Breakpoint (35 page)

“Well, for now, we’ll collect the rest of our swabs,” he said. “Send them off to the lab guys when we get to Pearl. Then take a few hours’ R and R before coming back on this tin can.”

“Spoken like a man who hasn’t exactly embraced the carrier lifestyle,” Julianne said dryly.

Dallas couldn’t argue.

Until two hours later, as they stood on the deck, along with the sailors standing at attention at the rail, hands clasped behind their backs, watching Diamond Head come into view.

The huge carrier, so at home in the open ocean, seemed out of place in this tourist land of pearly beaches, Mai Tais, and grass skirts.

Then, as the tugs came out to escort it into the harbor, as the screws of the
O’Halloran
churned up the mud in the shallower channel, they passed the USS
Arizona
Memorial.

And that was when it struck home. Perhaps these sailors hadn’t made the ultimate sacrifice, as had those still entombed beneath the memorial. But, like every other soldier, sailor, or Marine, they sacrificed their sleep, their personal lives, and yes, in many cases, their youth for something much larger than themselves.

“Okay,” Dallas leaned over and murmured in Julianne’s ear. “I get it.”

They weren’t going to give up. The pair were relentless, marching around the boat as if they owned it, interfering with work, asking their damn endless questions over and over again, as if they figured if they just repeated themselves one more time, the killer would slip and accidentally incriminate himself.

Or crack from the verbal torture and confess.

Like that was going to happen.

Maybe, he thought, as he watched them get into a taxi after disembarking, they’d get so caught up in screwing each other’s brains out, they’d miss the ship’s departure.

Of course, then they’d probably just call in the Marines to fly them out so they could begin pestering everyone again.

He’d considered killing her. There’d been a moment, when she’d been coming back from the telephone without her omnipresent guard dog, that he’d considered taking the risk.

But even if she weren’t the daughter of an admiral, which would undoubtedly generate an immediate and even more intense investigation, he’d seen the way the flyboy looked at her.

If anything happened to the former JAG officer, he’d turn relentless, not giving up until he’d gotten his man.

Which logically meant that he had to go, as well.

The problem with that was, the more the bodies piled up, the more likely it was that another domino would fall. He’d managed to shore up the operation after that commander had blown his brains out, but he could tell that others, with less cojones, were starting to get nervous.

Sometimes, when you were in a battle, nerves could be a good thing. Kept you sharp.

In this case, they could be deadly.

He’d have to think of something. Because he was in too deep. If he got caught now, he’d be lucky to get life without parole.

The one advantage he had was that while the flyboy obviously had a high enough IQ, he was currently distracted. And would be for at least the next three hours.

With that window in mind, he flipped open his cell and placed a call to the States.

It was time, he decided, to try a new tactic.

It was, admittedly, the riskiest yet.

Then again, he reminded himself, the higher the risk, the greater the reward.

Julianne was only vaguely aware of the drive from the port to the hotel, which, as she’d remembered, was the gleaming pink crown jewel in the necklace of luxury hotels linked together along the sands of Waikiki Beach.

Somehow Dallas had arranged for VIP check-in, which had them bypassing regular check-in and being escorted directly to their suite.

She was vaguely aware of being greeted by flashes of red and yellow, fire and sun colors as bold and hot as she felt as they walked into the magnificent suite. Outside the double doors leading to a huge lanai was a breath-taking view of Diamond Head crater, the beach, and the sparkling Pacific Ocean from which they’d just come.

But Julianne hadn’t come to this fabulous hotel for the view.

The moment they were alone, they fell into each other’s arms, kissing with a breathless lust that surprised Julianne. She was experienced. She’d enjoyed sex just like any other typical thirty-something woman. But there was nothing typical about the way this man made her feel.

Perhaps that was because there was nothing typical about Dallas O’Halloran.

The journey to the bedroom and the promised tub was too far, their hunger for each other too overpowering.

When Dallas pulled her to the floor in one rough move, Julianne did not object. In fact, as her hands fisted in his hair and her avid mouth met his, she wasn’t even sure which of them had dragged the other to the floor.

There were no words. No soft lovers’ sighs. Only blurred movement, drugged sensations, mind-blinding passion.

As he yanked up her khaki skirt, Julianne heard the sound of her admittedly unsexy panty hose ripping, and welcomed it. It had been too long since she’d had a man’s hands on her.

A man
inside
her.

In turn, she yanked down the zipper on his pants, released his straining erection, and, in what distant part of her brain was still working, marveled at the heat that seemed to scorch her fingers as they curved around his length.

They made love without undressing, a fierce, feverish love tinged with animal lust. After he’d ripped the condom packet, which he must’ve gotten on the ship, open with his teeth, Julianne took it from him, and felt him tremble as she rolled it over the dark, moist tip.

Once sheathed, he parted her legs with his palms; then, with the solid, muscular weight of him pressing her down, he rammed into her, long strokes, plunging deep and hard.

She bowed up to meet him, her rhythm matching his, her juices flowing hotly in response to his thrusts. When she came—too quickly—in a series of wet, violent shudders, she cried out—not in pain, but in sheer, surprised joy.

As her greedy body clutched at him, milked him, she felt Dallas stiffen. And as he surrendered the last vestige of his control, she came again, losing herself in him. Even as he lost himself to her.

Merry Draper was starving.

All right, technically, since she’d eaten only two hours ago, she couldn’t actually
be
starving. But try telling that to the tadpoles, who were currently working out their gymnastics routines while screaming that if they didn’t get a Taco Supreme—right now!—they were going to continue to kick her belly until they broke their way out and cartwheeled themselves to the fast-food place on their own.

Along with being hungry, she was also sweating. Her body, which ran hotter since she’d gotten pregnant, felt like a furnace inside.

And if all that weren’t bad enough, she was so exhausted it had been an effort to get out of her nightie and into shorts for this trip to the restaurant’s take-out window.

The Santa Anas had blown in from the desert, and the wail of the wind was unending. Like lost souls howling outside her apartment, trying to get in.

Gusts had tree branches scraping against her second-floor bedroom window, and the constant
clink, clink, clink
of the shredded canvas gazebo that had covered a small patio area next to the apartment pool sounded like someone trying to break in, which, although she’d turned on every light in the place, had kept her—and the babies—continually jumping all night.

She’d always been a clean freak. Probably due to having grown up with an admiral who ran daily bed checks whenever he was at home. But her feeling bulky and exhausted, combined with that edgy sensation that always got under her skin when the wind began blowing, like lightning dancing on her nerve ends, left her unable to keep up with the gritty dust that spread over the tables, kitchen counters, and floors.

Appreciating Tom even more now that he was away—at least she wouldn’t have had to worry about insane, knife-wielding psychos breaking in during the night if her Marine had been lying beside her in their queen-sized bed—she’d waited her turn at the drive-through, and had just had her order passed through the window when a bearded cretin in the BMW behind her leaned on his horn.

Maybe he was just freaked out like everyone else by the winds. Or maybe he was an asshole all the time.

Whatever, not wanting to risk his slamming into the back of the used minivan she and Tom had bought when she’d learned she was pregnant, trying to juggle the chocolate milk shake and the white bag while the tadpoles kicked to beat the band, Merry managed to move out of the drive-through lane.

On top of her already jangled Santa Anas nerves, the brief almost-confrontation had proven ridiculously upsetting. Hormones, Merry assured herself as she pulled into traffic. As much as she was looking forward to her babies’ arrival, she was also looking forward to getting her emotional equilibrium back.

Even after several deep breaths, which were meant to calm, but didn’t, as she pulled into her assigned parking space at the apartment building, Merry failed to notice the black Town Car idling at the curb.

Although they’d practically had to crawl to get there, Dallas and Julianne finally made it to the view. It was even more spectacular than the online description had promised.

Then finally to the bed, where, after some exquisitely slow lovemaking that had Dallas forgetting every other woman he’d ever been with, Juls had drifted off.

Deciding she could use a nap, he’d gone into the living room of the suite and begun making up some equations on his laptop.

Because, just as he’d begun drifting off to sleep himself, it had occurred to him that perhaps they hadn’t added enough variables to the equation they were trying to solve.

A true equation could, as everyone had learned in middle school algebra, be added to, subtracted from, or multiplied on both sides.

Obviously the LSO’s death had been a possible addition. But wasn’t it possible there’d been an addition on the other side, as well?

That someone other than the person who’d garroted Murphy and hanged her from that ceiling pipe had pushed LSO Manning off the flight deck? After, perhaps, calling him out there for some secret meeting in the first place?

A meeting that could point to the LSO being one of the bad guys.

Maybe
he’d even killed Mav.

Then had been murdered himself to keep him quiet?

Possible.

By adding the LSO to both sides of the equation, Dallas could make it end up true. But less useful, because now, mathematically, he ended up with an implication. Not an equivalence.

Which meant the solution set could get larger.

With that in mind, he began creating a series of boxes, literally connecting the dots in various ways, seeking connections between the various integers. Which would, unfortunately, be every sailor aboard the
O’Halloran.

Hey, no problem. There were only around six thousand, right?

While he couldn’t see any reason the admiral would risk a lifetime of service, not to mention a cozy position aboard a flagship, he added Miller and connected his box to Captain Ramsey’s.

Whom, in turn, he linked to CDO Wright.

The doctor proved a problematic wild card. If he’d been involved in the killing, given that the pilot’s husband didn’t want an autopsy, why would he bother to point out the marks on her neck proving her death wasn’t a suicide?

He was an integer that didn’t quite fit in. Which was why dealing with people was always more difficult than dealing with pure numbers, which, while often tricky, were more likely to do what they were supposed to do.

Dallas decided that perhaps, when he and Julianne had shown up on the carrier, the witch doctor had realized things were getting sticky, so he’d gone ahead and pretended to be cooperating.

“Hiding in plain sight,” Dallas murmured. He’d certainly done that enough times himself during his Spec Ops missions.

The phone on the desk blinked discreetly. When he’d made the reservation, he’d instructed that the phones be turned off, and requested that the switchboard operator interrupt them only in the event of a true emergency.

His thought at the time had been that Julianne was concerned, with good cause, about her sister, and he didn’t want to risk missing any news that she’d gone into premature labor, or suffered some other pregnancy complication.

He scooped up the receiver.

“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Halloran,” said a lilting, musical voice that brought to mind tropical flowers and hula dancers. “But there’s a sailor down in the lobby who insists on speaking with you and Ms. Decatur. In person. I don’t want to disturb you. But he insists that it’s a matter of life or death.”

Damn. Apparently they could escape the boat. But not the case.

“Does this sailor have a name?”

He did. But Dallas didn’t recognize it. Which meant that an unknown had just infiltrated its way into the tidy equation he’d been attempting to create.

“Send him up.”

Dallas cursed quietly and closed the lid on his laptop.

Apparently he hadn’t been as quiet as he’d hoped, because the door to the bedroom opened, and Julianne came out wrapped in a thick white terry robe he fully intended to get her out of.

Unfortunately, that would have to wait. Patience, he was deciding, sucked.

“Who were you talking to?” Her eyes no longer looked exhausted. But worried.

“It’s not about your sister,” he assured her. “Apparently there’s a sailor down in the lobby who insists on talking with us.”

“How did he even know we’re here?”

“My guess is that he followed us.”

Dallas took the Glock from its case and stuck it in the back of the jeans he’d put on after leaving the bed. Then he pulled a T-shirt over it.