He, on the other hand, believed in nice things, and had accumulated them carefully. Every piece of furniture he owned was of the best quality. Every painting on his walls had a pedigree. They had been part of the package, the weapons he’d gathered to take him where he wanted to go.
He’d always wondered why his soft spot—his only one—had to be his cousin.
“Daddy would have been pleased,” Sally said. “He always thought Grandfather was such a paragon of virtue. He would have loved the fact that he had feet of clay.” Her voice was cold. She’d always blamed their grandparents for her father’s problems.
Dustin did not reply. His view of their grandparents was different from hers. They had been aloof, but he also had that quality and he understood it. It had always been difficult for him to show affection, even when he felt it. Men didn’t do that. He didn’t know whether that belief had been bred or drilled into him. He just knew that emotional detachment had become a part of him.
He also knew why his grandparents had disinherited Sally’s father and basically thrown him out to die of alcoholism. He had been a thief and a liar. But Sally had never seen that part of him and the family was not one to bare unpleasant secrets. God knew, though, those secrets had ultimately hurt Sally, for she had only seen her father’s charm.
Now they had only each other. His parents and grandparents were dead, and Sally was estranged from her mother, her only other relative. Only Dustin remained to console her after yet another relationship went bad, or a job didn’t lead to what she’d hoped it would.
An alcoholic’s child. She always tried to please, and did it in all the wrong ways.
But was he much better? He was ready to marry someone he didn’t love to advance his career. He also knew most of his colleagues didn’t like him, that they felt he would sell his best friend for a promotion. And they could be right.
Now his family would respect that, he thought bitterly. It was a family tradition. Ambition meant everything. More than loyalty or honor.
“Will you take the painting tomorrow?” he said, returning to the subject. The last thing he needed now was evidence that his family had stolen art treasures.
“For you,” she said. “Not for Grandfather.”
He bent down and kissed her forehead. He touched her cheek for a moment, and she bent her head so it rested on his hand. The gesture was so filled with trust that he felt an ache in his heart.
His colleagues would laugh at that. None thought he had one.
He sighed, sure now that she would do as he asked.
Dustin lowered his hand and went to the door, knowing he shouldn’t stay one moment longer, or he might do something he would regret.
“Let me know if you need anything,” he said.
She looked at him with those soft eyes. “I always do,” she said with a wry, even sad, smile. “Don’t you ever get tired of me?”
He shook his head. “Never,” he said.
MEMPHIS
Amy spent the better part of two days at the police station going over every part of her life.
Who would want to do her harm?
The very thought that someone hated her that much sent icy tremors through her. She knew of no enemies. Not even anyone with the slightest grudge.
During the past two nights, she’d often found herself shaking as she recalled those few horrible moments in the house. She would smell the smoke, feel the heat, experience the terror. In her nightmares she didn’t always make it out of the building. She would wake up drenched with sweat and hug Bojangles until he yelped.
She had found a temporary haven at a suites hotel that permitted dogs. When she wasn’t at the police station, she was talking to the insurance company and trying to decide whether to rebuild. She wondered whether she would ever feel safe there again.
“You still haven’t thought of anyone who might want to do you harm?” the police detective asked for the tenth time. “A boyfriend? Anyone?”
She shook her head. It had been a long time since she’d had a serious relationship, and that one ended by mutual consent. He’d received a job offer in another city, and neither was committed enough to the other to marry and give up a career.
“Keep thinking about it. No matter how far-fetched,” Jim Evans, the frustrated detective, insisted.
She nodded. How could she help not thinking about it? She doubted, though, if she would come up with any kind of answer. She liked almost everyone and everyone seemed to like her, although she had few really close friends.
“You haven’t found any clues at all?” she asked. “You’re absolutely sure it was intentionally set? I had a gas grill,” she added hopefully. “Maybe a leak.…”
He shook his head. “The fire investigators found traces of accelerant at the side of the house. It looked professional.” He hesitated. “Is there anything you might be working on that someone might not like?”
“People don’t set fires because they don’t like a historian’s take on the past,” she said. “There’s nothing that should upset anyone, certainly not enough for arson.”
“But someone did set a fire,” he said.
She bit her lip. She still couldn’t imagine what anyone might want, what motive anyone might have for hurting her.
“Was there anything on your home computer that wasn’t on the office computer?” he asked.
“Just some notes on a book I plan to write. Almost everything was backed up on my office computer.”
“You haven’t received any suspicious E-mail? Threats?”
“No. None of the above. I really live an uneventful life, Detective.”
His eyes narrowed. “Can our people look through those computer files?”
She knew they couldn’t do so without a search warrant, and she was the victim, not the perpetrator. “After I back them up.”
“And you didn’t have any other papers in your house?”
“Not that would interest anyone,” she said. For a moment she thought of the boxes of World War II documents she’d saved from her grandfather’s attic years ago. Another professor had had them for months. But she didn’t want to bring Jon Foster’s research into this. Her fifty-year-old papers couldn’t have had anything to do with the fire. With the exception of Jon and Sherry, no one even knew she had them. He certainly had no reason to harm her.
The detective stood. “We’re questioning people we know like to set fires,” he said. “It could just be a firebug who struck at random.”
That was the first comforting thought he’d offered, even if it was disconcerting to think someone would cause such destruction for a thrill. It was better than the alternative, however. She nodded. “That must be it,” she said.
His expression expressed some doubt. “Could be, Miss Mallory, but I think you should be careful. And if you think of anything, anything at all, call me.”
“I will,” she assured him.
She hugged herself against the cold that had settled deep inside her and started for her temporary lodgings. She’d borrowed a friend’s laptop to use at the hotel. She didn’t want to work in the darkened halls of the university—not now—and she felt reasonably safe in the hotel. And Bojangles was there.
She found herself doing something she had never done before. She looked at everyone with suspicion: the driver of every car, even pedestrians walking near the hotel. She wondered whether she would ever stop looking now, and that question filled her with anger. No one had the right to do that to her, to change the way she looked at the world.
Bojangles barked when she arrived at her room. She unlocked the door and leaned down to pet him. His furry face looked worried, his long eyelashes trembling nervously. He’d been even more timid than usual since losing the one safe place he knew.
“Ah,” she said, “it’s all right, Bo. No one is going to hurt you or me.”
But she found herself looking out the window and wondering whether she really believed it. Or ever would again.
She felt so al
one. So damnably alone.
Who?
And, more important, why?
four
MEMPHIS
Irish stared at the burned ruins of what once had been a home.
So that was the reason he hadn’t been able to reach Amy Mallory, the explanation behind the “this number is no longer in service” message.
He’d researched the two generals other than his grandfather: Mallory and Eachan. They, like his own grandfather, had surprisingly few progeny. From the three, no child still lived. There were four surviving grandchildren, including himself. Two others had died: his brother and an Eachan child. If he had been a superstitious person, he might have thought the families cursed.
Irish had discovered a great deal about the others in the past three days. He knew their jobs, their school records, their credit reports.
He’d pondered which to visit first. He hadn’t particularly been encouraged by what he’d learned about Dustin Eachan. Irish had friends who interacted with the State Department. None of them thought highly of the man they all considered too ambitious for the department’s good. He was a man, they said, who always chose the expedient way, who let nothing stand in the way of promotions.
He probably would not be overly pleased about opening the investigation wider. Hell, he was probably hiding in a closet now.
Eachan’s cousin didn’t sound too encouraging either. She was in substantial debt, had changed jobs seven times in ten years, and was currently working for the State Department.
Amy Mallory, on the other hand, seemed the epitome of stability. Not even a parking ticket. History professor. She would keep papers, memoirs, journals—if indeed any existed. He’d decided to start with her and had tried for two days to reach her by phone. Then he’d jumped on a plane.
He had three more days of his scheduled leave remaining. He’d already talked to his commanding officer about taking an extended leave. But he’d learned long ago not to waste time on hopeless causes. If he didn’t find anything in Memphis or in Washington, his next stop, he would forget it.
Or try to.
Damn, General! What in the hell had happened? He could see his grandfather in his mind’s eye. He’d been integrity itself, drilling into his grandson the concept of honor every day of his life. He’d called the man “Grandfather” but he’d always thought of him as “the General.”
Honor. How in God’s name could he allow his grandfather’s honor to be stripped from him?
Which was why he was standing in front of a burned-out shell of a house.
He looked around. No cars. He would head for his hotel and call the university. He probably couldn’t get her private number, but he should learn where she might be the next day. Or at least locate her office.
He would wear his uniform, since it often impressed. Or intimidated. Those were the only reasons he wore it these days; CID agents—even military members—usually wore civilian clothes.
Irish took one last look at the house. An accident? Or another coincidence? He only knew he didn’t like the feeling in his gut. He knew it too well, and it always meant trouble.
Amy clutched the telephone to her ear and listened to Sherry’s excited voice.
“When I told him you wouldn’t be in today, he wanted your address and phone number,” Sherry said.
Amy sat down on the bed. She’d been arguing with insurance adjusters all day about the value of her electronic equipment. For some idiotic reason, they didn’t understand that all her receipts went up in the fire. They also expressed concern that the cause was arson. There would be, they said, an investigation before they could pay out.
As if she would have burned her own house with her livelihood, dog, and herself inside.
Thank God, she didn’t have a class today. Fortunate for the students anyway. She’d had Sherry cancel her appointments.
“Amy?” The voice on the other end of the telephone sounded concerned.
“He didn’t say what he wanted?” She didn’t want to talk to another insurance agent, fire investigator, or police officer for the next ten years. Especially not today.
“No but he’s one hell of a good-looking guy. He’s in uniform and looks very cool in it.”
“What kind of uniform?”
“Army. I think. He had enough decorations to fill a Christmas tree.”
Army. She got an all-too-familiar bitter taste in her mouth. She tried to wash it out with the glass of wine she’d poured on her return from the insurance company. For a moment her throat tightened, constricted. She had to force out a breath of air.
This had to have something to do with her grandfather. Possibly the article she’d seen a week earlier … a lifetime ago. She’d forgotten all about it after the fire.
She knew one thing. She couldn’t cope with it today. Maybe not tomorrow.
“What should I tell him?” Sherry prompted.
“Nothing,” Amy said. “Tell him you couldn’t reach me.”
There was a silence, then in a small voice, “He’s standing here.”
Amy groaned. Sherry was usually more protective of her than this. The soldier must be very good-looking.
“Tell him I’m going to Alaska.” That seemed as reasonable as any place to her. She wondered if there were firebugs in Alaska.
“I think he’d follow you there. He has a determined glint in his eyes.”
If she knew Sherry, her assistant had already assessed every physical characteristic of her unwanted visitor, down to his shirt size. “What color are they?”
“Paul Newman,” Sherry said.
Now she knew how the man had gotten as far as he had. Sherry was a sucker for Paul Newman. Amy sighed. She might as well get it over with. “Tomorrow,” she said. “At the office.”
She heard Sherry talking to someone, then a question. “He wants to know if he can take you out to dinner tonight.”
“No,” Amy said abruptly.
Whispers again on the other end of the line, then Sherry’s questioning voice. “You won’t reconsider?”
“No,” Amy replied.
Sherry sighed again. “You have a class at nine and meetings at ten and eleven.”
“Two o’clock,” Amy said. “At the office.” A week ago she wouldn’t have thought twice about meeting someone outside of the office. She didn’t like the fear that had become a part of her.
She hung up and leaned against the headboard of the bed. Bo crawled up beside her, and she rubbed his head.
Amy had never been a coward. She had taken care of her mother in down-and-out neighborhoods since she was in grade school. She’d learned to be tough. Lenis Mallory had been into drugs, and though she tried to quit, she’d always fallen back on them. She was one of those flower children who had never grown out of it.
Amy had loved her with all her heart. She had been gentle and sweet, and had a voice that would make angels weep. But she’d had no strength. People had used her. Strength was important to Amy. She hated the feeling of being out of control.
She rose, went to the small kitchenette, and made a cup of coffee. She could only guess at what her insistent caller wanted. Something to do with her grandfather, probably with the recent investigation. Well, she wasn’t going to give him anything that might hurt her grandfather’s reputation. But first she had to know if she had anything that might. That meant going through the boxes of her grandfather’s papers that were now in the hands of Dr. Jonathan Foster.
Amy was everything her mother wasn’t: practical, ambitious, independent. But she shared her mother’s distrust of authority. She’d seen—and heard—too many things as a kid. She was not going to let anyone take advantage of a Mallory. She certainly wasn’t going to salute at the sight of a uniform.
Her hand was still on the phone. She picked it up and dialed the history department’s number.
An answering machine answered. Jon Foster wasn’t in. She knew, though, that he kept her grandfather’s papers in his office. He often worked late there,
preferring the messy comfort of his office to the tidiness of his home. It was an escape from a marriage well on its way to going bad. His wife was demanding and perennially unhappy, Jon had confided to her over lunch one day when she’d teasingly accused him of being a workaholic.
She looked at the clock. Five o’clock. He was either at a deli picking up a sandwich or he’d given in to his wife’s complaints. She looked up his number, wishing for her address book that was now only wisps of smoke, and called. He wasn’t home, his wife said curtly, adding that he was probably working late “as usual.”
That meant he was out to supper.
Amy had keys to the building and to her office but not to his; he kept it locked, as did they all. Student thefts of examination papers were always rumored if not proven.
He should be back by seven at the latest.
She would be there.
“Come on, Bo,” she said. “Let’s get some supper.”
She missed her kitchen. She missed being able to make a salad or cook a steak or a grilled cheese sandwich. She missed her home office with its eccentric computer. Most of all she missed her books: six rooms of books that would take decades to replace.
Don’t think about it. There’s nothing you can do now. But, dear God, she hoped they found the individual responsible.
They would get some hamburgers and bring them back, then she would run over to the university. She opened the door and Bo hung back for a moment, then reluctantly followed. Obviously uncertain about his new environment, he’d moped ever since they arrived, even whimpering occasionally. He knew something was wrong.
She tried to call Jon’s office when they returned, Bo’s mood decidedly better after a hamburger. Again no answer. It was probably a waste of time to go by his office, and yet she did have some work to do. She had to complete backing up all the computer files at her office; she was insistent on always having a second copy of everything, and her second set had been destroyed in the fire. She’d already backed up her chapters of the new book, but not the raw notes for her dissertation. There were names in them she needed.
The depth of her loss kept slapping her.
Broken Honor Page 3