Body of Evidence (Evidence Series) (6 page)

The show of respect hit her with the force of a fist. A civilian receiving a salute was a rare and precious gesture, bringing forth an instant rush of tears and a sudden, sharp shame. Although technically a civilian navy employee, she worked with all branches of the military. She’d trained with the troops to show she was no pedigreed token employee and could keep up with the vigorous physical requirements. She worked long hours in the lab and even longer hours in the field when deployed. As a result, she knew more than military rank and insignia; she understood their culture. These men didn’t salute the self-assured, smug, and commanding US attorney. Nor did they salute because she was a former vice president’s niece. No. They saluted the JPAC archaeologist. Her work was dangerous, grueling, and respected by soldier, sailor, airman, and marine.

These marines didn’t blame her for screwing up in North Korea. They thanked her for her service to an important cause.

She cleared her throat and said, “Thank you.” But the words felt inadequate.

A colonel stepped forward. “At ease.” He shook Mara’s hand with a firm grip and introduced himself as Colonel McCormick. To Curt he said, “I was surprised to hear you were headed our way, Mr. Dominick.”

“The change was necessary.”

“I’ve received orders from the secretaries of state and defense to provide you with whatever you need.”

Curt inclined his head to request privacy for himself and the colonel. The two walked away, leaving her to stand awkwardly in front of the marines.

A minute later, he returned. “You’ll wait on the plane while I attend to some business.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll be gone an hour, maybe two.”

“You’re not even going to pretend to answer my question.”

“No.” The man was colder than Antarctica in July and a secretive son of a bitch. She still couldn’t believe he’d served her with a subpoena.

The colonel gave orders to the marines, then nodded to Curt.

“I’ve got to go,” he said.

The muted smell of the tropics and slight breeze on her skin combined to strike her with an intense longing for home. “I want to go to my house.”

“We don’t have time, Mara. We won’t be on Oahu long.”

“It’s in Kaneohe, not far from here. It’s been months.”

His voice softened. “I wish I could take you there. But I can’t.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“You’ll wait here.”

“Fine,” she said and turned toward the gangway.

“Mara.”

She faced him. His eyes held the compassion she’d briefly glimpsed when they met in North Korea. He could make her knees weak with one penetrating stare, because she was a fool who couldn’t separate the notion of “hero” from “rescue” even when her rescuer was the enemy.

His warm palm caressed her cheek. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Tenderness from The Shark? Was it an act? “I’ll be here.”

“Good.”

Through a main cabin window, she watched Curt and the colonel drive away, while the marines marched in unison, and the pilots crossed the tarmac to a nearby building. She was alone.

It was ridiculous for her to wait here when she could be doing something. She wasn’t a prisoner anymore, and no one, not even the man who’d saved her life, had the right to detain her. She wanted to track Roddy down, but confronting him would be stupid. Jeannie was her best hope. Jeannie would tell her what the hell had happened on that August day.

Her tiny house was about ten miles away—less than five miles across the bay as the Nēnē flies. Once there, she could pick up her car and head to Jeannie’s. She would be back on the base before Curt even knew she’d left.

A friend tended bar at the Marine Corps Base golf course on weekdays and could probably give her a ride home. She paused to wonder what day of the week it was and realized she had no idea. They’d crossed the international dateline during the flight. It was yesterday here and tomorrow in North Korea, but she had no name for today.

The first problem was clothing. She’d die of heat stroke if she walked a mile, let alone ten, in the clothing provided by the State Department. She searched the galley and came up with a serrated knife. After slipping off the clothes, she sawed through each pant leg, then hacked off the sleeves and high neck from the sweater. Dressed again, she paused in the doorway and glanced down at her frayed and unraveling ensemble. Telling herself she set a new standard for awesomeness, she stepped outside.

The fuel truck arrived, and she headed down the stairs. The tech was too busy hooking up the line to even glance her way. In seconds, she crossed the tarmac and circled the building. With luck, she’d have two hours before anyone even realized she was gone.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

A
NDREW
S
TEVENS GRIPPED
the phone in a tight fist and managed to maintain a calm, reasonable voice. “She’s on Oahu?”

On the other end of the line, the secretary of state’s voice remained smooth and even, a sure sign he hadn’t picked up on Andrew’s tension. “This is a courtesy call. I’m not at liberty to divulge more.”

“You can tell that bastard Dominick I’m grateful to him for saving her.”

“I’ll do that. They’ll be in the air again shortly. You can have breakfast with her tomorrow.”

Andrew gritted his teeth. They both knew the trial started tomorrow. “I’m busy tomorrow morning.”

The man cleared his throat. “Yes. I guess you are.”

On autopilot, Andrew said the necessary words of thanks and hung up. Mara was stuck with Curt Dominick until the trial started. If he didn’t know his darling niece was loyal to a fault, he’d be very, very afraid. As it was, all he could do was pray she didn’t unwittingly set the prosecutor on the scent of a charge bigger than obstruction of justice.

The right question, deftly applied, could unlock knowledge Mara didn’t know she had, and Curt Dominick was just the man to ask those questions. Hell, the prosecutor had been compiling a list since July.

He punched in Raptor CEO Robert Beck’s number. He could hope Mara would refuse to answer, and her knowledge would remain harmless, dormant. But he couldn’t rely on hope. There was far too much at stake. Robert Beck could help. His son, Evan, was Mara’s ex-boyfriend, and the two had remained close, even after the breakup. Evan might be able to wrest her away from the prosecutor.

R
ODDY
B
ROGAN’S BODY
had been removed hours before Curt arrived at the scene. Understandable, considering the rapid rate of decomposition in the balmy climate, but even without the corpse, the smell of death remained.

The gun that had apparently killed him remained on the floor. An FBI crime scene technician photographed blood splatters that streaked across the walls and floor. Suicide couldn’t be immediately ruled out.

Curt turned to FBI Agent Kaha’i Palea. Palea had been up since Curt’s one a.m. call and looked tired. “How did you know to look for Brogan here?”

“Years of fine-tuning my investigative instincts.”

Curt raised an eyebrow.

The crime scene tech laughed. “It was dumbass luck. He’d run out of places to look and decided to check this place out because he was in the area.”

Palea grinned. “You call it luck. I call it instinct. Po-tay-to, pa-tot-oh.”

A loud boom rocked the floor and rattled the windows. The tech glanced from Palea to Curt. “Sonic boom?”

Palea shrugged. “They’re getting sloppy on the base. Heads are gonna roll for that.” The phone on Palea’s hip chimed. He glanced at the display. “I need to take this,” he said and answered the call.

Curt studied the weapon, so close to where the corpse had lain. Five years ago, at the age of twenty-three, Roddy Brogan had completed US Army Ranger training but was injured in a training exercise. Permanent nerve damage to his right—and dominant—hand forced a medical discharge, but a Raptor headhunter had snatched him up while he was still recovering, recruiting Roddy for his linguistic talents. From what Curt had been able to learn, during the last five years Roddy had become nearly as proficient with his left hand as he’d been with his right.

The weapon on the floor lay only inches from where Roddy’s left hand had been. If he’d been murdered, the killer had known about his disability.

Palea closed his phone. “The serial number on the gun is a match. It’s Roddy Brogan’s Raptor-issued weapon.”

“It seems unlikely Roddy could be caught off guard and killed with his own weapon,” Curt said.
But petite Mara claimed she took him down with a swift chop of her small hand.

“I know,” Palea said. “He must have known his killer. Someone he trusted.”

“I agree.” He turned away from the crime scene to look out the window. Plants crowded upon each other, threatening to take over the backyard. The nearest neighbor wouldn’t have seen a thing through the thick foliage.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the number. Hawai’i area code. Few people in Hawai’i had his cell number. He left the bloody kitchen for the adjacent living room and answered. “Dominick.”

“This is Colonel McCormick,” a clipped voice said. Sirens wailed in the background. “Shit, Dominick. I need you to sit down.”

Icy fear spread through Curt. He knew with sudden certainty the noise that shook the house a few minutes ago hadn’t been a sonic boom. He held the phone in a knuckle-burning grip. “What’s going on, Colonel?”

“There’s been an explosion. The jet… It’s gone.”

The room around him narrowed to a small, airless tunnel, and the bright noon sun dimmed. “Mara,” he said before his voice cut out.

“She was inside.”

The putrid scent of death that permeated the house became stronger. He stumbled across the room and into the screen door. The door gave way, and he tumbled onto the porch.

His job had been to save her.

His fault. Jesus. He’d left her behind.

He leaned against the porch railing and realized he still held the phone in a death grip. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll send a car—”

The rest of his words were lost as Curt saw a vision walking down the long driveway. He didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits or even angels and had always believed he’d been born without a faith gene. He was a man who relied on facts and evidence, and walking toward him was an ethereal, beautiful sprite. The sun glinted off her blond hair, and damn if it didn’t glow.

The phone dropped from his hand and clattered on the wooden planks. His throat seized. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think.

Her brow wrinkled in confusion as she approached. Finally, the vision spoke. “Before you yell at me for disregarding your orders, I want to know what the hell you’re doing at my house.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

T
HE EXPLOSION HAD
drawn all pleasure craft for miles, making his boat one of many on the water. He was just another fisherman, curious, watching fire trucks and ambulances race down the runway toward the fiery wreck that had been a luxury private jet a few minutes before.