Hard Press'd

by Linda Rae Blair

  She ruffled the big dog’s head and shoulders until he moaned. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I left a couple of things and stopped by to pick them up. I heard you were on a case and thought I could come and go without disturbing you.”

  “Got a call at 2:00 AM—been at it ever since,” he answered.

  “Have you had dinner yet?”

  “Yeah, my new partner and I grabbed a bite on the way home so we could talk over the case. I’m going for a run to unwind…if you want to come along?” He hoped not. He really wanted some time alone to sort things out in his head.

  “No thanks. I don’t want to get my system revved up this close to bedtime.”

  Press came back downstairs a few minutes later wearing his favorite ratty, old running clothes—faded blue sweat pants and Virginia Beach tee so faded that the decal was now next to impossible to read. He headed for the beach access off the back deck of the house and found Sherry sitting on the deck.

  “Beautiful night—a little cool though.” She took a deep drink from the snifter she held in her hand. He recognized her favorite wine. “Press, do you mind if I wait for you to get back? We need to talk.”

  Every man on the face of the earth hates to hear that phrase, he thought. It’s never good news! “Okay. You alright?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll see you after your run,” she said as she rose from her chair, kissed his cheek, and went into the house to load the small boxes of her belongings into her car while he was gone.

  When he stepped down into the sand, he turned and used the deck stairs to help him stretch, then he headed north on the firm, damp sand where the waves had been surging and ebbing.

  When he was in the mood, he could run all the way north beyond “hotel row” to the breaker where the old Lighthouse Restaurant had been before it was demolished by one of the hurricanes that swept over the coast several years before. Since it was late for a run tonight, he planned to turn around at the old Coast Guard Station. It was still a long run but he really needed some time to think—and Sherry was waiting for him.

  Running always helped. Grimacing as he ran, he wondered if “running” was Freudian in this case. Being a coward certainly didn’t help his mood. He’d been surly and downright unpleasant with his new partner the last few days. They’d made a lot of progress today.

  That’s more than he could say for breaking things off with Sherry. Yes, she’d moved out. No, he hadn’t quit seeing her. His guilt had been the source of several lunches and dinners over the last few weeks since she’d moved out. There had even been a couple of…well, he wouldn’t let that happen again.

  He’d helped Sherry find a new apartment—helped with the moving. He had dreaded hurting her. He’d thought there would be tears—there were always tears with women. Women could rip your heart out with nothing more than their damned tear ducts, and he resented it! But Sherry had been stoic throughout the process, and it shamed him.

  For the duration of his run, the only thing resolved was his bone-weary feeling left over from the Macy Roberts case and a mind drained of every rational thought he’d ever had about Sherry.

  As he approached the house, he saw the dim light from the kitchen spreading gently across the deck. Sherry was waiting for him on a lounge chair on the deck. He felt like King Louis heading to the guillotine! Well, he’d man up. He deserved whatever she had planned for him.

  “Let me grab a quick shower, and then we can talk.”

  “Fine.” Familiar with his routine, she agreed without looking up from her snifter.

  He stopped and stretched, then climbed the stairs and took off his sandy running shoes before entering the house. Lizzie would shake them off and put them away when they dried tomorrow.

  He grabbed a bottle of water from the wet bar fridge and headed upstairs. No, sir, he thought. This is not going to be good!

  Five minutes later, he slipped on his robe and headed back downstairs. Stepping out onto the deck, his wet hair still somewhat unruly, he leaned a muscular hip against the doorjamb. “You still want to talk?”

  “Yes, Press. I do. Come on over here and sit by me,” she said, patting the arm of the lounge next to hers.

  He did as she asked and sat next to her. She reached for his hand and took it in hers.

  “Such strength in this hand,” she mused. “And in this mind and heart. But you still can’t say what you need to say, can you, Press?”

  “Sher…”

  “It’s okay, Press. I’m not going to yell, cry or throw things. You gave it a good try—we both did. But I’m a smart woman—you’ve told me that often enough haven’t you?” She tried to give him a smile, but it never quite reached her eyes.

  Press smiled at her. “It’s true.”

  “Why has it been so difficult for you to tell me what you need, Press? Was I that difficult to talk to?”

  “No, Sherry!” He added his other hand to the pair already grasped tightly together. “I just didn’t know how to say it without hurting you. That really was the last thing I ever wanted to do.”

  “You really are one of the sweetest, kindest men I’ve ever known, Press, and I love you. You know that. But, one-sided love isn’t enough for me. I deserve more. I’m letting you go, Press. I have to…for my own good.”

  “I understand. I’m so sorry to have hurt you.”

  “I know you are. I also know that remaining your friend, for now, is more than I can handle. You see, right now I’m calm, logical… reasonable. I want us to end that way. If I don’t make a clean break—well, it’s just better we get it over with now.”

  “Sherry, I love you, too. I was thinking about it tonight while I was running. I just don’t love you the way that you need and deserve. I feel so damned cliché!”

  A humorless laugh escaped her pretty mouth. “There is nothing cliché about you, Press! Whoever she is—when you finally find her—she’s going to be one very lucky woman. I am truly sorry that it wasn’t me.”

  He saw a single tear slide down her right cheek. “Now, be a good boy and go on upstairs while I get the last of my things and leave.”

  He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it gently, went into the house and up the stairs.

  She moved into the foyer, picked up her light-weight jacket and handbag.

  As he walked down the hall to his bedroom, it occurred to him that she was much stronger than he’d ever been—and he heard the front door close.

  Some tough cop you are. You knew she was right—hadn’t you said the same things to yourself earlier? Why then, why do you have a lump the size of a grapefruit in your chest?

  18

  Virginia Beach

  Day 2

  7:30 AM

  He awoke alone, staring at the vaulted ceiling above his king-sized bed, and heard the sound of waves lapping against the shore. Nothing gave him a better night’s sleep than leaving the windows open to the sounds of the ocean. Without them, he knew he never would have drifted off last night.

  Climbing out of the bed, he put on the robe he’d left on the chair the night before and reached for the bedroom door. He went down to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. The house was quiet. She’s gone—really gone now.

  Upstairs again he took a quick shower, dressed in a lightweight suit. Then he slowly moved back downstairs to get more coffee. Lizzie already had another pot brewing; Perkins and Jones were on their morning romp.

  He poured a cup, added cream, grabbed a bagel and toasted it. A little cream cheese and quick gulps of hot brew, and he was ready to face the day. At least I don’t have to face that damned car, he laughed to himself.

  He eased off Laskin onto the 264 and headed downtown to HQ. The car was running like a top. He wondered what Dipshit would pull next?

  As he entered the office, he found Trace already sitting at his desk pouring over his computer. He sat down at his desk just in time for Lieutenant Wallace to reach him.

  “Andrews.”

  “Sir.”

  Lieutenant Wallace
was an aging cop to whom the years had not been particularly kind. Average in height, he was less than average in weight. His hair had more yellowed than grayed, there were bags under his light brown eyes, and the scar on his cheek was a constant reminder of his time as guard for the holding tank early in his career. He always reminded Press of a caricature of a bloodhound—a much beloved bloodhound.

  Today’s tan suit was wrinkled—it was rumored Mrs. Wallace had moved out a month or so ago—and he looked like he hadn’t been sleeping well. Despite his appearance, Bill Wallace was now and always had been a damned good cop and he was well-respected by his men.

  Wallace held out his hand. “The ADA dropped this off this morning. Search Warrant for the Roberts residence, the victim’s computer—the entire contents of her room. Family spaces are out. That should suffice for now.”

  “Yes, sir. That should do it. We’ll head out right away.” He remembered thinking someone was pulling strings. Here it was again. They had yet to try to convince a judge that a warrant for the victim’s home was necessary—yet, here was a warrant—signed, sealed and delivered.

  Trace and Press immediately left for the Roberts home. There had to be a reason why Moira Roberts had been so hesitant to let them check out the girl’s room. He just hoped that whatever that reason was, it wasn’t gone by now.

  * * *

  Moira Roberts had not been happy about having to admit them for the search. She had adamantly told them that Mr. Roberts would be even less so.

  The girl’s room was pretty typical for a wealthy young woman’s taste. The furniture was rich dark wood with feminine curves and carvings; the bedding was pale-blue silk, feminine without being frilly. A lovely, thick powder-blue Aubusson rug lay at the foot of the bed.

  There were crystal bottles and pots of feminine smells, powders, paints, and a variety of small brushes with long silver handles and sable tips.

  Unfortunately, they would disturb everything in the room, the closet, the attached bathroom—nothing would be quite the same when they left, no matter how hard they tried—and, yes, he had to admit to himself that his knowing the victim made him all the more careful not to leave her belongings any more disturbed than was absolutely necessary.

  Trace worked on the dresser drawers as Press started in the walk-in closet. Trace dumped the dresser drawers and checked the bottoms to assure nothing was taped to them. Nothing had any sanctity when it came to a search—not even the lingerie drawer.

  The mattress was lifted from the box springs, sheets removed—luscious soft satin that still smelled of her personal scent and perfume—that lovely French fragrance that had lingered on her body.

  Trace bagged and tagged her snow-white laptop. The computer guys would scour it with a fine-toothed comb after it was fingerprinted.

  Trace had now moved to the luxurious bathroom and was going through all those pots of creams and scents, boxes of personal items—that didn’t bother him after growing up with a sister—all the girlie stuff that kept a woman locked up in there for hours at a time.

  Press searched the expansive shelves above rack after rack of clothing. He was removing a fortune’s worth of shoes—Manolo Blahniks, Jimmy Choos, and almost every other designer shoe he could think of—from the compartments built into the far end when he found it.

  He pulled the rolled photograph from behind her fluffy white satin mules that she undoubtedly wore with the white silk robe he’d seen in the bathroom. He carefully unrolled the photographic paper and looked into the beautiful face of Macy Roberts in a long, flowing gown and her smiling companion. He found the signature on the back.

  “Macy & David 10/23/09”

  Now they knew what he looked like, and, in his dress whites, he was Navy. Damn! Press moved to the doorway of the closet. “We’ve got him!”

  “What?” Trace asked, as he looked up from the contents of the last dresser drawer. “What did you find?”

  “A photograph of the lovely couple. First name is indeed David and he’s wearing dress whites. We’ll have to go to Norfolk.”

  They finished their search but didn’t find any additional clues to David’s identity. Clothes were returned to drawers, if not neatly. The bed was put back together but the bedding would be left for the maid to handle.

  Once they were back outdoors, Press pulled out his cell phone. It took a minute for the call to go through. “Admiral Poindexter, please. Yes, Preston Andrews—Senator Andrews’ son. Yes, thank you!”

  Two more intermediaries and the next voice was that of a curious Admiral Poindexter.

  19

  Washington, DC

  Day 2

  9:00 AM

  “Bob, we’ve got trouble.”

  He recognized that tone in her voice. “What happened?”

  “Macy Roberts, the niece, was murdered last night. Shot to death in Virginia Beach. No witnesses.”

  “Damn!” His displeasure at the news was more than the case. The girl was so young. What a waste. “Local police are going to be all over this one. When do we leave?”

  “I’ll meet you at the airport in an hour.”

  20

  Norfolk Naval Station

  Day 2

  10:30 AM

  The Admiral had arranged an escort from the main gate. They parked the unmarked car in the Visitor Center’s parking lot. Their escort, a tall, straight, no-nonsense sailor of around nineteen years in age—if that—drove them to the Admiral’s building. Their escort took them inside and direct to the Admiral’s office. Then, the escort discretely disappeared, and the Admiral’s aide, Lieutenant Foster took over.

  Foster, a rather average-looking, middle-aged man with typical military bearing took them into the Admiral’s office where the visitors were introduced.

  “Tell me why you’re here Detective Andrews.” The Admiral’s deep voice matched the forcefulness of his stature and position. His six-foot frame, despite the age that had turned a thick head of hair as white as snow, was strong, ramrod-straight and impressive.

  He didn’t have to raise the volume of his deep baritone voice to make one take note of every word he uttered. Press could understand how he’d gotten where he was. This was a man oozing authority from every pore.

  “Admiral, we have a dead twenty-two-year-old woman who was involved with a young sailor we cannot identify. We’re hoping you can help us find out who and where he is.” Press held out the photograph of Macy and David.

  “This is the dead woman?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re hoping this young sailor may be able to give us a lead in who would have wanted her dead.”

  The Admiral looked carefully at the photograph. “It’s doubtful that I would know him—there are over sixteen-hundred sailors posted here, many more when the fleet is in.” Something crossed the man’s face as he stared at the photograph. “He does seem familiar to me, but I can’t quite…” the Admiral hit the intercom button on his phone. “Foster, come in here.”

  They didn’t have to wait but a few seconds. A command from the Admiral brought immediate attention. The aide stepped in, “Yes, sir.”

  “Foster, take a look at this photograph,” the Admiral held out the photo.

  Foster took the photo and studied it closely.

  “Is that Commander Olivette’s son? What’s his name…David?”

  “Yes, sir! Ensign David Olivette. I believe it is,” the aide responded and handed the photograph back to the Admiral. “Looks as if they enjoyed the dance, sir.”

  “The dance?” Press probed.

  The aide looked at the Admiral as if asking if it was alright to answer questions. At the Admiral’s nod, he continued. “Yes, sir. The Admiral hosts a dance for all the young officers every fall. I recognize the decorations, since I oversaw the arrangements for the Admiral myself.”

  “Where would we find David Olivette, sir?” Press hoped it wasn’t somewhere mid-Atlantic!

  “Why don’t you wait here. Foster can have him located and brought here,” the Adm
iral offered.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Set them up in an empty conference room, Foster,” the Admiral directed. “Show Detective Evans to the conference room while Detective Andrews and I have a few words in private.”

  “Yes, sir.” Foster closed the Admiral’s door as he and Trace left the room.

  “Now, Detective Andrews. Explain why you resorted to using your father’s name to get to me.”

  “I do apologize for that, Admiral. Dad wouldn’t approve, I assure you, but in this case…well, a girl is dead. In the past, I’ve found it difficult to access information from Navy sources. You do tend to close ranks on outsiders, especially where criminal matters are concerned,” Press explained.

  The Admiral seemed to enjoy the honesty. He laughed a deep, hearty laugh. “Don’t we just? JAG gets a little possessive where our sailors are concerned. Military personnel are considered the property of the U.S. Government, so we don’t take it well when other agencies interfere with that property.”

  The laughter ended and the Admiral’s face once again held its stern, authoritative manner. “You do know that JAG will get involved if charges are brought, or in the event Olivette requests legal representation?”

  “Yes, sir—of course!”

  “Just how deeply do you believe our man is involved in this girl’s death?”

  “As far as we know right now, Olivette was dating the victim. We have no reason to suspect that he was involved in her death, sir. Of course, that opinion could change at any time.” Press knew the Admiral was well aware of the possibilities. The killer almost always had a personal tie to the victim.

  “You will advise me immediately, if that opinion changes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Admiral Poindexter looked down at the photograph again. “A damned shame, isn’t it—a pretty girl like this gone so young? The older I get, the younger they look—never gets any easier, does it?”

  “Yes, sir, it is a shame, and we intend to find out who made her that way. As for getting easier, well…if it ever gets really easy, I guess we need to change jobs.”