Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  They seemed superhuman, strong and rugged and very, very dangerous.

  And Blue McCoy, already her hero, was one of them.

  She was attracted to him. There was no point in denying that. And Blue had made it quite clear that the feeling was mutual. He'd told her that he'd thought about her as he'd danced with Jenny Lee at the country club.

  That was a hard one to swallow—Blue McCoy thinking about Lucy Tait while he was dancing with Jenny Lee Beaumont.

  Still, he'd told the truth about his conversation with Jenny. Lucy had read Jenny Lee's statement about the events leading up to the time of Gerry's death. The state­ment had included a description of Jenny's conversation with Blue at the country club. Jenny's version was identical to Blue's.

  But there was no way to verify exactly what Blue had been feeling when he'd danced with Jenny, holding her in his arms.

  Lucy knew that Blue wanted to make love to her. She saw that truth in his eyes every time he looked in her direction. The power of his desire was dizzying. But she was brought down to earth quickly enough by the thought that Blue probably only wanted her because Jenny Lee was not avail­able.

  Lucy moved quietly into her bathroom and took a quick shower before pulling on a clean uniform. She brushed out her hair, leaving it down as it dried, grabbed an apple from the kitchen and left the house. She'd be back before Blue even woke up.

  Blue saw Lucy's truck pull away from the house as he finished his morning run.

  He'd slept only two hours last night. He'd gotten up well before sunrise, wide awake and alert, filled with a restless kind of energy and anticipation he'd felt in the past before going into combat situations. This time, however, it was laced with an undercurrent of sexual tension that sharp­ened the feeling of anticipation, giving it a knifelike edge.

  He had run five miles before dawn, another five as the sun rose, and still the edginess wouldn't go away.

  He watched the dust rise as Lucy's truck pulled out of the driveway. She looked as if she had on her uniform, and he was willing to bet she was heading down to the police sta­tion. She was probably going to fill the chief in on all that Blue had told her yesterday and find out if anything new had come in from the autopsy report.

  Blue climbed the stairs to the porch and tried the kitchen door. It was locked. He'd left his bedroom window open all the way up on the third floor. He knew be could get in that way; still, there was bound to be another window open a bit closer to the ground.

  The ground-floor window over the kitchen sink was open, but the sill was lined with plants being rooted in jars of wa­ter. He spotted an open window on the second floor, rec­ognizing it instantly as Lucy's room by its location.

  He climbed easily up the side of the porch and was out­side the window in a matter of moments. There was noth­ing to knock over inside, just a filmy white curtain blowing gently in the morning breeze.

  He unfastened the screen and slipped into the house.

  Lucy's room was big—at one time it had no doubt been a front parlor or a sitting room. She'd put her bed in an offset area, surrounded on almost three sides by big bay windows. Her bed was unmade, her sheets a bold pattern of dark blues and reds and greens. A white bedspread had been pushed off the bed onto the highly polished hardwood floor. A white throw rug was spread on the floor. It was unneces­sary in the summer heat, but it would be nice in the winter when the bare floors would be cold.

  The walls were white, with a collection of framed water-colors breaking up the monotony. The pictures were mostly seascapes with bright-colored sailboats out on the water or beach scenes. There were only two framed photographs, and they sat on a dresser. Blue recognized Lucy's mother in one, smiling through a hole in the half-finished wall of the kitchen. The other was a photo of Lucy, her arms around a tall, thin man he didn't recognize. The man had his arms around Lucy's shoulder, and the two of them were laugh­ing into the camera.

  Who the hell was he? What did he mean to Lucy that she should keep this picture in her bedroom? Was he a former lover? A current lover? If so, where was he? Did he live across the street, or across the country?

  Lucy hadn't mentioned having a boyfriend. She hadn't acted as if she had one, either. But on the other hand, Blue had no right to feel these pangs of jealousy. He wasn't looking for commitment, just a night or two of great sex. If Lucy had some kind of steady thing going on the side, that was her problem, not his.

  So why did the thought of Lucy laughing like this as she leaned forward to kiss this other man leave such a bad taste in Blue's mouth? Why did he have this compelling urge to tear this photograph in two?

  Blue headed for the door, suddenly very aware that he was invading Lucy's privacy. But he turned and looked back over his shoulder before he headed for the stairs up to his bedroom and the third-floor shower.

  It was a nice room, a pleasant room, spacious and as un­cluttered as the rest of the house. Lucy wasn't the sort of person who had to fill every available space with doodads and souvenirs. She wasn't afraid of a clean surface or an empty wall. Yeah, he liked this room. He hoped he had a chance to see it again—from the perspective of Lucy's bed.

  "Lucy!"

  Lucy turned to see Chief Bradley jogging down the cor­ridor toward her.

  "Hey, glad I caught you, darlin'," he said, out of breath. "I see you picked up a copy of the autopsy report. Good. Good. Did you also get the message from Travis Southeby? He just happened to be talking to Andy Hayes over at the Rebel Yell last night and found out that Andy saw Blue McCoy leave his motel room at about ten o'clock on the night of Gerry's murder."

  Lucy nodded. "Yes, sir," she said. "That fits with what Blue told me as to his whereabouts that evening."

  Sheldon Bradley nodded, running his fingers through his thinning gray hair. "Did he also mention that Matt Parker was just in, not more than a few minutes ago, saying how he thought he saw someone who looked just like Blue McCoy arguing with Gerry at around 11 p.m., up in the woods near where the body was found? He saw them there just twenty minutes before the established time of death."

  "Matt thought he saw someone who looked like Blue?" Lucy allowed her skepticism to show. "No, I didn't get that message. I'll make a point to go over and talk to both Matt and Andy this afternoon."

  "Let me know what else you come up with," the chief said.

  "I'll have another report typed up and on your desk by the end of the day," Lucy told him. She opened the door, but again Bradley stopped her.

  "Oh, and one more thing," he said. "Leroy Hurley mentioned that he saw Blue McCoy here in town with a au­tomatic weapon."

  "Chief, it wasn't a real—"

  He held up his hand. "As a result, it came to my atten­tion that as of yet no one has confiscated whatever weap­ons McCoy might have—and I've heard some of those Special Forces types walk around carrying an arsenal."

  "Without a warrant, I'm not sure we have the right to-"

  "Actually, we do," Bradley told her. "It's an old town law, dates back from Reconstruction, from when folks ran a little wild. The Hatboro Creek peacekeeping officers have the right to gain possession of any individual's personal weapons until that individual crosses back over the town line. We never did get around to amending that law. It was brought up at a meeting a few years back, but then Hurri­cane Rosie came through, knocked it off the town agenda."

  “I’ll ask him if he has any weapons—"

  "You'll search the son of a bitch," the chief told her. "Or you'll bring him down here so that we can search him, if you're not up to it."

  Lucy lifted her chin. "I'm up to it. But you should know that the gun Hurley saw him with was just a plastic toy."

  "Either way, I won't have him running around my town with an Uzi or the likes," Bradley said. "Whatever he's got, I want it locked up in my safe by noon, is that clear?"

  Lucy nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "And get a move on with this investigation," Bradley added, heading back down the hallway. "I want Blue Mc­Coy locke
d up, too, before sundown tomorrow."

  ***

  Lucy pulled her truck into her driveway, unable to shake the feeling of dread in her stomach, dread that had started with the chief's news that someone had allegedly seen Blue arguing with Gerry near the murder site. Matt Parker. He was an upstanding citizen. He'd recently had his share of bad luck, though. He'd even been the cause of one of An-nabella's 415 dispatches earlier in the summer when he and his wife got to fighting about his recent unemployment just a little too loudly. But other than that, he wasn't one of the town troublemakers or one of Leroy Hurley's wild friends. Parker stayed mostly to himself, kept up his house and yard and showed up at church every Sunday without fail.

  Why would Parker lie about what he'd seen the night of Gerry's murder?"

  And if he wasn't lying, did that mean Blue was?

  No. Blue had looked her in the eye and told her that he wasn't the one who had killed his stepbrother. Lucy be­lieved him. He wasn't lying. The air of calm that seemed to surround him, his definite tone of voice, his steady eye con­tact all reinforced her belief.

  Lucy got out of the truck and walked up the path to the house. It was only 9:30 in the morning, and already she felt as if she couldn't wait for the day to end.

  She had to search Blue McCoy for concealed weapons. That was going to be fun. Lucy rolled her eyes. She couldn't get within three feet of the man without risking third-degree burns. How on earth was she supposed to search him? She was going to have to make him assume the classic body-search position, arms stretched out in front of him, legs spread, hands against the wall. Because God help her, if he simply held out his arms while she patted him down and she happened to glance up and into his eyes... What was it that Blue had said last night? Spontaneous combustion. It was an accurate description of the way she'd felt at the country club when he'd held her in his arms and she'd kissed him. What a kiss that had been.

  God, maybe she should take Blue down to the station, let Frank Redfield or Tom Harper search him. But that would be admitting that she wasn't "up to it," as Chief Bradley had said.

  Lucy unlocked the kitchen door. She'd picked up a bag of doughnuts and two cups of coffee at the bakery in town, and she put them on the table. The house was quiet. Was it pos­sible Blue was still asleep?

  Then she saw it. There was a note on the kitchen table. Blue had written a message to her on a paper napkin. He'd taken care to write neatly, printing in clear block letters: "Seven a.m. Went to scout out woods off Gate's Hill Road. CM."

  CM.?

  It took Lucy a moment to realize that C.M. were Blue's initials. His real, given name was Carter McCoy. Why hadn't he signed the note Blue? Did he think of himself as Carter? Or was he just so used to initialing navy paperwork that the C.M. had come out automatically?

  Either way, he was already up and out, doing her job. Lucy grabbed the doughnuts and coffee, locked the kitchen door behind her and went back to her truck.

  Chapter 8

  Lucy didn't find Blue up in the woods by Gate's Hill Road. Blue found Lucy. He just sort of appeared next to her. One minute she was alone at the edge of the clearing where Gerry's body had been discovered, and the next Blue was standing right be­side her.

  She'd been expecting him to do something like that, so she didn't jump. At least not too high. She handed him a paper cup of coffee, instead.

  "Hope you like it black," she said. He nodded,sunlight glinting off his golden hair. "Thanks."

  The day was promising to be another hot, muggy one. Blue was still wearing his army fatigue shirt with the sleeves cut off, but he had it unbuttoned most of the way, allowing Lucy tantalizing glimpses of his rock-solid, tanned chest.

  She handed him the doughnut bag. "I also hope you like jelly doughnuts," she said, wishing that it were winter and thirty degrees so he'd have to wear a parka zipped up to his chin. "I ate all the honey glazed. That's what you get for coming out here without me."

  Blue smiled. "Serves me right. What's the latest news down at the station?"

  "The autopsy report is in." Lucy took a sip of her own coffee, leaning back against a tree as she gazed at him. His blue eyes were clear, his face unmarked by fatigue. He'd probably gotten eight hours of dreamless, perfect sleep, damn him. He didn't look as if he'd tossed and turned for one moment last night, distracted not a whit by the thought of her sleeping several rooms away.

  Lucy had tossed and turned enough for both of them.

  "The cause of Gerry's death was definitely a broken neck," she continued, "but we already knew that. It was a clean break, though, and the medical examiner found some slight bruising on his head and neck, indicating some kind of stranglehold. Whoever killed him knew what he was do­ing. It wasn't accidental, and apparently the bruising wasn't severe enough to indicate a long, passionate struggle. The killer knew exactly what he intended to do before he even got his hands on Gerry."

  Blue looked away, swearing softly.

  "The good news is that Gerry didn't feel it," Lucy said quietly. "He probably didn't even know."

  "Yeah, I know that." His mouth was tight as he looked up at Lucy again. "What else was in the report?"

  She shook her head. "I just skimmed the first few para­graphs. I'll read it more thoroughly later. You can look at it, too, if you want." She sighed, knowing that she had to tell him about what Matt Parker allegedly saw.

  "You've got more bad news," Blue said, reading her face. "What is it?"

  "A couple of witnesses have surfaced," Lucy said. "One of them places you up here, arguing with Gerry, about twenty minutes before his established time of death."

  Blue didn't say a word. His lips just got tighter.

  "Either this witness is lying," Lucy continued, "or he saw someone or something up here that could give us a lead to finding out what really happened."

  "Someone was up here, all right," Blue said. He set his coffee cup and the bag of doughnuts down on a rock and headed out into the center of the clearing, motioning for Lucy to follow.

  "Gerry's body was found right about here," he told her, pointing at an area where the weeds were trampled flat. "I didn't expect to find anything new. Too many people, both police and paramedics, added their footprints before a proper investigation could be made." He straightened up. "What I did this morning was search the clearing and the woods, moving out in circles away from the place where Gerry was found."

  He headed into the woods, and Lucy followed him through the thick underbrush.

  "I don't think the police searched out this far from the murder site," Blue said over his shoulder as they walked for what seemed like half a mile. "But I didn't have anything better to do this morning, so I just kept going."

  He stopped at a trail that was cut through the dense growth. It was little more than two tire paths, ruts worn into the side of the hill for a truck or Jeep to get through.

  Blue crouched, pointing at the damp earth. "Tire tracks," he said. "Big tires. Wider than your average truck tires by a good four inches. And whatever it was those great big tires were attached to, it was big and heavy, too."

  Sure enough, the tracks sank deeply into the dark soil. The mud was starting to dry. Whatever had left this track had been here directly after the last rain—probably around the time of Gerry's death.

  "Was it some kind of monster truck?" Lucy mused, crouching next to him.

  "That or an all-terrain vehicle," Blue said.

  "The tires look new," Lucy remarked. "The tread is barely worn. God, we can take a print of this and make an easy match, find out who else was up here that night—if they're still in town."

  "And look over here," Blue said, standing up and point­ing farther down the trail. "Whoever drove this thing left in one hell of a big hurry."

  Lucy straightened too, wiping her hands on her pants. "This is great! Let's go back to my truck and radio for as sistance. I'll have the crime team take some photos and make a mold of these tire tracks." She grinned. "McCoy, I think you may have just saved your ow
n neck."

  Blue smiled at her enthusiasm as he followed her toward the main road, where she'd parked her truck. "Careful, or folks are going to say that this isn't an unbiased investiga­tion."

  "Yeah, well, it's not," Lucy admitted.

  When she glanced over her shoulder at him, he could see a healthy dose of that simmering heat that could turn his blood boiling hot in less than a blink. But he could also see admiration shining in her eyes. He could see admiration and respect and something akin to hero worship.

  And in that instant, Blue realized that Lucy still had that old schoolgirl crush on him—no, not on him, but on some larger-than-life heroic image of him. He was a superhero who'd saved the day, chasing away her attackers twelve years ago. He was a member of the elite Navy SEALs—and he knew from the shelf of books about the navy and the SEALs that he'd found in Lucy's living room that she'd read all about the legendary heroism and patriotism and loyalty of the SEAL units. To Lucy, he was a living legend.

  And that made him attractive to her—probably more at­tractive than any normal, mortal man she'd ever known.

  The truth was, Lucy didn't really know Blue at all. Be­cause he was mortal. But all her powerful attraction, all her respect and admiration, was based on some idea of how he should be. It was based on an image of the way she thought he was.

  Still, what did he expect? Since he'd arrived, he'd done nothing to straighten her out. He'd told her none of his se­crets, shared none of his feelings. As a matter of fact, Blue could count the people he'd shared his feelings and secrets with on the fingers of one hand.

  Frisco was one. But it had been years since Blue had re­ally talked to the injured SEAL. He'd gone to see him in the Veterans' Hospital and the rehab center a few times right after he'd been wounded. But Frisco didn't want to talk. And Blue finally stopped going to see him.