn’t directly affect them. Not anymore.” Hearing herself shouting, she couldn’t seem to stop. She grabbed the floormat, draped it over the opening, then dragged herself through the window, feeling the ragged, cracked glass scrape the mat against her stomach, her thighs. She tumbled out into the ditch, landing chin first in the muddy water with a hard thump.

Relieved, hugging the muddy ditch wall, she lifted her face to the rain, and laughed out loud. She’d done it!

She’d gotten out!

Thunder crackled. Lightning streaked through the sky, striking a tall pine not a hundred feet from her. She had to get out of the water. Crawling on her hands and knees; sliding in the mud, fighting the force of the gushing water, the steep slope of the ditch, she worked her way around to the car’s hood-and snagged her finger on raw metal. It stung. A bright streak of blood zagged down her index finger. What had cut her?

The hood latch. Its dull metal gleamed shiny, and it was scored. Someone had deliberately weakened her hood latch. This had been no accident.

Chapter 9.

It had been a day from hell and, from all signs, a night from hell would follow.

An Air Force standard-issue blue sedan like the one that hadn’t stopped at Tracy’s accident sat parked across the street in the dark shadows between the street lamps. She stared out at it from between the slats in her living room window’s blinds. Who was watching her? Why?

Maybe Colonel Hackett had discovered the bug in his office.

No, if he had, she wouldn’t be watched. She’d be arrested. And she’d been tempted to but she hadn’t reported the accident or the threats to the OSI or the base MPS. Maybe that decision hadn’t been wise. What if she ended up dead before learning the truth about Adam?

Unless I’m one-eighty out … you’ll need to disappear.

A cold chill shimmied up her spine. She crossed her chest with her arms and rubbed hard, again missing the perk of having a man in her life. If Adam were alive, would he be there for her now? She’d bet her bars that Adam, unlike Randall, wouldn’t be a fairweather friend and desert her at the first sign of trouble.

That was a safe bet. With his family and ex-wife? No way would he cut and run. The man had been bred, bem, and had died in mountains of discord and political adversity and still he had called to warn her because he had been worried and had left her everything he had. Adam would have been there for her. But he was dead.

Dead.

Just before dawn, the sedan pulled away from the curb and disappeared down the street. Exhausted from the all night vigil, Tracy still had no idea who was watching her. She checked and double-checked the locks on the windows and doors, then crawled into bed and collapsed against the pillows, again thinking of Adam.

He would be different from Paul or Randall. Supportive, but not pushy. Intense, but dependable in all things. What he’d done for her proved that. Guilty or innocent, the man knew how to make a woman feel special. Tracy tucked the covers up under her chin. Had he ever felt special?

Loved? He hadn’t with his family or, according to Janet, with his ex-wife, Lisa. It seemed the worst cruelty a man could suffer, to die feeling unloved.

Tracy closed her eyes and imagined him in bed with her, holding her, making her feel safe and protected, and her stroking him, making him feel loved. At least once, everyone should feel loved. They whispered back and forth, talking of everything and nothing, sharing childhood secrets and fears and desires. Feeling his strong arms around her, his warm kisses arousing her, making her feel desirable and wanted, she drifted into her dreams.

What now? Tracy stepped into her office and closed the door.

Janet’s perfume smelled subtle, but the woman seated at Tracy’s desk clearly had raising hell on her mind, and Tracy would prefer the entire JAG office didn’t hear it. “Whatever it is, break it to me gently.” She stuffed her purse into her bottom desk drawer. “I survived the night from hell, but I’m still shaky.”