Peril (27 page)

“Yes.”

“Well, why was he let go?”

“Conduct unbecoming.”

“Which means what? He didn't say the Pledge of Allegiance before breakfast?”

Markel's eyes narrowed and Brett swore the man's laser gaze sizzled a hole right through his chest. He brushed his fingers over his shirt, checking for singed threads.

Markel clasped his hands together. “There were complaints that he acted inappropriately around some of the younger women on base.”

“He didn't call them the day after?”

“I wouldn't be privy to that information.”

Brett had seen the constellation of signs on Markel's face on previous interviewees. The slightly open lips, tilted head, and widened eyes. A look that begged him to keep probing. He'd disclose the true issue if Brett could find the trigger.

He needed to find out if the dog tags he'd found at the park near Zoe Martin's body belonged to a child murderer. Focus that direction.

“Enlisted women?”

Markel shook his head.

“How young?” Brett prompted.

“Middle to high school aged girls.”

Like Zoe? Was that how it started? When the improper touching wasn't enough, he progressed to murdering young girls?

“Why didn't you stop him? Have him face a military court and lock him up, instead of letting him run roughshod over the civilian community?”

“Detective Sawyer, I really don't appreciate your tone. It's unprofessional.”

Brett's stomach came up into his throat. Why did these types have such an effect on him? His sassy attitude was usually reserved for coworkers. Those who could understand him and not file a complaint with the public relations officer.

“I apologize, sir. It's just that it would help me considerably if you wouldn't be vague. I have a murdered girl on my hands. A family is grieving.”

Markel's shoulders dropped a little. Was he opening the door to the confessional?

“Dylan Worthy was accused of many things. Most couldn't be verified, but there was a well-documented case of improper touching between him and one woman's daughter. From that situation, he was dishonorably discharged.”

“And now he's my problem.”

“Tell me, Detective. Why do you think Worthy is involved in one of your cases?”

“Gee, I don't know. Because I found his dog tags at my crime scene.”

Markel began to drum his fingertips together. “Really?”

“You may think this is the best part of my day, to just randomly interview upstanding military types without cause. But there is a very dangerous man out there, and any insight you offer may help to get him off the streets. Do you have any idea of his whereabouts?”

“I think you need to speak with his wife. Maybe she could help you.”

Markel began to type at his keyboard.

Brett cleared his throat. “Had another question for you. Do you know anything about a Dr. Reeves and these brain surgeries he's performing?”

For the briefest moment, Markel's fingers froze. “The military has severed all ties with Dr. Reeves and his research. I can't make any further comment other than that.”

When Brett pulled up to Gina Worthy's house, a low whistle escaped his lips. As he climbed out of his car one word came to mind:
McMansion
.

How could she afford a house so ostentatious? Markel didn't believe she and Dylan had divorced, but this monstrosity spoke of newfound money. Brett walked up the Spanish-tiled steps and rang the doorbell. He wondered what those possibilities might be.

Maybe Dylan Worthy had used some contacts with nefarious foes to set up some sort of less-than-legal entrepreneurship. Maybe weapons. Or drugs. Prostitutes? Child slavery?

Brett's shoulders ached while his conspiracy-prone deductive reasoning ran amok.

The door eased open and a homely woman stood in front of him. Freckled. No makeup. Mousy brown hair, washed, but the curls frizzed in the dry Colorado air.

“Can I help you?” Dark shadows under her eyes seemed to suck whatever life remained.

Brett shook his head to clear the explosion of his expectation from the reality before him. “Are you Gina Worthy?”

She inched the door open more. “I am.”

“Dylan Worthy's wife?”

“Legally.”

Oh. Looks like I just cracked open an encyclopedia.

Brett fished his badge from his back pocket. He flipped it toward her. “I'm Detective Brett Sawyer with Aurora police. I'd like to speak with you about your husband.”

What he was used to seeing—either the feigned or truly shocked look when he uttered those words—didn't register on her face. It was like talking to drywall. She merely said, “I thought you'd get here a lot sooner than this.” She opened the door wider.

Okay, now. An encyclopedia and a can of worms.

What was immaculate on the outside was a disaster zone on the inside.

House rich. Cash poor.

The home reeked of animal stench. Brett could see kitty-litter trays in two corners of the living room. At least three cats scurried to hide as they walked the short hall. One side of the room held gym equipment that served as the general depository for dirty clothes. Perhaps at one time
Dylan had used it faithfully, but Gina seemed less concerned with physical fitness than her ex-SEAL husband likely was. She motioned to a soiled, obnoxious, floral couch. Brett imagined it had been pilfered from a sidewalk where someone pinned a “Free” sign on it. There were brown patches of dried animal feces stuck to the fibers.

Now I get why Nathan prefers wood or concrete over bacteria-housing foam. I'm gonna have to stop ribbing him about that.

Brett seated himself in the least filthy spot. Placing just one butt cheek against the cushion might make him appear too feminine, he decided, so he settled back fully on the couch. He silently wished for a container of Nathan's hand gel. Maybe he needed to imbibe a little of Markel's alpha male demeanor.

“Mrs. Worthy—”

“Gina, please.”

Real cause or imagined, his skin cells screamed to be scratched. A cat leapt onto the cushions between them, and Brett's skeleton nearly jumped free from his body. He clenched his teeth to keep from swearing.

Furry animals were usually not friendly to him—and as if on cue, the cat hissed. Gina scooted the animal off the couch and folded her hands together, her eyes begging him to get to the matter at hand.

He inhaled shallowly and squared his shoulders. “Gina, then. You don't seem surprised to see me.”

“You, maybe. But not the police. You don't strike me as the police type.”

“Well, you're not the first to say that. I take it as a compliment.”

“You're here to learn more about Dylan?”

“You mention that you're not divorced, but your statement leads me to believe that neither are you together.”

“Right.”

“He's not living here.”

“No.”

“I just came from talking with Lieutenant Colonel Markel about your husband.”

She stilled at those words. “So you know.”

Know what?

“Well, he did confirm some of my suspicions,” Brett said.

“About the operation and what I did.”

Brett's vision clouded a moment. Perhaps the fumes were beginning to overwhelm him.
Operation?

“Was Dylan involved in these brain surgeries?”

“Yes. But you didn't know that?”

Brett let the silence linger as he thought of what to say.

Gina couldn't take it. “Has Dr. Reeves said what the problem is?”

All the things he should have seen in the room but had missed because the mission he was on was separate from the one Gina expected. The large-screen HDTV set to a news channel, but muted. The picture of Sacred Heart with the banner of
Chaos at Children's
on the screen. Somehow, he had to figure out how all these pieces lined up. Perhaps Gina could provide the missing linchpin.

“Mrs. Worthy. We are going to back up several steps, okay?”

She nodded. Her eyes wide and twitchy.

“When did you and Dylan meet?”

“We were high school sweethearts. I've known him since first grade.”

“Married when?”

“Just one year into college. He was focused—always wanted to be in the military. It was his one, solitary goal.”

“How was the marriage?”

It was the first moment fear crept across her face. “Dylan is not the man I thought he was.”

“Can you be specific?” A smoky gray cat rubbed against her frumpy purple sweatpants.

“Did Markel tell you why he was let go from the military?” Gina asked.

“That he seemed to fancy underage girls.”

“Fancy would be an understatement.”

“How much of an understatement?” Brett asked.

“A lot.”

“So you are aware of actual criminal activity.”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

Gina looked down at her folded hands. “Because he hurt someone in my family.”

Brett's gut ached. It's why he did homicide and not sex crimes. There were lots of law breakers. Lots of life takers. But when young kids got hurt, it was easy for him to imagine using lethal force in a not-so-legal way.

“You didn't report it?”

She shook her head, and Brett wanted to ask why.
Could it have been the one moment that would have stopped so many other lives from being damaged?

“Honestly, Detective, that wasn't the only thing. I wanted more for my life than just to be a warrior's future widow. I was so lonely. He didn't earn enough money. I wanted freedom from that lifestyle. The constant moving. Having to get to know new people every three years. I just wasn't thriving in that environment.”

“So you began to look for an out.”

“Yes. But something happened that stopped me cold from carrying out what I wanted to do.”

“And that was?”

“I got pregnant.”

From center mound, the pitch hit him square in the chest. There weren't any sounds in the house of children, only the pitter-patter of multitudes of furry feet scampering about.

“How long ago was that?”

“A couple of years.”

“Why did that stop your plans? You were concerned about his affinity for young girls? I would think it would hasten any planning you started. Make it more urgent to break free.”

Now there were tears. She raked the cat's fur like it was her last lifeline, and the feline scrunched down in desperation. “You would think so, right? Especially after I found out it was a girl.”

“So you did fear having a young girl in the house?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“What did you do?”

“I was lost and didn't want to raise a baby on my own. As the child of a single mother, I saw her working three crappy, less-than-minimum-wage jobs. It broke her spirit to do so much and still have trouble keeping me fed and clothed. I didn't want life to be hard. I wanted lots of money in a bank account. I wanted status. Respect. I wanted freedom from a marriage that felt like prison. From motherhood. From what I thought would be a dream life when what I was actually living was hell on earth.”

Gina covered her eyes and took a moment to collect herself. Brett pushed his back into the couch and stared at the ceiling. He knew he
should offer some type of comfort, but he just wasn't built to be that shoulder to cry on. Eventually, he settled his eyes on the television and watched the headlines scroll across the bottom. Her sobbing eased, but she didn't make any moves to clear the emotional distress from her face.