He had the grace to drop his eyes and look away. "No."
"Thanks for that much at least."
"Carly..."
"See you around, Counselor."
If the scene in the hotel corridor hadn't completely sabotaged Carly's ability to get any work done that night, the call from her mother some hours later certainly did the trick. Still prickly with irritation, she snatched at the phone on her desk and answered with a bite to her voice that Adele picked up on immediately.
"Hello, sweetie. Sorry you were a target for mashed potatoes tonight. Did any hit their mark?"
"Never even came close. You taught us to duck at the first sign of flying food, remember?"
Adele's musical chuckle floated over the wire. "That's the first skill a politician acquires." She paused, then probed delicately. "I understand you had to dodge more than hard rolls."
A small puff of laughter worked through Carly's irritation. She might have known Adele would have heard about the contretemps in the corridor. She maintained and operated an intelligence network that put the Pentagon to shame.
"Care to tell me what you and Parker were arguing about? Or isn't it something a mother needs to get in the middle of?"
Maybe not a mother, but a congresswoman up for re-election was a different proposition. Grudgingly, Carly conceded Parker's point on that matter.
"We were arguing about the fact that Ryan McMann stopped by my house last night," she said slowly.
"McMann... McMann..."
With an almost audible efficiency, Adele clicked through her formidable list of acquaintances, colleagues, contributors, and connections.
"I know the name but... Of course! The hockey player. I met him once, years ago, at some charitable function or another." She made another pass through her memory bank "Didn't he confess to a sex crime? Statutory rape, as I recall?"
"Yes. He served time at the prison on Maxwell and is now on parole."
"I take it Parker objected to McMann's presence at your house last night."
"He did."
"I hope you told him to take a flying leap."
"Who? Parker, or McMann?"
"Parker Stuart, dear. He's not your type. Too pushy. Too possessive."
The laughter came more easily this time. How like her mother not to ask the obvious, like what the heck
McMann was doing at her daughter's house. Carly had to tell her, however, had to share those aspects of the investigation she could without compromising either the air force or herself.
"McMann is a witness in the Article 32 I'm running on the Dawson-Smith murder."
Without going into too specific detail, she touched on Joy Matusinak's startling disclosures this morning.
"Wonderful," her mother groaned. "Another sex scandal. Just what the air force needs."
Any other politician running for re-election might have jumped on the Afternoon Club and trumpeted it into a clarion call for military reform, for stricter standards, for a return to the moral values of the past. Particularly a politician whose district included both the base and the prison.
One of the things Carly admired most about her mother was her sense of fair play. She wouldn't trash Maxwell or the military just to grab some headlines. If word leaked about McMann's visit to her daughter's house, however, the headlines might just grab her.
Granted, Carly hadn't known about the club when she invited McMann in last night. Nor did she know for sure that he'd participated in the sex-for-money activities on the base. She'd be blowing smoke if she tried to convince the media of that, though. They'd eat up the fact another air force officer had developed an intimate relationship with an inmate, albeit a former inmate. Denials would only fan the flames.
With a tight curl of dismay, Carly realized just what she'd put on the line last night. Her appointment as an Article 32 investigating officer, for one thing. Her professional reputation, for another. And, as Parker had so bluntly pointed out, her mother's political standing at a critical time in her campaign.
"We need to talk this through," she said with a tight swallow. "McMann's visit last night could produce some fallout... for both of us."
Adele didn't sound particularly concerned by the possibility. "Why don't you come over for dinner tomorrow night?" she suggested cheerfully. "We'll talk about it then, and get the Judge's take. Dave's, too, if he and Allie aren't busy."
Carly tried to work up some enthusiasm for a family caucus. Right now, her feelings about both McMann and her investigation were too raw, too angry, and too damned confused to look forward to laying them out for Dave and Allie and the Judge to dissect. The Samuelses had always solved their problems that way, though. From the time Carly could remember, they talked over their concerns at the dinner table.
Murmuring an assent, she hung up. Maybe by tomorrow night, she'd know what she was dealing with. Dragging a yellow legal pad in front of her, she went back to jotting down the questions she wanted to ask Michael Smith and Fayrene Preston.
She didn't expect much from the accused. Smith might have suspected his wife's extracurricular activities, but his attorney would no doubt advise him not to admit to that knowledge. No sense in handing the prosecution a gold-plated motive.
Hopefully, the visit to the prison would yield more results. Once Preston understood the exact nature of Joy Matusinak's allegations, she might have some insights into the inmates involved. If Carly could get to one of them, convince him that it was just a matter of time until the other women Joy had identified started naming names and providing descriptions, she might just get the answers she was looking for.
And then there was McMann. This time, Carly swore, he'd talk to her. One way or another, she'd pull his secrets out of him.
Grimly determined, she tugged on her favorite UA sleepshirt and fell asleep to the rumble of distant thunder.
Chapter Twelve
Howling winds buffeted the Bronco as it splashed along River Road. Lightning cracked across the black sky.
Cursing, Ryan used both hands to fight the gusts that fired rain at the windshield like bullets. The damned storm the forecasters had predicted would swing south had turned back on its heels and now pounded central Alabama with a vengeance.
It was bad enough Ryan had to return to the prison for these twice-a-week tutoring sessions. Driving through tornado-spawning winds and blinding rain to get to them didn't exactly improve his mood. The fact that Billy wouldn't be there to agonize over every word, every syllable, didn't help either.
Ryan couldn't shake his guilt, couldn't dodge the remorse that snuck up on him and yanked at his conscience at unexpected moments. It ate at him from the inside out that he hadn't helped the kid when he needed it most.
The Bronco plowed into a low spot in the road and threw up a blinding sheet of water. With a vicious oath, Ryan kept the vehicle from sliding off the asphalt. God, he wanted out of this town, this state, this damned rain! He wanted away from everything and everyone who reminded him of his own failings as a man, as a friend.
Away from everyone except Carly Samuels.
The caveat jumped into his mind before he could stop it. So did the picture he carried from those hours he'd spent at her home. Slender legs displayed all too seductively by crotch-hugging cutoffs. Trim hips. Burnished auburn hair. Skin so warm and creamy he'd had to restrain himself from licking it to see if it tasted as good as it looked.
He gripped the wheel, wondering how the hell she'd invaded his head like this. Wondering, too, how he'd get her out of it. Two months. Less than two months, and he was gone. It irritated him to think he might take some memory of Montgomery away with him despite his determination to wipe it—
"Hell!"
With a stomp on the brakes, Ryan brought the Bronco to a shimmying stop only feet from the dump truck that rumbled out of the side road. Shoving in the clutch, he shifted into reverse and backed up enough to give the truck room to turn onto the road. It was empty, he saw, on its way back to the civil engineering yard to
pick up another load of sand, no doubt. His jaw tight from the near miss, Ryan sent a quick glance skimming down the side road to the mounded earth breastworks in the distance. Driving rain almost obscured the chain of men in camouflage fatigues and drenched prison greens atop the high bank.
The air base had turned out some of its own personnel to sandbag shoulder to shoulder with the inmates. Not many months ago, Ryan would have been slinging the sand-filled bags right alongside them. It gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction to shove the Bronco into forward and leave the rain-lashed crew to their labors. Personally, he wouldn't care if the Alabama jumped its banks and the whole damned base floated down river—which seemed more possible with every passing hour.
If he'd had any sense, Warden Bolt would have canceled such noncritical activities as these tutoring sessions, maybe even started evacuating personnel from the low-lying prison facilities. Ryan didn't like the angry roar coming from just beyond the breastworks. He liked the idea of getting stranded at the prison for an indefinite time while river waters lapped at the raised foundations even less.
Another curse slipped out when he pulled into the parking lot of the prison and saw no signs of unusual activity, much less evacuation. Just the predictable handful of cars huddled against the storm like forlorn ducks. Including, he saw with a sudden kick in his veins, a white MG.
He parked in the row behind the little sports car, letting the Bronco engine idle while he considered the implications of Carly's presence at the prison.
She hadn't mentioned Billy or Elaine Dawson-Smith during those hours at her house the other night. Nor had he. But Ryan hadn't doubted for a moment they were the only reason she'd let him into her home.
Now she was here.
Why? What was she after now?
His gut crawling, Ryan signed in at the gate and waited while the guard checked his ID with careless indifference to the downpour. Shoulders hiked, the collar of his blue windbreaker pulled up against the driving rain, Ryan made for the kitchen first. If there were any rumors circulating, particularly any involving Carly, that's where he'd hear them.
Wind gusted in with him, whipping the pages of a newspaper. The guard hunched over a cup of coffee slapped a palm down on the sports section to hold the rattling pages and arrowed an annoyed look at the newcomer.
"Close the damned door, McMann."
The outer screen thumped shut, followed by the sturdier inner door. Shaking off the water, Ryan shoved back his wet hair and nodded to the inmate scrubbing down the tables before helping himself to a mug of the coffee kept available to the prison staff.
Blowing steam off the strong, chicory-flavored brew, he let his gaze settle on the guard seated comfortably at the long tables near the windows. John Murphee. One of the old hands. Nearing retirement, lazy as they came, and eminently bribable.
To give Warden Bolt his due, he'd weeded out most of the Murphees over time. Only a few remained, protected as much by the inmates as by their own seniority and devious skill at bending the rules. Those few—a good ole boy who looked the other way at convenient times; a church-going, reputedly devoted husband and father who took special pleasure in body cavity searches; a white supremacist with a legal license to hate—represented the bottom layer of scum in a system Ryan despised.
Which was why his gut tightened when Murph picked up his mug and strolled over to join him at the coffee pot.
"How long you got to keep coming back to tutor these boys, McMann?"
"About two months," he said shortly.
"That right?" Upending a container of sugar, Murphee poured a long stream into his mug. "Two months, huh? Me, I got three years. Three years till I go fishing full time. I might make it, too," he muttered, "if Bolt don't get any wild hairs up his butt."
Ryan's gaze slid sideways. "The warden starting to lean on you, Murph?"
"Nah."
The denial was too quick, too bluff. Its heartiness didn't quite match the lines that snaked across Murphee's sun-weathered brow.
"Bolt doesn't have anything on me. He's just got his wind up 'cause the base commander called him. Seems some major done heard nasty rumors 'bout Billy and that colonel who got herself shot."
The coffee Ryan had just downed hit the back of his stomach. Slowly, carefully, he turned to face the guard.
"What kind of rumors?"
With a little smirk, Murphee stuck his forefinger into his mug and stirred. "I think you got a good idea, boy."
"Maybe, maybe not. Why don't you tell me so I know for sure?"
Shooting a look at the inmate swabbing the tables, Murph lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"We both know Billy was diddling the colonel. Some other women, too." His finger stirred faster, creating a small whirlpool. A gleam lit his black pupils. "Hopewell ever tell you about humping those rich broads in the woods, McMann?"
"No."
"Aw, com'on. You were his buddy. The only one he ever talked to, if you could call his stutterin' and stammerin' talk. He got out a few words once in a while, though. Didn't he ever tell you about peelin' down them bitches' panties and sticking it to them? "
Ryan's lungs squeezed. Billy had wanted to talk to him. God knew the kid had tried to force the words out, but every time he got close to what Ryan suspected was the truth, he retreated into stammering incoherency.
Then blonde, beautiful, voracious Elaine Dawson-Smith had died of a gunshot wound to the chest. From that fateful day on, Ryan had stopped urging Billy to talk... to him or anyone else.
"Bet they got wet soon's as they saw him," Murph said with a salacious grin. "Young stallion like that, they probably lined up to climb onto his dick. Damn, wish I'd seen it. Seen it, hell! Wish I'd had me some of that fancy pussy."
His face alive with vicarious lust, Murphee leaned closer. "Bet they was lining up for you, too, McMann. Com'on, boy, spill it. Did you get you some of that high-class stuff while you were in? Is that what's been bringing you back all these months since you been out?"
Ryan slapped his mug on the counter. "No."
"Hell, you wouldn't tell me if it was," the guard complained. "You're even less of a talker than Billy was. It's a wonder to me why Gator always wanted to work alongside him like he did."
Ryan's heart slowed, then thumped so hard against his ribs he had to clench his jaw to keep from grunting.
"Gator wanted to work alongside Billy?"
"Guess we know why now, don't we?" Murph answered slyly. "He was probably getting the kid's leftovers. Or taking the stud fee, more like. Damn, I should of figured something when he slipped me... when he asked me to put him and Billy on the same detail after you left."
Suspicion burned an icy hole in the pit of Ryan's stomach.
"Did you?"
"Sure, why not?" A defensive note crept into the guard's voice. "No skin off my nose who worked with who. 'Sides, someone had to look after the kid once you checked out. He was big, but so damned stupid. Look at the way he turned that mower over on himself."
"Was Gator working the same area as Billy the afternoon the kid died?"
"Yeah, sure. He was the one reported him missing."
The ice spread from Ryan's stomach to his chest, searing in its white hot intensity. A slow, sick certainty gripped him. All these months, he'd suspected. All these weeks since Elaine Dawson-Smith's death, he'd gnawed over the awful possibilities. But until this moment, he hadn't connected Billy's accident with Gator Burns.
"Where's Burns now?"
The question was so low, so deadly, that Murphee just blinked.
"Where is he?" Ryan snarled.
"Hell, I don't know. Working with the sandbagging crews, I'd guess. That's where everyone else is."
Murphee was still slogging back coffee when the door opened again some minutes later. He thumped his palm down again to keep the crossword puzzle he was working from blowing across the table and threw another disgusted look at the newcomers. His expression altered instantly when he identified the as
sistant warden under a yellow slicker that streamed water onto the linoleum. A soggy looking female in a blue air force raincoat came in on her heels.
"What are you doing here?" Preston snapped. "I thought I sent all available personnel out to help with the sand-bagging."
"You did." Murph lied with the ease of long practice. "I came a few minutes ago to dry out and shag some coffee.
"Well, finish your coffee and get back to the detail."
"Yes, ma'am."
No way Murph was letting the bitch send him out into the rain. He took a leisurely swallow, eyeing Fayrene Preston over the rim. She was a looker, with them long legs and that sweet, tight ass, but too damned bossy for his tastes. When he'd started with the prison system three decades ago, they didn't hire females to boss men. He couldn't say much for the changes that had come about over the years.
Preston swept the deserted dining area with a quick glance. "We're looking for Ryan McMann. He was supposed to report to the education center at three, but didn't show up there. Have you seen him?"
The cunning that had saved Murph's job on more than one occasion put up its antenna.
"What do you want with him? "
"The major has some questions for him and a few of the inmates," Preston said impatiently. "Have you seen him?"
The guard ruminated over the query, trying to decide if lying would benefit him, then shrugged.
"He came in for some coffee a few minutes ago. Left kind of in a hurry."
"For where?"
No way Murph was going to pass up the opportunity to get the assistant warden out of the camp long enough to let him finish his coffee and his crossword in peace.
"He asked for Gator's whereabouts."
"Gator?"
The air force major rolled the name around in a soft, honey-filled voice that Murph highly approved of. Not barbed, like Fayrene Preston's, not naggy, like his wife's.
"Harry 'Gator' Burns," the assistant warden supplied, her gaze sharpening as it met the major's. "You just looked at his file."
The major's brown gaze swung around to Murphee. "You said McMann left in a hurry to find this Gator Burns. Did he tell you what he wanted to talk to him about?"
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