Broken Honor (7 page)

But her analytical mind told her that was foolish. Too many coincidences meant none at all. Everything that had happened was tied together in some evil way.

And what did Colonel Flaherty have to do with it all?

six

M
EMPHIS

Professional courtesy. One investigator to another. It usually opened a lot of doors.

But not at Braemore, not on this campus. And not with its small security force. Irish thought about trying a little intimidation, then discarded the idea. One of theirs was down. One of their charges was wounded. Another was dead, but that was still deemed a hit and run.

The security officers had said they had been instructed by the Memphis police not to say anything and, still stunned by what happened, they obeyed. He'd also called on the Memphis detectives working the case. They were friendly enough—he was a colleague—but they had little information. About all he learned was that it was being worked as a burglary of a professor's office, one that went awry. Miss Mallory was just unfortunate to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. No, they couldn't share any more information. No, he couldn't go into Jon Foster's office.

Another door slammed in his face.

Flashing his military credentials, he had talked to others in the Sammons Building at the college and discovered a great deal about Amy Mallory. She apparently was one of those people who was interested in everyone, and showed it. From the janitorial staff on up, everyone seemed to like her, though few claimed a really close relationship. They raised disbelieving eyebrows when he asked whether they knew of any enemies she might have.

And his own impressions agreed with that assessment. She'd been undaunted this morning, despite being nearly killed, and appeared more concerned about the security guard, her friend Jon Foster, and her dog, than herself. He'd also been intrigued by the mild hostility when she'd seen his uniform. Not rabid, merely wary.

Because of her grandfather? Her mother? He already knew from his research that the woman had been unorthodox, a flower child who had never quite conformed to society.

Amy Mallory had used what must have been a chaotic childhood to succeed in a particularly demanding career, one that required discipline. He admired that.

He'd also liked the smoky gray eyes and the short, dark hair that wrapped appealingly around her face. But she was no real beauty. The description that applied was “pleasantly attractive.” He suspected, though, that when she smiled, she would be very pretty indeed.

He thought about Amy Mallory again, and wondered whether another visit would produce anything. He'd not missed the suspicion in her eyes, the growing awareness of danger as he'd talked.

To his surprise, she had not expressed the outrage that many would after a random act of violence. Nor had she expressed surprise at what would have been a really astounding run of bad luck. She must suspect a connection.

What?

He went over everything he knew about her. There was nothing that should suddenly plunge her into danger. Could it be mere coincidence that the report on the thefts had just recently been published?

It was a far stretch.…

And yet deep in his bones, he knew there was a connection.

If there was, why had anyone gone after her alone? Why not him?

He wondered about the other descendants, Dustin and Sally Eachan. Had they had sudden accidents?

He had to find out.

Irish went down to the desk of his hotel and told them he would be staying at least two more nights, maybe longer.

There was never really a decision to make. He didn't like the fear in Amy Mallory's eyes. He didn't like people who hurt women.

But to accomplish anything, he needed her trust. And he didn't blame her for not giving it readily. God only knew she'd had a horrendous few days. Why should she trust anyone, particularly him? He'd appeared on the scene just as everything had happened.

After arranging for the longer stay, he returned to his room. He plugged in his electronic notebook, and in minutes had the home and office numbers of Dustin Eachan and the home number of his cousin. He started dialing his cell phone.

An hour later, he was completely frustrated. He couldn't get through to either one of them. He left several messages, using his name and expressing the urgency of the matter.

He looked at his watch. He could try the Memphis police again, but he didn't want to press them. He didn't want them to contact his commanding officer. Doug Fuller was a friend, but he was also a stickler for protocol. He wouldn't approve of Irish using his badge for personal reasons.

Fishing
. He was supposed to be fishing. He'd just been looking for a different kind of catch. Information. And now.…

Now he was beginning to think he was looking for some bad guys.

After fifty years. It didn't make sense
.

And it particularly didn't make sense that someone was going after one of the descendants of the officers involved in a theft so many years ago. She had to know something. Even if she didn't know what it was.

Or was he just taking two and two and making five?

He looked outside. It was late, and yet he was restless. Frustrated. Unable to relax. Something was going on that he didn't understand, and he didn't like that one damn bit. He thought about Amy Mallory in the hospital room. Why her? Of all of the descendants, why had there been attempts on her life? According to the police, there didn't seem to be anything else in her life that might inspire such sudden violence. No stalkers. No boyfriends. No enemies.

Unable to rest, he decided to make one more effort to talk to her. He would wear civilian clothes. The uniform, he'd sensed earlier in the room, had had the opposite effect than what he'd hoped for. Instead of assuring her, it had turned her off. But he should have guessed. She'd done her research on protest movements, perhaps because of her mother. It stood to reason that she didn't like the military.

He changed to a sports shirt and jeans. He would find some flowers and try to reassure her that he was one of the good guys. It was obvious that his poor attempt at charm hadn't worked.

It took him an hour to find flowers, finally resorting to a grocery store after he found all the local florists closed. It was after ten before he reached the hospital. Probably too late, but at least he could leave them at the desk and return in the morning. He would leave a note of apology for pushing himself on her today. Damn, how long had it been since he apologized?

The halls were quiet. Only one person was at the nurses' station, and she was on the phone. He walked down to the room. If the light was on.…

It wasn't. He turned and started back toward the station when he saw another man, one in a florist's uniform, stop at the desk. His hands were full of a huge bouquet that partially covered his face. The bill of a cap shaded his eyes. Did florists really deliver this late? He sure hadn't been able to find one open.

His own small offering from the grocery store looked rather pitiful. He was thinking about throwing it out and starting over in the morning when he heard the man ask for Amy Mallory's room.

The nurse looked up from the phone call with a hassled look on her face. “You can leave them here,” she said.

The deliveryman hesitated. “You look busy. I don't mind.”

A buzzing sound distracted her, then another. “Three ninety-six,” she said in a distracted voice. “The hall to your left.”

The deliveryman nodded, cast a quick look at Irish and gave him a careless shrug, but kept his face partially covered by the huge bouquet. Irish felt a quickening of his pulse. His eyes scanned the man, including his hands. Despite the hot weather, they were gloved. Irish's instincts tingled.

He nodded amiably and leaned on the nurses' station counter as if he were waiting to speak to the nurse. He wondered where the other nurses were. He knew there had been a cutback in personnel in most hospitals, but this reminded him of the movies he'd often sat through with total disbelief. People running through empty halls.

He waited until the deliveryman had turned the corner, then followed. He ducked back when he saw the man look around. The glance, he thought, was meant to look innocent but instead looked furtive. But then Irish's entire career involved furtiveness, and maybe he saw it when it wasn't there.

Irish waited just a second, saw the door close behind the deliveryman, then walked softly to the door. He pushed the door open slightly. The flowers had been dumped on a chair. The man was leaning over a sleeping Amy Mallory, a pillow in his hand.

The man whirled around.

“Not today, you don't,” Irish said softly as he imprinted the lean and hungry face in his mind.

He knew instantly that the man recognized him. Not specifically. Not as Irish Flaherty, but as an opponent. As a cop.

The man spun around, dropped the pillow, and his hand went behind his back. Irish knew what he was after. He dived for the man, tackling him. A pistol skidded across the floor as a plastic pitcher and books fell from the stand next to the bed.

Both he and the intruder went down as they wrestled for the gun. The assailant was strong, powerful, skilled … and desperate. Irish barely avoided a kick to his groin and landed a blow on the man's cheek. He used his body to block the assailant's desperate attempt to reach the gun—just inches from their hands.

He heard Amy's exclamation, then her frantic screaming for the nurse. The intruder must have heard it, too, because he pushed with almost superhuman strength and rolled over on Irish before kneeing him and reaching for the gun.

Pain ripped through Irish, but he managed in one desperate movement to stick out his foot, tripping his opponent.

The man landed on his back and hit the side of the bed as Irish kicked the gun under the bed. His opponent groaned at the impact, then managed to get to his feet and avoid Irish's grasp. He ran toward the door, hitting a nurse as he did so. He shoved her against the wall and disappeared.

Irish reached for the gun. The nurse screamed. He started for the door, but a crowd now blocked it. The intruder was gone. He groaned as he straightened. Damn, but he must be out of shape. And practice. It had been years since he'd had a physical encounter with a bad guy.

The room filled. Nurses, attendants. Voices babbled. Amy Mallory sat up in the bed and stared at him. The pitcher, plastic glass, and telephone were scattered across the floor, along with pools of water. Wilted and crushed flowers added flashes of color in the shambles.

Everyone stared at him—and the gun—with horror.

He lowered it to his side. “It's over,” he said. “Someone intended to hurt Miss Mallory. Someone posing as a deliveryman. He might still be in the hospital. Alert security.” Useless. The intruder—no, hit man—would be long gone. He thought about going after the intruder himself, but he knew he was too late.

No one moved. Faces were full of indecision, even fear, as eyes moved from the pistol in his hand to Amy's stunned face. One nurse finally took a step toward Amy. “What happened?”

“I … don't know,” she said, obviously bewildered. “I woke up, and two men were fighting. I know … the colonel.”

“Colonel?” The nurse's eyes were suspicious as she eyed Irish. He knew how he must appear. His face hurt like hades; it must look battered. His clothes were torn and wet. The pistol was damning.

“Lieutenant Colonel Lucien Flaherty,” he said, clipping his words. “Army Criminal Investigation Division. I came to see Miss Mallory. An intruder had a pillow in his hands and was leaning over her. I think he meant to kill Miss Mallory.” He looked for a place to put the gun, but there was none. He finally walked over to a windowsill, and placed it there, knowing that the longer he held it, the less likely anyone would listen. “It was the intruder's gun,” he explained.

He heard the gasp from the bed. Of course she hadn't known what was going on. He couldn't even begin to think what she thought when she woke—probably from a drugged sleep—to two men fighting in her room.

The nurse gaped at him.

“Call the police, too,” he said.

She turned to the crowd accumulating in and outside the room, and he wondered where everyone had been a few moments earlier. They were dressed in a variety of clothing: scrubs, white uniforms, cheerful lab coats with cartoon figures. Then yet another person came into the room, spreading the others like Moses parting the Red Sea. Even if the newcomer hadn't been wearing a white coat, he had the professional assurance that screamed “doctor.”

“What's going on here?” he asked as he surveyed the mess on the floor, Irish's disheveled appearance, and then, warily, the gun that was very visible on the windowsill.

“One of your patients was attacked,” Irish said.

“Attacked? In this hospital?” Disbelief dripped from his voice. “I think you had better move away from that gun.”

Irish moved away. Then two men in security uniforms pushed into the room. Irish motioned to the gun. One of the security officers reached in a pocket, took out a handkerchief, and gingerly took the pistol.

“Is it all right if I get my wallet?” Irish said.

The security guards exchanged looks, then nodded. Irish very slowly and carefully reached inside his pocket with one hand, holding the other in plain sight. When he extracted his wallet, he pushed it open and showed his badge to the guards. The one not holding the gun took it and studied it.

“I want the room cleared of everyone not directly involved,” one of the security officers said.

The room emptied except for the doctor, a nurse, and Irish.

The doctor leaned over Amy, giving her a cursory examination. Her I.V. had dropped from her arm, evidently pulled when she'd moved during the scuffle. A nurse started to reattach the needle.

“I think you should get a fresh one,” Irish said.