by James Glass
Nothing found. He’s either squeaky clean or nothing’s ever been documented. Sorry.
“Attention on deck!” a voice boomed through the doorway. I jumped to attention. Francisco, apparently not sure what to do, swept the small, white pieces of piled Styrofoam off the table. Then he noticed me and stood erect, his face red. I’d forgotten to tell him this would happen.
A tall, round-faced man wearing khakis stood inside the doorway. He was followed by a short, wiry man in a tropical white uniform with gold shoulder boards. He had a full head of hair the color of midnight, barely trimmed within military standards. His mustache was cut in a way that resembled Hitler’s. I could tell by the two stars on the shoulder boards this must be Rear Admiral William Williams.
Round-faced man turned and exited the room.
Williams took a seat at the head of the table and gestured us to sit. He grabbed a remote located on the corner of the table, turned to the television mounted in the back corner, switched the channel to ESPN, and muted the sound.
“So what can I do for you, detectives?” His eyes never wavered from the TV. The man wasn’t going to take anything we said serious. The idea of trying to bond with him, get some kind of rapport, didn’t seem like an option. This guy was a classic example of a narcissist.
Francisco looked at me for guidance. I shrugged. Neither one of us had ever conducted an interview or interrogation where the subject took control of the situation right away. We needed to take back control. In order to do this, the first question needed to be a shocker.
I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the table. “Eight years ago, in Gitmo, six detainees committed suicide.” His ears perked. “You negated a threat assessment by your investigators, bribed the defense lawyer, and sent an innocent man to prison. Why?”
He snatched the remote and shut the TV off. His face twisted with anger as he stood, almost at attention, his arms by his side with the remote still in one hand. I half expected a Nazi salute. “How dare you come to my command and accuse me of…of…any impropriety!” Spittle spewed from his lips and landed on the table. He pointed toward the door. “You can go now.”
I opened the file and shoved the copy of the bank transfer to the judge across the table. “That’s fine. We can leave, but unless you’re willing to speak to us, a copy of this will be sent to the media, NCIS, and JAG.” I slid a second sheet toward him. “This is a letter of reprimand you wrote on Commander Hogan, your executive officer in Gitmo. I’m sure your superiors would like to know why you decided not to open an Article 32 investigation. Why there wasn’t a court-martial, since homosexuality wasn’t conducive to good order in discipline at the time.”
Williams sat back down. He started to bite his fingernails, placing the clippings on the table. “What my actions were in regard to Gitmo and Commander Hogan are of no concern to you. That’s a military matter, and unless the laws have changed, and they haven’t, civilians don’t investigate military matters.”
What he didn’t know, and we weren’t going to tell him, was Carrubba had started the paperwork for an Article 32 investigation. Although the Navy couldn’t try Hogan at court-martial—now retired and a civilian, Williams could still be held accountable.
He used his fingers to place the trimmings in a small pile, picked one up, looked at it, and popped it into his mouth to chew on like gum. The man was weird.
His dark eyes locked onto mine. “This so-called proof I see before me wouldn’t change a thing from what happened back then. You see, I’m a highly decorated officer and…” he gestured with a finger “…and these are documents that could’ve been altered.” His lips curled up. The man seemed to be enjoying himself, despite the evidence.
“You’re right,” I said. “We don’t have the authority to investigate military crimes. However, the man you put away, Dexter Allen, has been on a killing spree. Seems you pissed off the wrong guy. And now, he’s coming for you.” I waited to see his reaction. Nothing. “I know it sounds cliché, like a scene from a horror movie, but I assure you, if you don’t come clean with us, we can’t protect you.”
A woman old enough to draw social security ten years ago entered the room carrying a silver tray with three white porcelain cups and a white pitcher. Steam wafted as she poured coffee into one of the cups. The aroma filled my nostrils. She gestured the pitcher toward Francisco and me, but we declined. She gave us a thin smile before retreating from the room.
I received another text message. This one from Veronica.
The judge will make his ruling tomorrow morning @ 9. C U then.
The admiral picked up another clipping and ate it. I don’t know if he was doing this to try and disgust us or if it was some kind of nervous twitch.
“I don’t need your protection,” he said with conviction. “My house is on this base which is protected by the world’s mightiest Navy twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three-hundred-sixty-five days a year.” He paused as if to make sure we got the point. With a smug look on his face he said, “So you and your goon here can get your things and leave.”
Francisco stood, towering his six-five frame over the admiral, who didn’t even look intimidated. Williams went to reach for another trimming, but my partner used his big mitt to sweep the remainder to the floor.
Chapter 39
5:30 p. m.
All I wanted to do was go home and sleep for days. My body ached, but Francisco and I went back to the office to try to figure out where Dexter Allen might be. The all-points-bulletin turned up zilch across the country. The man simply stayed under the radar. As long as he didn’t use credit cards, ATMs, or anything that could be used to track him, he’d remain at large. After the nightmare he’d put me and my aunties through, I wanted to kill him myself.
We called Ned Hogan. The man was hostile on the phone, spouting obscenities and claiming we had turned his life upside down. A simple thank you for keeping him alive would have sufficed, but it didn’t happen.
Carrubba walked in; McVay followed. They both smiled.
“We got him,” the lieutenant said.
Francisco took his feet off the desk and leaned forward in his chair. “Hogan and Williams?”
Carrubba shook his head. “We can’t touch Hogan. He’s a civilian and even if we could activate him for a court-martial, which we can’t, he retired with over 30 years of service.”
McVay briskly walked over, almost skipping. His yellow tie had a large smiley face in the middle. It didn’t match his lime green pants and beige sports coat. I wondered if he let his four-year-old daughter dress him in the mornings. He smacked me on the back. “But we have Admiral Williams. Carrubba generated an Article 32 investigation this morning. JAG is going to pursue it further. Although the military can’t bring charges against Hogan, they can bring him in to testify.”
Carrubba forced himself between me and the lieutenant. “After talking with him today, what do you think the chances are he’ll take a plea?”
“Zilch,” I said. “Williams is too preoccupied with himself. Thinks he’s the smartest one in the room.”
Carrubba rubbed his chin. “Well, maybe this will bring him down a notch or two.”
My cell chirped. It was Boston PD.
“Sorry, I gotta take this.” I stepped away.
“Rebecca, this is Roger Bell. I wanted to be the first to tell you we’re bringing charges against Kyle Moore.”
“Did he confess to you?”
“He didn’t but his partner, Chris Jenkins, from back then did. The man’s dying of prostate cancer and wanted to come clean, I guess. Anyway, he admitted your mother approached him and his partner about getting a big payday if they were to kill her husband… your father. Jenkins and your mom were seeing each other back then.”
“And you got his statement?”
“Signed, sealed and delivered. But there’s one problem.”
My heart dropped to my knees. Did this mean my mother could walk away from my father’s murder? Nausea crept
up at the thought.
“His statement may not be admissible in court because he’s under so much medication. My DA is afraid the judge will say we coerced the confession.”
Not what I wanted to hear.
“But there’s a bit of an unseen benefit.”
“What does that even mean? Unseen benefit.”
“I brought Kyle Moore back to the station, this time as a suspect and read him his rights. Said his partner threw him under the bus, that killing your dad was his plan and that your mother promised a big pay day.”
“Did you get a reaction?”
“Not right away. He knew I was fishing until I told him about the one-hundred-thousand-dollar payday he received in his bank account shortly after your father’s homicide.”
“What did he have to say to that?”
“His eyes darted to the floor. Not the first criminal to stall for an answer. After several long seconds, he told me he wanted a lawyer. He’s smart enough to know when to stay quiet.”
“What are you planning next?”
“We’ve rattled his cage, but we need more to make him cooperate.”
“Like a deal?”
“I’m not ready to go there. Yet.”
I was happy to hear him say that. I wanted all parties involved to pay a steep price from the murder of my father. Jenkins would be dead soon from cancer. I hoped what time he had left was in intense, unyielding agony.
He paused. “Do you know where your mother’s residing? The address she has listed on her driver’s license was sold a month ago. Post office said she didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
“She’s here. Not sure where, but I know where she’ll be in the morning.”
“Yeah? Where?”
“I’ve got court in the morning. Her new man is probably going back to prison, so she’ll be sitting behind him.”
“Okay. I have an idea. But I need you to do something.”
“Name it.”
He told me his plan. It had to work, otherwise my mother and Moore might very well get away with murder.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m in, but I need you to fax me everything you have.”
“You’ll have it by morning.”
“And Roger. For what it’s worth, no matter the outcome. Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
I disconnected. My thoughts turned to my therapist. She had told me numerous times I might find closure once those who murdered my father were brought to justice. My answer always remained the same. Justice will only be served when the killer is rotting in the ground. Apparently, my therapist believed I had a lot of pent-up anger issues to work out. She might be right.
My stomach rumbled. It was loud. Everyone stopped their conversations and stared at me.
McVay smiled. “C’mon. Let’s go celebrate. First round’s on me.”
Chapter 40
Tuesday, 12:30 a. m.
The drinks kept coming. My head buzzed as the alcohol swarmed through my body. For the first time in a long time, I let my guard down. Francisco kept stealing glances at me. Whenever I’d catch him, he’d look away like a child caught stealing a cookie. It was cute.
Each time it was his turn to buy a round, his fingers caressed my hand, sending waves of endorphins through my body. Several times he smiled as my face flushed, not from the alcohol, but from his touch. Either Carrubba or McVay didn’t notice or didn’t care. It seemed my professional relationship with Francisco was spilling over into a personal one. Although my mind kept telling me this wouldn’t work, my body didn’t care. The last time I had sex was with Michael, more than two years ago. My body longed to change that.
The bar, a local favorite of the police force, was pretty dead tonight. Then again, it was a Monday night. I glanced at my watch. Okay, Tuesday morning.
“This is my final drink,” Carrubba slurred. “I called a cab, if anyone needs a ride. It should be here soon.” He downed the last remnants of his whiskey on the rocks.
“I do,” the lieutenant said. His head nodded back and forth like a bobble head.
“Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?”
He stared at me, a bit woozy. “Sure.”
“Who dresses you?”
Carrubba and Francisco looked away. Had I asked something inappropriate? Something against the bro-code?
McVay burped. “Why? Something wrong with the way I dress?”
“Do you get your color coordination from a five-year-old blind boy?” Did that even make sense?
His eyes narrowed. He slammed a fist on the tabletop. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
My heart pounded in my ears. “I’m so sorry. I tend to put my foot in my mouth.”
He smiled. “Gotcha.”
Everyone laughed.
I raised my beer in the air and made a toast. “To the Lieutenant. If nothing else, you’re one of a kind.”
We all clanked bottles.
I caught Francisco staring at me but this time his eyes didn’t avert from mine. They seemed to be locked onto me the way a lion does when it catches sight of its next meal. My body tingled all over. I never thought a man could look so good. Look so delicious.
Carrubba and McVay stood and wobbled to the door.
“I’m glad they’re not going to be driving home,” I said, making small talk.
Francisco reached across the table and took my hand into his. “You want to get out of here?”
Guess my small talk worked. I wanted to get out of here an hour ago.
“Yes. Let’s go to your place,” I said. My aunts were still at mine. Had I been so obvious or did the alcohol make me bolder, or stupider? Was that even a word? Stupider? Sounded like the bastard child of Jupiter. The things we come up with when we’re drunk.
“My place is closer, Rebecca.”
“Okay. Wait,” I said, raising a finger in the air as if I had some point to make. He arched a brow. Damn he looked good. Like the Rock. Or did he strictly go by, damn, what was his name again…? What the hell was I thinking about? Oh yeah. “I’ve been your partner for three years and I’ve never seen your place.”
He shrugged. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Well then, guess tonight’s your lucky night.”
I pointed my finger at him. No, tonight’s your lucky night.
My eyes felt heavy. I rested my head on my arm. Sleep seemed good about now. Don’t fall asleep, Rebecca. Must wake up.
“Are you okay, Rebecca?”
“Yup. Just need a little air.” I looked around the empty bar. “Feels a bit stuffy in here.”
“Are you sure you want to come back to my place?” he asked in a calm voice.
“Yup. I’m okay.” Dizziness circled my head like a swarm of mosquitoes. I felt a little queasy. I jabbed my finger into his chest. “Are you,” I hiccupped, “okay?”
Francisco winked at me. “I’ve been nursing my last drink for two hours. I’m fine.”
I set my beer on the table. “Then let’s get out of here.”
****
Francisco had a beautiful house inside a gated community. Probably bought by the money he'd made as a wide receiver for the Miami Dolphins. Although he'd only played three years before the knee injury ended his career, the money must have been pretty good—even for a third stringer.
The living room was spacious, decorated with beautiful paintings, colorful furniture, and the biggest fish tank I’d ever seen, mounted in one of the walls. I was mesmerized by the rainbow color of fish. We entered a large kitchen. He pulled out two beers from the fridge and handed me one.
We clanked bottles. “So what do you think of my humble abode?”
“Very nice.”
I set my beer on the counter and ran my fingers up his arm. His skin was warm and softer than I had imagined. My emotions had been in overdrive since the bar. Well, actually long before then. Sexual intercourse with another person seemed hard to fathom, but at the moment I felt very comfortable around this m
an, not vulnerable. I wasn’t sure why. Could the alcohol be the reason behind these feelings? Had I gotten drunk to numb the emotional impact? I hoped not. These feelings seemed genuine…and right.
Please let this be right.
He bent over and kissed me hard, pressing his body against mine. Electricity shot up my back. “I want you,” I whispered. The words felt so right. My body tingled. Delight didn’t even begin to express my desire at the moment. Maybe it was euphoria.
Francisco swooped me into his arms and carried me out of the kitchen, across the living room and up the stairs.
Moonlight seeped through the wooden blinds in a window along the west wall illuminating a dark comforter on a four-poster bed. Francisco laid me on the bed and started undressing. My eyes couldn’t—or wouldn’t—look away. I wanted to be ravaged by this man.
I knew we were running full speed into a dead end, but at the moment I didn’t care.
He removed his boxers and I stared for what seemed like an eternity. Maybe it was.
“Like what you see?” he asked, dancing a little jig.
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” He blushed.
“It’s nothing.” I hoped my laugh hadn’t spoiled the mood.
“It must be something. You laughed. What is it?”
Men look so silly when they’re naked. I mean they have this appendage that makes all men look silly, albeit, he had a large one.
I shrugged. “It’s nothing, really. Must be the beer.”
He smiled then moved closer, touching my shoulder, his warm breath on my neck. Goosebumps formed as I struggled to get my clothes off. Francisco jumped in to lend a helping hand, then leaned back and gazed at my nakedness in the moonlight.
“You’re so beautiful, Rebecca.”
Before I could respond, he smothered me with a kiss and the backs of my knees hit the side of the bed. We toppled onto it as his hands gently squeezed my breasts, fingers caressing my nipples. I moaned in pleasure. His lips moved to my neck, then my breasts and down to my stomach before stopping at their ultimate destination between my legs. My hands raked through his hair, tugging softly at first. His tongue felt so warm and soft inside me. As I was about to climax, he pulled away, teasing me. His did this several times. Then my body stiffened, fingers digging into his hair and pulling tight. My toes curled as the orgasm sent me into a euphoria I had never known existed.