Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  "You know, I really like you, Blue McCoy," Lucy said with a smile.

  Blue had to smile, too. Her comment was pure Lucy. She really liked him. It made him feel warm inside. Warm, but wistful, too. Was it possible he would have rather heard her tell him that she loved him?

  Mercy, the complications that that would bring were mind-boggling. But he wanted it, he realized. He wanted her to love him.

  "We should try to sleep," Lucy said, lying back in the bed. "We've got a big day tomorrow."

  "Are we planning to crack the case?"

  Lucy sighed as he put his arms around her, pulling her so that her back fit snugly against his chest, "No," she said. "Tomorrow we're going to drive into Charleston and hire a private investigator—someone with more than six months' experience. He or she will crack the case."

  "Excuse me, Officer Tait... ?"

  Lucy glanced up from filling her truck's gas tank to see a tired-looking woman on the other side of the self-serve pump, filling the tank in her own car.

  It was Darlene Parker, Matt's wife. Her old station wagon was loaded full to the top, and Tommy, her young son, sat in the front seat. Matt was nowhere in sight.

  "I was going to send this to you," Darlene said, handing Lucy an envelope, glancing furtively around to make sure no one was watching them, "but as long as you're right here, I figured I may as well risk hand-delivering it. Don't let anyone see."

  "Are you leaving town?" Lucy asked, folding it in two and putting it in the back pocket of her jeans.

  Darlene nodded. She seemed relieved that the envelope was out of sight. She lowered her voice even further, her thin face pinched and nervous. "I wrote to tell you what really happened the night Gerry McCoy died."

  Lucy felt a surge of hope. "You know who killed Gerry McCoy?"

  But Darlene shook her head as she finished filling the tank and replaced the gas cap. "No. But I know that Mat­thew was paid quite a bit of money to make up that story about seeing Blue up in the woods, arguing with his step­brother. I know for a fact that Matt didn't see anything of the sort. He was with me that entire night. It's all in the let­ter. When you read it, you'll see."

  Darlene hurried to the gas-station office to pay. As Lucy watched through the window, Darlene quickly threw sev­eral bills onto the counter. She headed back to her car, but Lucy intercepted her.

  "If you leave town," Lucy said quietly, "you won't be able to make a statement about this to the police."

  Darlene was already shaking her head.,"No," she said. "I'm not going to do that. I've already done more than I should. They killed Gerry McCoy. They won't think twice about killing again."

  "Who are'they'?"

  "R. W. Fisher," Darlene whispered. "And the police. You're the only police officer I was absolutely certain wasn't involved."

  The police? And R. W. Fisher? Killed Gerry McCoy? Lucy's head was spinning.

  Darlene pushed past her and opened the door to her car. "I'm leaving with Tommy while I still can," she said. "Matt is gonna wind up with his own neck broken, but that's his own damn fault."

  She closed the door with a slam, then locked it. Lucy leaned in the open window. Tommy gazed sullenly at her from where he was sitting, surrounded by bags and un­packed things his mother had thrown, last minute, into the car.

  "How do you know about this?" she asked. "Darlene, I need to know where you got this information."

  Darlene started the car with a roar. "I've already told you too much.”

  "At least give me your forwarding address, so that I can reach you in case—"

  "You're kidding, right?"

  Darlene put the car into gear and pressed the gas pedal. Lucy had to jump away to keep the rear tire from rolling over her boots.

  Darlene's reedy voice floated back through the open window. "If I were you, I'd get out of town before you end up like Gerry McCoy, too."

  Lucy pulled the envelope Darlene had given her out of her pocket. She dug in her other pocket for a pen and jotted down the station wagon's license-plate number. Just in case. She paid for her gas and got back into her truck before opening the envelope.

  It was a single-page, handwritten letter. Darlene's cur­sive writing was scratchy and hard to read.

  A glance told Lucy that the letter wasn't signed. Without Darlene around in person to back up the contents, it would do little to discredit Matt Parker's story. Still, she read it slowly, working through the nearly illegible words.

  Just as Darlene had said, she'd written that Matt had been home all evening on the night that Gerry McCoy had died. She said that after Matt had issued a statement that he'd seen Gerry and Blue near Gate's Hill Road that night, he suddenly had lots of money. When Darlene asked him about it, since he was currently unemployed, he told her to mind her own business.

  But later Matt had told her that he'd gotten the money from R. W. Fisher, and that in a few months, after the up­roar died down, he was going to have a guaranteed job working for the Tobacco King.

  R. W. Fisher.

  It seemed ludicrous. The wealthiest, most successful man in town involved in murder?

  And the police were supposedly involved, too. Darlene didn't say why she thought that was true or who had given her that information. She just stated that the police couldn't be trusted.

  Lucy looked up from the letter, staring sightlessly at the morning sky. Blue had seen Fisher deep in discussion with Gerry at the country club on the night Gerry had been killed.

  She'd wanted to go and talk to R. W. Fisher in connec­tion to the autopsy report's odd findings about Gerry's blood-alcohol levels at the time of his death. She'd wanted to ask Fisher if he'd thought that Gerry was drunk prior to the dance-floor altercation with Blue and Jenny.

  She'd told Chief Bradley about wanting to talk to Fisher....

  And he'd responded not just by taking her off the case, but by suspending her from the police force and telling her to get out of town.

  What if Darlene was right and the police—including Sheldon Bradley—were involved in some sort of conspir­acy?

  And what if, by wanting to talk to Fisher, she'd been get­ting too close to the real truth?

  Whatever had come in with the morning mail was caus­ing quite a stir in Chief Bradley's office. Despite that, An-nabella stopped Lucy as she was heading past her desk.

  "I thought you got axed," the older woman said with her usual sensitivity, lighting a cigarette with a snap of a match.

  "I'm just getting... something from my locker," Lucy said. "Packing up some of my stuff." Curiosity got the better of her, and she motioned toward the commotion. ."What's going on?"

  "Blue McCoy's military records just arrived," the raspy-voiced dispatcher told her, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Did you know that he's got some kind of expert status in mar­tial arts-style hand-to-hand combat?"

  "Well, yeah, umm... actually, I did," Lucy said.

  Lucy couldn't quite believe she'd dared to come inside the police station. The normally bland beige walls seemed to be dripping with conspiracy. The familiar faces of her co-workers seemed suddenly sinister.

  She was probably overreacting. She was going on the un­substantiated statement of Darlene Parker—a woman who, for all Lucy knew, could have paranoid delusions. If R. W. Fisher and the entire police department had killed Gerry McCoy, there had to be some kind of reason, some sort of motive. Darlene hadn't provided her with one of those, and Lucy was having a hard time coming up with one of her own.

  But she couldn't totally discount what Darlene had told her. In fact, Lucy took Darlene's warnings seriously enough to want to be armed. Of course, she'd turned in her police-issue weapon when she'd had it out with Chief Bradley two days ago. But she had a personal license for a smaller gun— which happened to be inconveniently stored in her locker in the basement of the police station.

  This entire day wasn't going at all the way she'd planned. She'd awakened alone again and had a moment of frustra­tion until she caught the fragrant smell of co
ffee and frying pancakes floating up from the kitchen. When she went downstairs she found Blue cooking breakfast. He'd greeted her with a smile and a maple syrup-flavored kiss. That was nice—she couldn't complain about that.

  But after breakfast, Lucy had left the house alone, in­tending to drive into town to the library to photocopy the Yellow Pages listings of private investigators from the Charleston phone book. Today she had intended to seek professional assistance in this murder investigation.

  Instead, here she was, spooked by Darlene Parker's crazy suspicions, creeping down the police-station stairs, hoping she'd get to her locker, get her gun and get the hell out of there before anyone besides Annabella noticed her.

  Not a chance.

  Chief Bradley stopped her in the hall on her way back to the door.

  Lucy kept her face carefully expressionless, hoping the fact that she suspected him to be part of some wild, mur­derous townwide conspiracy didn't show in her eyes.

  But he didn't ask her what she was doing there. He glared at her and said, "You knew Blue McCoy had extensive martial-arts training?"

  Lucy looked down toward Annabella's desk, where the dispatcher was smoking yet another cigarette, watching with unabashed curiosity.

  “All Navy SEALs do," she said evenly. "I'm surprised you didn't know that."

  "No, I did not know that," Bradley fumed. "Just now Annabella told me you knew about McCoy's martial-arts training. And I happened to be talking to Doc Harrington's pretty little wife yesterday, and she mentioned the fact that you're some kind of walking fountain of information about the military's Special Forces divisions."

  "Sarah was exaggerating. I don't know that much—"

  "What I want to know is why the hell didn't any of that information bubble over onto my desk?"

  "I didn't think—"

  Bradley shoved several pieces of paper into Lucy's hands. It appeared to be pages photocopied from Blue's personnel file. Much of the text was blacked out, censored no doubt for security reasons. But there was a full listing of the areas in which Blue held expert-level—or higher—status. Martial arts and hand-to-hand combat were high on the list.

  Lucy flipped the page, fascinated despite the fact that this was Blue's private file, despite the fact that she was sur­rounded by people who were allegedly involved in Gerry McCoy's death.

  She skimmed the brief psychological evaluation that was written at the bottom of the second page. "Carter McCoy is a perfect candidate for the SEAL program," she said. "He is a tenacious, usually steady, thoughtful individual who is not afraid to take action. Negatively, his temper can be volatile at times. He also is very much of a loner, unwill­ing or unable to share his thoughts and feelings with any­one other than his very closest friends, if even them. Carter McCoy is—"

  "You look at that file," Chief Bradley interrupted her, "and you tell me if you think McCoy has the skill and training necessary for him to be able to snap a man's neck."

  Lucy gazed up at him. She didn't want to answer that. She couldn't answer that, not without damning Blue. But if she refused to answer, Bradley would assume she was hiding the truth.

  "Blue McCoy is a lieutenant in the Navy SEALs," she told the chief. "He's the executive officer of SEAL Team Ten's Alpha Squad." She slapped the papers against her hand. "According to this, he's won countless medals for bravery—"

  "I didn't ask you for a background sketch of the man," Bradley said. "I asked if Blue McCoy has the skill and training to kill in that manner—"

  "He'd never do such a thing," Lucy protested.

  "It's a yes or no question, Tait. Does he or does he not have the skill and training to break a man's neck?"

  Bradley was watching her. Annabella was watching her. Farther down the hall, Travis Southeby and Tom Harper were watching her. They were all waiting for her answer.

  "All SEALs do-"

  But Chief Bradley wasn't listening any longer. "That sounded like a yes to me. Run next door to the judge's chambers," he said to Travis. "Let's get a warrant and bring that son of a bitch in. We got motive and now we've got means."

  "Motive?" Lucy asked, following Bradley down the hall, back toward his office. "What motive did Blue McCoy have for killing his brother?"

  Bradley stopped and looked at her as if she were first cousin to the village idiot. "Jenny Lee Beaumont," he said. "She's motive enough for damn near any man."

  "That's ridiculous— "

  "You got a better motive?" Bradley said, turning back to glare at her. "Or maybe you've got an entirely different suspect in mind?"

  They killed Gerry McCoy, Darlene Parker had said omi­nously. They won't think twice about killing again.

  Lucy shook her head, backing slowly away. "No," she said. "No, I don't." She gazed into the chief's eyes, trying to see if he was capable of murder. As much as she disliked the man, she found it hard to believe. But she'd been wrong about a lot of things before.

  "Got the warrant, Chief," Travis called.

  "Take Tom and go pick up McCoy," Bradley said to Travis. He turned to Lucy. "He still staying out at your place?" He smiled knowingly. "In the guest bedroom?"

  Lucy's stomach was in a knot. They were going to arrest Blue. They were going to bring him in, charge him with murdering his stepbrother. Or maybe they weren't going to bring him in. Maybe they were simply going to kill him, in­stead, claiming he resisted arrest.

  "Let me go along," she said to Bradley, her mind going a mile a minute as she searched for a way out. "I can talk him into coming in quietly."

  "Yeah, or you can tip him off—warn him so that he gets away. You don't work for me anymore, remember?" Brad­ley said. He nodded to Travis, who headed for the door, Tom Harper one step behind. "No, I want you to sit down right here in my office and stay until I receive word that McCoy is behind bars."

  "You can't keep me here," Lucy said tightly, her fear for Blue stronger and sharper than her concern for her per­sonal safety.

  "Yes, I can," Bradley said. "We can do it one of two ways. You can sit down nice and quiet, or I can have you arrested. Which will it be?"

  Lucy walked out into the hall, toward the front door. "Arrest me."

  "Have it your way," the chief said. He called down the hall, "Annabella, get Frank Redfield up here to arrest Lucy Tait."

  Lucy could see Annabella flipping frantically through her code book, trying to find an appropriate ten code for the situation. The dispatcher finally gave up and just picked up the phone.

  But Frank was already upstairs. He stepped out into the hallway in front of Lucy, blocking her exit out of the build­ing."

  "Come on, Lucy," he said. "Why do you want to make trouble for yourself?"

  "If you're arresting me," she said, "what are the charges?"

  "Attempted obstruction of justice," Chief Bradley vol­unteered.

  "That's ridiculous," Lucy said, turning to face him, "and you know it. You try arresting me for that. Just try it."

  She stepped around Frank, who looked down the hall at the chief, waiting for instruction. But the chief didn't say a word. He was silent as Lucy pushed open the door and went down the stairs into the hot morning sunshine.

  She'd called Bradley's bluff.

  Lucy ran for her truck, and started the engine with a roar even before she shut the door. She pulled out of the park­ing lot with a squeal of tires and headed up toward Fox Run Road, praying that she wasn't too late.

  Chapter 14

  Blue went out onto the porch as the police car pulled into the drive.

  Lucy was still downtown, and he recognized Travis Southeby behind the wheel. That wasn't good. But at least Tom Harper was with him. Tom had no doubt read all of his civil-rights handbook, while Travis had clearly skipped a few chapters.

  They'd come to arrest him. He knew that even before they got out of the car. And the two police officers got out of the car with almost comedic differences in style.

  Tom stood up and straightened his pants, nodding a greeting to Blue, c
losing the car door behind him.

  Travis drew his weapon, and, flinging his car door open and using it as a shield, he aimed his gun at Blue.

  "Blue McCoy, you are under arrest," he shrilly an­nounced.

  Tom glanced at Travis, then looked apologetically at Blue. "We've got to bring you in," he said. "We're making the charges official."

  "I didn't kill Gerry," Blue said evenly. "If I had, I would've been long gone."

  "Keep your hands where I can see 'em," Travis said sharply.

  Blue glanced back at Travis and his gun. "You're too far away to get an accurate aim with that thing," he said. "Put it away before you accidentally hurt someone." He turned back to Tom. "You're making a big mistake here. You're wasting your time on me while Gerry's real killer is running around free."

  Tom actually looked sorry as he snapped a pair of hand­cuffs on Blue. He quickly searched him as he recited Blue's Miranda rights.

  Travis approached, obviously keeping his hand close to his reholstered gun. "We've got enough evidence to put you away, McCoy," he said. "We've got a motive of jeal­ousy—"

  "That's total bull."

  "Is it really? I didn't think so. Chief didn't, either," Travis said. "We've got a witness who places you with the victim at the scene of the crime—-"

  "You've got a liar who's probably getting paid a small fortune to make up stories," Blue countered.

  "We've also got a hundred other witnesses who saw you threaten the victim earlier that evening. Are they all getting paid off, too?" Travis was enjoying this way too much.

  Tom opened the door to the patrol car, and Blue started to climb in. It wasn't easy with his hands bound together behind his back.

  "And," Travis said, playing his winning card with a flourish, "we've got military records that peg you as a mar­tial-arts expert and we've got our own local military scholar—of sorts—who will be called to testify that as a Navy SEAL martial-arts expert you have the knowledge and skill necessary to be able to break a man's neck the way Gerry's was broken."

  Blue straightened up. Was he talking about... ?