River Rising

by Merline Lovelace

  As anticipated, she found only one listing for Matusinak. Dr. and Mrs. Matusinak, 524 County Downs Road. The listing below the residence gave a business number and a twenty-four hour answering service.

  A teenager answered Carly's call, shouting over the blare of the TV when she asked for Mrs. Joy Matusinak.

  "Mommmm! It's for you."

  He dropped the receiver with a careless clatter. The TV shot up a few more decibels. To a chorus of canned laughter, a nasal-sounding character ordered someone to scrape the eggs off the ceiling. Carly heard an annoyed exclamation and an exasperated request to turn that thing down, both of which were ignored by the teen.

  "Hello?"

  "Mrs. Matusinak?"

  "Yes?"

  "My name is Carly Samuels. Major Carly Samuels."

  "Yes? Brian! Turn down the TV!"

  The background chatter didn't lessen. If anything, it seemed to pick up.

  "I'm a legal officer at Maxwell," she continued, pitching her voice to be heard over the din. "I've been appointed to conduct an investigation into a death that occurred on base."

  She thought she heard a small gasp. With the characters on TV shrieking, she couldn't be sure.

  "I'd like to talk to you at your convenience."

  "Me? Why do you want to talk to me? "

  "You sent some flowers to the funeral of Billy Hopewell. I'm trying to determine—"

  "You've got the wrong number. I don't know any Billy Hopewell."

  The phone slammed down, cutting off another chorus of raucous laughter.

  Chapter Ten

  Carly lay awake well into the night, chewing over the odd phone call, the unanswered questions, the loose strands she couldn't quite tie up. As if her lack of progress on the Article 32 weren't enough to keep her tossing, McMann's odd visit wove in and out of her thoughts with maddening frequency.

  Consequently, she greeted the alarm that buzzed in her ear the next morning with a growl and a slap on the snooze button. She sank back into the pillows, face down, but the clock radio had done its damage. Her mind picked up where it had left off well after midnight. Grumbling, she threw back the sheets. As long as she was awake this early, she might as well try to catch a few worms.

  Weak, slanting sunbeams were just breaking through the low-hanging clouds when she turned into the landscaped subdivision she'd driven out to yesterday afternoon. Luck was with her this morning. She'd no sooner parked the MG at the curb of the Matusinak residence than the garage door rumbled up and a fire-engine red Mercedes convertible with an elegantly coifed blonde in tennis whites at the wheel backed out.

  The woman's reaction when she swung the two-seater around and spotted Carly in uniform left no doubt as to her identity. She stomped on the brake, squealing the Mercedes to a halt on the pebbled drive. Her eyes went huge above the smudges of dark purple beneath them. In the hazy sunlight, she looked fragile and tired.

  And terrified, Carly saw with a sudden leap of her pulse. She tried to disguise it behind the polite mask she now pulled on with obvious effort, but her red-tipped nails dug into the steering wheel and her skin drained of all color, until it showed almost as white as the sweater knotted loosely around her shoulders.

  "I'm Major Samuels." Carly started up the curving drive. "I called you last night. I'd like to speak to you, please. Just for a few moments."

  "I told you, I don't know this... this person you mentioned."

  The blond shoved the gear shift from reverse into forward, her motion jerky, her grip on the wheel deathlike. Diamonds flashed a rainbow of color from her left hand.

  "His name was Billy Hopewell."

  "I don't know him!" The cry rang with more desperation than denial. "I've never heard of him!"

  The electric, searing certainty that she'd stumbled onto something kept Carly walking up the center of the drive. The woman would have to run over her to get away without answering a few questions.

  For a few startling seconds, Joy Matusinak seemed to be considering just that possibility. The engine pitched again. The car rolled forward. Carly didn't pause. Her heels loud on the paving stones that threaded the pebbled drive, she walked forward.

  At the last moment, the Mercedes shuddered to a stop, its fender brushing Carly's skirt hem. Coldly, she lifted her gaze from the gleaming chrome and lasered into the woman at the wheel.

  "I'm here on official business, Mrs. Matusinak. If it isn't convenient for you to speak to me now, I'll come back later with a copy of my letter of appointment and a stenographer to record your statement."

  She was stretching her authority about as far as it would go. As an Article 32 investigating officer, she couldn't compel a civilian to provide a statement or a deposition. The woman in the red convertible didn't know that, however.

  "My... my statement?"

  "About your relationship to Billy Hopewell."

  For long moments, Carly thought her bluff had failed. Joy Matusinak stared at her through the windshield. Her teeth bit down on her lower lip so hard the skin turned white around the skillfully applied gloss.

  Then suddenly, startlingly, she fell apart. Like a piece of expensive sculpture dropped at just the wrong angle, the woman simply shattered. A sob tore out other throat. She dropped her forehead onto the backs of her hands. Her shoulders shook under the tennis sweater.

  "I only did it once!"

  The wrenching wail resonated with anguish, fear, a guilt that went soul deep. "Mrs. Matusinak..."

  She lifted her head, her eyes wild. "I went once! Only once! Elaine tried to get me to go again, but I wouldn't. Oh, God, I need my pills."

  Carly's system shot pure adrenaline. So there was a connection between the inmate and the murdered officer! Her pulse pounding, she fought to keep her excitement from showing as Joy Matusinak tore her hands from the wheel and fumbled frantically in the

  Coco Chanel purse on the seat beside her. Sunglasses, lipstick, a wallet bounced onto the leather. A brown plastic container followed. She clawed at the lid, moaning piteously when her shaking hands scattered the white pills into her lap.

  Alarm raced through Carly, hard on the heels of her pulsing excitement. For all she knew, the woman had a heart condition and needed to pop a nitro. She scooped up the container to check the prescription at the same moment the older woman pushed a pill into her mouth.

  Tranquilizers, Carly saw with relief. Industrial strength, according to the label. She handed the plastic bottle back to the driver.

  Diamonds flashed again as Joy Matusinak's trembling hand closed around the bottle. Tears runneled down her cheeks, leaving a trail of black mascara. She looked so haunted, so hunted, that Carly's heart twisted. Even after all these years at the bar, the human pathos behind every desperate act still affected her.

  "Wouldn't you feel more comfortable talking inside?" she suggested.

  The other woman stared at her, unseeing. The agonizing tears continued to roll down her cheeks.

  "Mrs. Matusinak. Joy. Do you want me to call someone? Your husband? Your doctor?"

  Her vacant stare clicked into focus. In the depths of her tear-drenched eyes shone a scathing resentment.

  "My husband is my doctor. He's the last person I'd want you to call."

  "Why don't we talk about it inside?"

  The entryway of the house matched its impressive exterior. Plantation shutters angled against the morning filtered the hazy sunlight. Terrazzo tile floors echoed their footsteps emptily.

  Joy led the way to a formal living room done in grays... gray walls accented with glistening white woodwork, plush gray carpeting, and matching gray love seats filled with chintz throw pillows. Carly took one of the love seats, separated by a glass coffee table from the woman who sank into the other.

  The tranquilizer hadn't kicked in yet. Joy Matusinak still shook like a leaf. Carly could only watch and wait while she wrapped both hands around her waist and rocked back and forth. Seconds slipped by before she began to pour out the same disjointed phrases.
r />   "I only went once. Just once."

  "Went where?"

  "To the club. Elaine talked me into it. She said... She said..."

  "What, Mrs. Matusinak? What did she say?"

  "She said he was beautiful." A dry, wrenching sound that might have been a sob or a laugh tore out of her throat. "Big and beautiful and stupid, just the way men were meant to be."

  "She was referring to Billy Hopewell?"

  At Joy's nod, the less than favorable impressions Carly had gathered of Elaine Dawson-Smith segued into acute dislike.

  "I wouldn't go at first," Joy whispered. "Not for a long time. Then Paul flew up to Atlanta. Another medical convention, he said, but I knew he went to see that little bitch he's been fucking for almost a year. And Brian..." She rocked forward, back, her movements small and quick and hurtful to watch. "His teacher called me in for another conference."

  "Mrs. Matusinak..."

  "Brian's failing three of his classes. It's my fault. I don't make him study enough. His teacher said so. Paul says so. I try, God knows I try." She pleaded for understanding. "I can't get him to turn down the TV without a major confrontation, much less turn it off to open a book."

  Making vague, sympathetic noises, Carly steered her back on track. "Your husband was out of town, you were feeling desperate, and you went with Elaine Dawson-Smith to meet Billy Hopewell."

  "I didn't go with her. She had class that afternoon. She told me where and when and how much... how much to pay."

  Carly sat back, her stomach clenching as the pieces dropped into place. Two women, one a bright, brittle lieutenant colonel with a well established sexual appetite and a contempt for the man who satisfied it. The other a bitter homemaker, resenting the husband who kept his wife in diamonds and his mistress in Atlanta. Between them, they shared a golden-haired Adonis.

  "How much did you pay to have sex with Billy Hopewell?"

  "One hundred dollars."

  The sobbing admission sent Carly's mind off at warp speed. Did Michael Smith know his wife had paid to play sex games with an inmate? Did Smith follow her, shoot her in a rage of jealousy and disgust? Had Billy Hopewell witnessed the killing? Or...

  The inmate could have snatched the gun from Elaine Dawson-Smith's purse and shot her through the heart. Then returned back to the scene of the crime, as so many perps loved to do, the afternoon Carly had stumbled into him.

  The possibilities, the unanswered questions, stormed through her with hurricane force. If Michael

  Smith didn't kill his wife, what was he doing on River Road at the time of the murder? Was he on River Road at the time of the murder? Like a rat running in circles, it came back to that. Smith's word against McMann's. With Billy's death, there were no other players in the drama.

  Or were there? Surely some of the other inmates had known about Billy's meetings with Elaine, maybe even participated in the games themselves. Air force investigators had questioned the men working in the area on the day of the murder, but maybe they hadn't asked the right questions. She'd go out to the prison, talk to the men on work detail that day...

  A small, pathetic sigh snapped her attention back to Joy Matusinak.

  "I paid him, but I didn't have sex with him."

  The air seemed to go out of Joy's lungs. She folded in on herself, shoulders hunching, head limp on her neck.

  "I wanted to. God knows, I wanted to. I took off my blouse, my skirt, let him touch me. Made him touch me," she amended dully.

  The pill was taking off her edge. She still rocked, still shook, but more slowly, less desperately.

  "He was so beautiful. Just like Elaine said. So big. His skin felt like silk against mine. And his hair, I've never seen hair like that on a man. I've never seen a man cry, either."

  Another sigh slipped out, achingly small in the quiet of the house.

  "I held him against my breasts. Like I used to hold Brian when he was a baby. I rocked him, and whispered to him, and took his fears into me. For a moment, I felt needed again. Almost... almost loved."

  "That's why you sent the white carnations?"

  "Yes. I saw the death notice in the paper." Her gaze lifted. Eyes red from tears and torment tried to focus on Carly. "I felt sorry for him. He was so lost, so confused. He knew his momma would say that what he was doing was bad. I... I agreed."

  So had McMann!

  Carly searched her memory, trying to recall the words Billy Hopewell had stammered to her. Joy said it wasn't right. Ry said so, too.

  Damn him! McMann knew about Elaine Dawson-Smith, knew about Joy Matusinak. The possibility that he'd even played their games himself thinned Carly's mouth to a tight, hard line.

  "Elaine laughed when I told her what happened. She said there were others. If Billy didn't punch the right buttons for me, there were others who would."

  Right. Like Ryan McMann, Mr. God's Gift to Womankind. Mr. Big-time Hockey Hunk, with the bedroom blue eyes, world-class buns, and a conviction for statutory rape. Suddenly, his twice-a-week return visits to the prison took on added dimensions. Carly's stomach clenched.

  "Did Elaine give you names or descriptions of any of the others?"

  "After Billy, I wasn't interested."

  "What about before Billy? Did she mention anyone else?"

  "I don't... I can't remember anyone specific."

  Absolute certainty and searing doubt battled like Titans in Carly's chest. Forcing herself to put aside the question of McMann's possible involvement, she searched for other answers.

  "Your name wasn't listed among Elaine's close friends and associates. How did you know her?"

  "We have..." With a hitch in her voice, Joy corrected herself. "We had our hair done at the same salon in Eastdale Mall. We started talking one day. About tennis, the school she's attending, things to do around Montgomery. We had drinks a few times, once with our husbands, usually without."

  She smoothed the pleats in her short white skirt, first one, then another, until they lay flat against her trim, tanned thighs.

  "Elaine saw right away how miserable I was. I told her about Paul, and she needled me about the way he was treating me every time we met. Said I was stupid for letting him have all the fun."

  "Can you confirm that Colonel Dawson-Smith had sex with Billy Hopewell?"

  "She said she did. She described his..." Her hand lifted, dropped. "She said he was hung like a Clydesdale."

  Elaine ought to know, Carly thought with a cynical twist to her lips. According to her husband, her horse was the only creature she really loved.

  "Did her husband know about her trysts in the woods?"

  "I don't think so. I don't know."

  "Did she tell you how she got involved with Billy?"

  "I don't remember." Joy scraped the heel of her hand across her forehead. "One of the members of the club probably told her about him, I suppose."

  "Club? The riding club?"

  "No." A thin, painful smile pulled at Joy's lips. "The Afternoon Club. That's what the girls called it. The Afternoon Club."

  "I need to see Colonel Dominguez."

  The base JAG's secretary smiled a refusal. "I'm sorry, Major Samuels. He's in conference, reviewing a case file that has to go up to the Air University commander by noon. He doesn't want to be disturbed."

  "Disturb him."

  Her brow arching, the secretary reached for the phone. She relayed Carly's presence to her boss, then passed on a query.

  "Is this in reference to your investigation?"

  Impatience bit at Carly. What else would she want to see the man about? "Yes."

  Dominguez came out a moment later, radiating equal parts pleasantry and annoyance at being rousted from his inner sanctum. He waved Carly to his deputy's office and shut the door behind them both.

  "Have you completed the Article 32?" he asked, hiking a hip on the corner of the desk. "I appreciate that you wanted me to hear the findings firsthand, although I would..."

  "I haven't finished the investigation, sir. In fact
, it's about to blow wide open."

  Dominguez stiffened. "What are you talking about?"

  Carly paced the office. She'd dissected her thoughts during the drive in from Joy Matusinak's house, distilled them to their stark, unpalatable essence, but they still rushed at her, black and whirling, like storm clouds pushed up from the Gulf.

  "Elaine Dawson-Smith allegedly engaged in sexual intercourse with at least one, perhaps more, of the inmates at the prison."

  "What?"

  "So did a number of other women. They call themselves the Afternoon Club."

  The colonel's swarthy face took on a yellowish hue. Carly could understand why. The headlines shouting out the woman's murder had been lurid enough. She could imagine what the media would do with this bombshell. General's daughter serviced by inmates. Kinky sex-for-money. Love-in-the-afternoon on Maxwell.

  "What evidence do you have to support this allegation?" he asked sharply.

  "One of the participants in the club provided a statement of fact this morning. Although she never actually witnessed Colonel Dawson-Smith or any of the others having sex with inmates, she gave me enough details to support widening the investigation."

  Dominguez raked two fingers through his mustache, digesting the implications of what he'd just heard. From the look on his face, it didn't go down easy.

  "Is this witness suggesting that one of the inmates put a bullet through Colonel Dawson-Smith's chest?"

  "No, sir. This woman swears she doesn't know anything about the murder. She hadn't spoken to Elaine for almost a week before her death."

  "Dammit, why didn't the OSI pick up on this... this damned club during their initial investigation?"

  Carly didn't attempt to speak for the Office of Special Investigations.

  "We've got a whole new scenario here," the colonel grumbled.

  "Or we could have exactly the same scenario, with, a clearer motive," she pointed out tightly. "Assuming Michael Smith found out about his wife's activities, rage might have driven him to follow her into the woods and put a bullet through her heart. At this point, the preponderance of the evidence still points to him."