Broken Honor

by Potter, Patricia;

  Ah, the fellowhood of cops. Not once, apparently, did they question whether the colonel had a personal motive. She bit down on the pain again. “I still want you to go.”

  “Will you talk to me later?” he persisted.

  “Why should I?”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Your name is Flaherty. So is one of the generals involved with the treasure trains.”

  “I’m his grandson,” the colonel said.

  The pain was tolerable again. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the beginning?”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “Of course it does,” she said, steeling herself once more against a new wave of pain. “You have a personal interest.” It was almost an accusation. He’d appeared the day after someone tried to kill her, several days after her house was burned.

  “I do. I don’t deny it. And you do, too.”

  “It was fifty years ago. It has nothing to do with my life now.”

  “Then why was your home destroyed? Why did someone hurt you last night?”

  “You tell me,” she said, anger and pain coming together in an explosion. “You certainly appeared at a curious time.”

  He shrugged carelessly, but she saw the tension in the set of his shoulders. He wasn’t nearly as relaxed as he wanted her to believe. Why? What did he think she might know that would help him in any way? Or did he think it might hurt him?

  “I saw the article in the paper,” he said after a moment’s silence. “I knew my grandfather well. I couldn’t believe he would have anything to do with a theft.”

  “And you think my grandfather might have?” she asked indignantly.

  “It might well have been none of them,” he said soothingly, “but now they’re all tainted by insinuations. I tried to locate witnesses. Many of the supporting papers are classified or names are blacked out. I hoped your grandfather might have left some documents.”

  The documents. The boxes. Was that why Jon had died? But why? Terror ripped through her, but she didn’t want him to see it. Men like him—investigators—used fear as a weapon. She had seen it used with her mother. But where were the boxes now? In her mind’s eyes, she saw the masked thief dropping one. Had he picked it up before fleeing?

  “Why,” she asked, “didn’t the commission investigators talk to me?”

  He shrugged. “They were concerned with the events as they happened more than half a century ago. We weren’t alive then. There was no reason to come to us.”

  “Then why are you involved?” she asked testily.

  “I want to know the truth. Our grandfathers were indicted by innuendo. I owe it to mine to clear him.”

  “At the expense of others?” she accused him. “As you said, it was fifty years ago. Let it go.”

  “You’re a historian. Can you really do that?” It was a challenge.

  No, she couldn’t. Which was why she wanted to go through the boxes again. But she wasn’t going to admit that. She didn’t know whom to trust now. Jon. Dead. Her house burned. She had been shot. She knew enough about anatomy to realize that if the bullet had been inches to the left.…

  “Do you remember anything about the man who shot you?” he asked, as if reading her mind.

  She wasn’t going to tell him anything. Not until she talked to the police. She shook her head and turned to Sherry. “The police don’t have any idea who did it?”

  Sherry shook her head. “A second security guard saw him flee, but he was masked. They want to talk to you, of course, and they’re dusting for fingerprints.”

  Amy saw the intruder in her mind’s eye. Masked. Gloved. Dressed all in black. And graceful. Like her visitor. An athlete’s grace.

  She fought a wave of fear. Did someone know she was going to Jon’s office? If so, how? And if not, how did he know to look in Jon’s office? If, she reminded herself, he had been after her boxes. Maybe, just maybe, he had been after something else.

  She only knew she was not going to mention them until she knew what happened to those boxes. There had been three of them. The thief had one box in his hands before he dropped it. Had he taken others before she arrived?

  You’re being paranoid. It wasn’t your box. Jon’s office was lined with them. Notes. Reference books. Manuscripts. It could have been anything.

  She had to make sure.

  And she couldn’t do it with the Army investigator in the room. The one with his own agenda.

  “I want you to go,” she said again. “I’m hurting and I’m tired and I want you to go.”

  He studied her for a moment, his eyes making requests she wasn’t ready to grant. “I’ll be back,” he said. “And,” he added, “I’ll wait outside until the police arrive.”

  His words struck her as ominous. “You don’t believe.…”

  “No,” he said. “The police think it was just a burglary gone wrong. But I told them I would wait.”

  Amy just nodded. She wasn’t surprised at his persistence. But at the moment she wanted him gone. He was a disturbing presence in more ways than one.

  She watched unwillingly as he put on his hat, and drat it if he didn’t look even better.

  Amy turned away. She waited until the door closed, then looked at Sherry, who had a dazed expression on her face.

  “Sherry?”

  Sherry stirred herself back to reality. “I’m sorry, Amy,” she said. “I thought he had a right to be here.”

  “He wanted you to think that,” she said flatly. “He lied.”

  “He never actually said.…”

  “Same thing as,” Amy said. “Do me a favor. Don’t tell him anything. Anything at all.”

  Looking abashed, Sherry nodded. “I swear.”

  Amy remembered what the colonel said, that the police would be back soon. But he’d made sure he asked his questions first.

  A simple burglary gone wrong. If that was what the police thought, then they probably hadn’t collected her boxes. She tried to move toward the phone, but her body objected and she fell back. “Sherry,” she said, “call the campus security office. See if they retrieved the box the man dropped. Ask them to check to see if there are any other boxes with my name on them. If so, ask them to lock them up.”

  Sherry looked started. “Do you think that’s what the … burglar was after?”

  “I don’t know, but I want to go through them, and I won’t be able to do that if the police take them.”

  Sherry stood.

  Amy reached out her hand. “Thank you, Sherry.”

  Sherry’s hand squeezed hers. “I’ll make the calls outside. You need some rest.”

  Amy was grateful. Her head was swimming with emotions. She needed time to think, to cope with all the questions and fear and grief. Claude. Jon. Why?

  Was someone also after her?

  Or did she just have a dark cloud floating over her head? Coincidence. A burglary she interrupted. A burglary that had nothing to do with her? She wished that with all her heart.

  But her analytical mind told her that was foolish. Too many coincidences meant none at all. Everything that had happened was tied together in some evil way.

  And what did Colonel Flaherty have to do with it all?

  six

  MEMPHIS

  Professional courtesy. One investigator to another. It usually opened a lot of doors.

  But not at Braemore, not on this campus. And not with its small security force. Irish thought about trying a little intimidation, then discarded the idea. One of theirs was down. One of their charges was wounded. Another was dead, but that was still deemed a hit and run.

  The security officers had said they had been instructed by the Memphis police not to say anything and, still stunned by what happened, they obeyed. He’d also called on the Memphis detectives working the case. They were friendly enough—he was a colleague—but they had little information. About all he learned was that it was being worked as a burglary of a professor’s office, one that went awry. Miss Mallory was just unf
ortunate to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. No, they couldn’t share any more information. No, he couldn’t go into Jon Foster’s office.

  Another door slammed in his face.

  Flashing his military credentials, he had talked to others in the Sammons Building at the college and discovered a great deal about Amy Mallory. She apparently was one of those people who was interested in everyone, and showed it. From the janitorial staff on up, everyone seemed to like her, though few claimed a really close relationship. They raised disbelieving eyebrows when he asked whether they knew of any enemies she might have.

  And his own impressions agreed with that assessment. She’d been undaunted this morning, despite being nearly killed, and appeared more concerned about the security guard, her friend Jon Foster, and her dog, than herself. He’d also been intrigued by the mild hostility when she’d seen his uniform. Not rabid, merely wary.

  Because of her grandfather? Her mother? He already knew from his research that the woman had been unorthodox, a flower child who had never quite conformed to society.

  Amy Mallory had used what must have been a chaotic childhood to succeed in a particularly demanding career, one that required discipline. He admired that.

  He’d also liked the smoky gray eyes and the short, dark hair that wrapped appealingly around her face. But she was no real beauty. The description that applied was “pleasantly attractive.” He suspected, though, that when she smiled, she would be very pretty indeed.

  He thought about Amy Mallory again, and wondered whether another visit would produce anything. He’d not missed the suspicion in her eyes, the growing awareness of danger as he’d talked.

  To his surprise, she had not expressed the outrage that many would after a random act of violence. Nor had she expressed surprise at what would have been a really astounding run of bad luck. She must suspect a connection.

  What?

  He went over everything he knew about her. There was nothing that should suddenly plunge her into danger. Could it be mere coincidence that the report on the thefts had just recently been published?

  It was a far stretch.…

  And yet deep in his bones, he knew there was a connection.

  If there was, why had anyone gone after her alone? Why not him?

  He wondered about the other descendants, Dustin and Sally Eachan. Had they had sudden accidents?

  He had to find out.

  Irish went down to the desk of his hotel and told them he would be staying at least two more nights, maybe longer.

  There was never really a decision to make. He didn’t like the fear in Amy Mallory’s eyes. He didn’t like people who hurt women.

  But to accomplish anything, he needed her trust. And he didn’t blame her for not giving it readily. God only knew she’d had a horrendous few days. Why should she trust anyone, particularly him? He’d appeared on the scene just as everything had happened.

  After arranging for the longer stay, he returned to his room. He plugged in his electronic notebook, and in minutes had the home and office numbers of Dustin Eachan and the home number of his cousin. He started dialing his cell phone.

  An hour later, he was completely frustrated. He couldn’t get through to either one of them. He left several messages, using his name and expressing the urgency of the matter.

  He looked at his watch. He could try the Memphis police again, but he didn’t want to press them. He didn’t want them to contact his commanding officer. Doug Fuller was a friend, but he was also a stickler for protocol. He wouldn’t approve of Irish using his badge for personal reasons.

  Fishing. He was supposed to be fishing. He’d just been looking for a different kind of catch. Information. And now.…

  Now he was beginning to think he was looking for some bad guys.

  After fifty years. It didn’t make sense.

  And it particularly didn’t make sense that someone was going after one of the descendants of the officers involved in a theft so many years ago. She had to know something. Even if she didn’t know what it was.

  Or was he just taking two and two and making five?

  He looked outside. It was late, and yet he was restless. Frustrated. Unable to relax. Something was going on that he didn’t understand, and he didn’t like that one damn bit. He thought about Amy Mallory in the hospital room. Why her? Of all of the descendants, why had there been attempts on her life? According to the police, there didn’t seem to be anything else in her life that might inspire such sudden violence. No stalkers. No boyfriends. No enemies.

  Unable to rest, he decided to make one more effort to talk to her. He would wear civilian clothes. The uniform, he’d sensed earlier in the room, had had the opposite effect than what he’d hoped for. Instead of assuring her, it had turned her off. But he should have guessed. She’d done her research on protest movements, perhaps because of her mother. It stood to reason that she didn’t like the military.

  He changed to a sports shirt and jeans. He would find some flowers and try to reassure her that he was one of the good guys. It was obvious that his poor attempt at charm hadn’t worked.

  It took him an hour to find flowers, finally resorting to a grocery store after he found all the local florists closed. It was after ten before he reached the hospital. Probably too late, but at least he could leave them at the desk and return in the morning. He would leave a note of apology for pushing himself on her today. Damn, how long had it been since he apologized?

  The halls were quiet. Only one person was at the nurses’ station, and she was on the phone. He walked down to the room. If the light was on.…

  It wasn’t. He turned and started back toward the station when he saw another man, one in a florist’s uniform, stop at the desk. His hands were full of a huge bouquet that partially covered his face. The bill of a cap shaded his eyes. Did florists really deliver this late? He sure hadn’t been able to find one open.

  His own small offering from the grocery store looked rather pitiful. He was thinking about throwing it out and starting over in the morning when he heard the man ask for Amy Mallory’s room.

  The nurse looked up from the phone call with a hassled look on her face. “You can leave them here,” she said.

  The deliveryman hesitated. “You look busy. I don’t mind.”

  A buzzing sound distracted her, then another. “Three ninety-six,” she said in a distracted voice. “The hall to your left.”

  The deliveryman nodded, cast a quick look at Irish and gave him a careless shrug, but kept his face partially covered by the huge bouquet. Irish felt a quickening of his pulse. His eyes scanned the man, including his hands. Despite the hot weather, they were gloved. Irish’s instincts tingled.

  He nodded amiably and leaned on the nurses’ station counter as if he were waiting to speak to the nurse. He wondered where the other nurses were. He knew there had been a cutback in personnel in most hospitals, but this reminded him of the movies he’d often sat through with total disbelief. People running through empty halls.

  He waited until the deliveryman had turned the corner, then followed. He ducked back when he saw the man look around. The glance, he thought, was meant to look innocent but instead looked furtive. But then Irish’s entire career involved furtiveness, and maybe he saw it when it wasn’t there.

  Irish waited just a second, saw the door close behind the deliveryman, then walked softly to the door. He pushed the door open slightly. The flowers had been dumped on a chair. The man was leaning over a sleeping Amy Mallory, a pillow in his hand.

  The man whirled around.

  “Not today, you don’t,” Irish said softly as he imprinted the lean and hungry face in his mind.

  He knew instantly that the man recognized him. Not specifically. Not as Irish Flaherty, but as an opponent. As a cop.

  The man spun around, dropped the pillow, and his hand went behind his back. Irish knew what he was after. He dived for the man, tackling him. A pistol skidded across the floor as a plastic pitcher and books f
ell from the stand next to the bed.

  Both he and the intruder went down as they wrestled for the gun. The assailant was strong, powerful, skilled … and desperate. Irish barely avoided a kick to his groin and landed a blow on the man’s cheek. He used his body to block the assailant’s desperate attempt to reach the gun—just inches from their hands.

  He heard Amy’s exclamation, then her frantic screaming for the nurse. The intruder must have heard it, too, because he pushed with almost superhuman strength and rolled over on Irish before kneeing him and reaching for the gun.

  Pain ripped through Irish, but he managed in one desperate movement to stick out his foot, tripping his opponent.

  The man landed on his back and hit the side of the bed as Irish kicked the gun under the bed. His opponent groaned at the impact, then managed to get to his feet and avoid Irish’s grasp. He ran toward the door, hitting a nurse as he did so. He shoved her against the wall and disappeared.

  Irish reached for the gun. The nurse screamed. He started for the door, but a crowd now blocked it. The intruder was gone. He groaned as he straightened. Damn, but he must be out of shape. And practice. It had been years since he’d had a physical encounter with a bad guy.

  The room filled. Nurses, attendants. Voices babbled. Amy Mallory sat up in the bed and stared at him. The pitcher, plastic glass, and telephone were scattered across the floor, along with pools of water. Wilted and crushed flowers added flashes of color in the shambles.

  Everyone stared at him—and the gun—with horror.

  He lowered it to his side. “It’s over,” he said. “Someone intended to hurt Miss Mallory. Someone posing as a deliveryman. He might still be in the hospital. Alert security.” Useless. The intruder—no, hit man—would be long gone. He thought about going after the intruder himself, but he knew he was too late.

  No one moved. Faces were full of indecision, even fear, as eyes moved from the pistol in his hand to Amy’s stunned face. One nurse finally took a step toward Amy. “What happened?”

  “I … don’t know,” she said, obviously bewildered. “I woke up, and two men were fighting. I know … the colonel.”