Breakpoint (26 page)

“You’ve been very helpful,” Dallas said, treating her to the full dazzle of his smile.

She might be impatient. She might be tough, able to fly up there in the skies and then land on this floating airport with the big dogs. But as she paused with her hands on the flight suit zipper and stared up at him, Julianne knew that Lieutenant Harley Ford wasn’t immune to the O’Halloran charm.

“We may be back with more questions,” Julianne said. “But you’ve been very helpful. Thanks.”

“No problem. I might not have liked her all that much, but if someone’s out there killing aviators, I’d be the first to help you cut off his balls and feed them to the fish.”

“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Julianne said. “But we’ll get him.”

“You’d better,” Ford warned. “Because this boat arrives in port in Pearl tomorrow, and whoever it is could just stroll off and get away with murder.”

“Well,” Julianne murmured as they watched her walk away down the narrow passage, “what do you think?”

“That Colonel Mustard did it in the library with a rope?”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you take anything seriously?”

“You, of all people, shouldn’t have to ask that question. My point was that for what was originally ruled a simple suicide, we certainly have our share of suspects. I’m beginning to feel like we’re on the Orient Express instead of a flattop.”

“That’s from that movie, right? The one where someone got murdered on the train?”

“
Murder on the Orient Express
. Detective Poirot has a line that’s beginning to remind me of what we’ve got going on here.

“He says that the only way he can see the light is by interrogating the other passengers. But when he began to question them, the light thickened.”

“Just like ours is beginning to.”

“Like gumbo.”

“I’ve changed my mind about each of us interviewing people separately.”

“Can’t stand the idea of being apart, right?”

The teasing twinkle in his melted Hershey’s Kisses eyes had her smiling again. Neither one of them had smiled during that court-martial interrogation. She was discovering, to her surprise, that she liked it. A lot.

“You already know you’re hot, so I’m not going to lie and say I’m not attracted. But our minds work in entirely different ways. I’d have thought, since you’re the computer math whiz, you’d be the more analytical of the two of us. But oddly, I think you’re more intuitive.”

“Like I said, it helps to be able to read people when a lot of them might want to kill you.”

For a fleeting moment she wondered what, exactly, he’d done during his Spec Ops career. Then wondered if she really wanted to know. Her military experience had been neat and tidy and by the book. She suspected his had been just the opposite.

“Well, we both have our talents. If we pool them, we might be able to brighten up that light and crack the case before we get to Pearl.”

He put his arm around her shoulders—not in any sexual way, but more in a friendly, partnership manner that was still inappropriate enough to have her glancing up to see if there just happened to be one of those cameras overhead.

“Our minds may work a little differently,” he agreed. “But in this, we’re in perfect agreement.”

“I apologize for the lack of space,” Lieutenant Commander Annette Stewart said when they’d made their way to her office.

“It’s definitely a far cry from what you’d probably get in private practice,” Dallas said.

His parents had gone with him to a shrink specializing in family relations a few times after the adoption. Not that there was anything wrong with him, at least in his mind, but they’d wanted to ensure they all got off to a good start.

The way Dallas had seen it, having hit the jackpot in the family sweepstakes, he didn’t have any reason to have issues, as the doctor kept referring to them. But he loved his new mom and dad enough to humor them.

That office had been spacious, with framed abstract prints on the wall, lots of green plants, and, bubbling away on a table, a fountain he’d guessed was meant to calm crazy people down.

This office was a hole the size of a broom closet. A very small broom closet. With pipes running overhead.

“It’s small,” the psychologist said. “But I’m fortunate to have it. As a psychologist, I need a private sanctuary to speak with my patients in. It’s also a place to escape my seven roommates and get away from the thousands of other people on board for a while.”

“Do you see that many patients on any given day?” Julianne asked.

“Not with major mental illnesses, because the military does a fairly good job of screening for those disorders before a sailor gets assigned to a ship. But sea deployment, along with being incredibly monotonous, can also be stressful to those who find it more difficult to slide into a daily routine.

“So occasionally a sailor might be on the verge of a psychotic breakdown. Hopefully he or she will seek help on their own. If not, it’s up to his or her superior to notice the problem and send them to me.

“Then, of course, being away from home for months at a time can be a cause for depression. More so among the married sailors, because they’re missing so much of their family lives. Babies are born, kids have soccer games and Christmas plays, and they’re not there. Which makes for stress, which can turn into depression. Or anxiety, which often seems to increase the closer we get back to our home port.”

“Because they won’t be able to duck any underlying issues anymore,” Dallas suggested.

She took off her black-framed glasses, chewed on one stem, and studied him for a moment. “That’s very good.”

“It just makes sense.” Juls was looking at him, too, which had him feeling uncomfortably as if the two obviously intelligent women had put him beneath a microscope.

“For someone who thinks about such things,” the doctor said. “Not everyone does.”

“There’s also the case that so many of the sailors on this ship are young,” she continued, when he decided against responding to that comment.

“Many are no more than eighteen, just out of high school,” she was saying, as Dallas tried to remember when he’d first discovered his ability to sense whether or not a new foster parent was going to be one of those who was just in it for the money, or worse, got off on having kids to beat on who couldn’t fight back.

At least before kindergarten, he decided, recalling one alcoholic bully who’d known just where to punch on the body so there’d be no bruises for social service workers to notice. Dallas had learned quickly to make himself scarce whenever the bottle of Gentleman Jack had come out of the cupboard.

“So, I tend to be put in the role of their high school guidance counselor, or mother, or friend,” the commander was saying as he dragged his mind back from that dark time to the topic at hand.

“I also supervise the alcohol-rehabilitation program, which takes up a lot of time. Too often sailors working twelve hours a day use alcohol to relieve stress.

“Then there are always the malingerers. Thanks to Internet availability, some sailors will spend a lot of time doing research on various illnesses, trying to convince me they need medical discharges. The most popular one these days, for some reason, seems to be bipolar disorder.

“Also, since they know a Navy psychologist can recommend separation from the military, many threaten suicide as a ploy to get out of their commitment.”

“Did Lieutenant Murphy ever come to you?” Julianne asked. “And if she did, was suicide mentioned?”

“The only time I saw the LT was from time to time in the officers’ mess. Usually, though, like many of the pilots, she preferred eating in the dirty-shirt mess.”

“Uniforms not required,” Julianne translated.

“Because their hours aren’t as regulated,” Dallas guessed. “So showing up on time isn’t always possible.”

“That and pilots prefer their own little enclave,” Stewart said with a wry smile. “They’re also the least likely to ever show up at my door. Because having a psych visit on their record could endanger their flight hours.”

“And probably should, if it’s serious enough,” Julianne murmured.

“You won’t get an argument there. But all the pilots I’ve ever met seem to believe they have a big red S on the front of their flight suits. That they’re impervious to the dangers that can befall ordinary mortals.”

“Gee, where have I seen that behavior before?” Juls said dryly, shooting Dallas a look.

“Makes sense to me,” he said, knowing that her unspoken accusation was true. Most Spec Op guys, himself included, tended to believe they were bulletproof. “Being catapulted off a pitching flight deck in the middle of the sea isn’t for the faint of heart.”

Stewart nodded. “Point taken. I also think—or at least hope—that their own superiors internally handle whatever problems might show up.”

“Which means you have nothing to tell us about either Lieutenant Murphy or LSO Manning,” Julianne said. Only someone who knew her as well as Dallas was beginning to would have heard the faint discouragement in her voice.

Something flickered across the psychologist’s face. And in her suddenly guarded eyes.

Reminding him of the JAG investigator who’d driven not just Dallas, but also his teammates up a wall, Julianne jumped on that slight pause.

“Was the LSO a patient?”

The doctor looked up at the wall, where, rather than any snazzy, indecipherable abstract art, she’d merely hung a trio of diplomas framed in thin black metal.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Not in any official sense.”

“Because he didn’t want any visits to you in his records?”

“No. Because we were friends. Not just professional friends. But personal ones. I cared about him.” She caught the accidental past tense. “Care,” she corrected firmly.

“He’s been missing a long time.”

“True. And I’ve been heartsick since I heard the captain make the announcement. But he’s tough. And a fighter. And until I see a body, I’m not going to accept that he’s dead. Men have fallen overboard and survived before. I’m hoping he’ll be one of them.”

“You’re not alone there,” Dallas said.

And not just because they needed his testimony. Dallas had seen more death than most guys his age. He could do without ever seeing another body as long as he lived.

“It’s not that I don’t want to help,” the doctor said. “But there are other people involved. People who might be harmed if I tell a personal story that isn’t mine to share.”

She drew in a deep breath. Tapped a yellow pencil on her desktop for a long, thoughtful time.

Julianne and Dallas waited.

Tap
.

“Okay. Before we get to the point where you tell me you can get a judicial court order to command me to testify or move on to threatening to ship me off to Gitmo for waterboarding—”

“No one is suggesting any of that,” Julianne snapped uncharacteristically.

“Sorry.” The woman dragged her fingers through the brunette bob that stopped just short of her khaki collar. “This is just . . . difficult.”

She sighed.

More tapping.

“I can swear to you, on my word as an officer,” she said finally, “that LSO Manning was not involved with Lieutenant Murphy in any sexual way. And I’d bet my commission that he didn’t have it in him to kill anyone. Especially over such a foolish incident.”

“It sounded like a lot more than a foolish incident to Lieutenant Murphy,” Dallas pointed out.

“True. But her temper was like a flash fire: quick, hot, and over as quickly as it began.”

“I’m willing to go along with you, for now,” Julianne said. “With the understanding that you well
could
be risking your commission if you’re wrong. As for how you know that Manning wasn’t involved with the LSO in any sexual way, would that be because of your close, personal friendship with him?”

“If you’re asking if we were lovers, the answer is that we weren’t. But yes, we were close enough that I know a great deal about his personal life. As you undoubtedly know about that of your friends. People feel the need to share what’s in their hearts and minds. It’s only natural.”

“If you say so.”

Although they were both female, both naval officers, that one exchange told Dallas the two women could have been from different planets. It was also when he realized that growing up the daughter of a tough-as-nails admiral might not exactly be a piece of cake.

“Sounds as if you’re kept pretty busy,” Julianne suggested mildly. Too mildly, Dallas considered.

“My days are longer than if I’d chosen a civilian practice. But, as they say, it’s not really work if you enjoy it. After dinner, we have evening sick call to provide treatment to those who work the night shift.”

“Yet you’re not a medical doctor.”

“No, but most nights at least one sailor will show up just to talk. Sometimes they’re homesick. Occasionally one will overdose or even cut his or her wrists because of the stress that comes with the constant monotony and the incredibly long hours. Without the concept of a weekend when we’re under way, everyone but the sailors in laundry works seven days a week. It’s pretty much work, grab some chow, sleep, then work again.”

“Did LSO Manning drop by that night?”

“No.” Those intelligent eyes narrowed. Glinted. “But that doesn’t mean he was off killing LT Murphy.”

“Just covering all the bases,” Julianne said. “So, after these conversations with homesick or depressed sailors you finally get to sleep?”

“I hit my rack around midnight. But that doesn’t mean I actually get to sleep. You try sleeping with the constant drone of the ship’s engines, the planes, the sailors working, doors slamming, and announcements. There’s never a moment’s silence. . . .

“You know that saying about sailors needing to get their land legs back after a cruise?”