Breakpoint

by Ross, JoAnn

  “Because you were afraid to upset whatever balance your family had managed to create.”

  “That’s very good.” He smiled. “I loved my mother. I hated to see her unhappy or disoriented. So I spent most of my childhood walking around on eggshells, trying not to disturb her.”

  Julianne thought of Dallas. Wondered how many broken children had been trying to find their way through treacherous domestic waters when her greatest worry was that Merry had been prettier and more popular than she’d been.

  “I was lying in bed, staring out at the sky, when this full white moon floated by. Then, amazingly, it stopped right in the middle of my upstairs window. I stared at it for the longest time, until finally I was drawn downstairs and outside onto the lawn.

  “And as I stood there, bathed in its cool white glow, for the first time in my life I felt safe. Protected. I was preparing for my First Communion at the time, and I’d been studying all about guardian angels. But that night, I realized that all the pictures on the walls of my classrooms, of the heavenly beings with huge white wings, had gotten it wrong. Because my guardian angel was, indeed, the moon. Which was when I began sneaking out every night to spend time with Her.”

  “That’s nice—that you had something that gave you comfort.”

  “Someone,” he corrected gently. “Although at the time I had no concept of the Goddess. At any rate, She was what triggered my interest in science. I became obsessed with learning everything about Her. I read about the astronauts, ordered National Geographic so I could study the amazing pictures of the Sea of Tranquility, where the first astronauts had landed. And for a long time, I thought of becoming an astronaut, so I, too, could go to the moon.”

  “That’s quite an ambition.”

  “One I was forced to give up when I turned out to be horribly nearsighted,” he said, seemingly without regrets.

  “I was in my teens when I started having prophetic dreams. Most weren’t like in the movies; they were mundane. Like what was going to arrive in the mail. Or sometimes, and this was cool, what questions were going to be on a test the next day. These usually occurred during the full moon.”

  Julianne wished she’d paid more attention to those moon cycles on her wall calendar. Or at least, if Trivial Pursuit champ Dallas were here, he’d undoubtedly know where they were in the month. Since she didn’t have a clue, she was forced to ask.

  “What phase was the moon in on the night Lieutenant Murphy was killed?”

  “It was nearly at the end of its waning phase.”

  Waxing. Waning. Which was which? Julianne took a guess.

  “So it was nearing a new moon?” Which would have left the night dark when Manning disappeared.

  “Yes.” His expression, which had been so matter-of-fact when she and Dallas had spoken with him the first time, was so devastated it nearly made her want to weep.

  “Which means you didn’t have any prophetic dreams about her?”

  “Not that I can recall. But I did wake up two nights before her final flight with a terrible premonition that she was in trouble.”

  “Did you share that with her?”

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “And she laughed and said something along the lines of if I only knew.” He scrubbed both hands down his face. “I should have done something. Paid more attention. Focused more. But we were getting ready for the Tiger Cruise. Civilians are often more likely to get sea-sick. And, of course, children, who are delightful plague carriers, often bring all sorts of viruses on board with them. So I was distracted.”

  “From what I’ve heard of the lieutenant, she wasn’t one to take advice from anyone,” Julianne suggested gently.

  “That’s true. But still.” Tears welled wetly in his eyes. “If I’d at least taken time to read the cards, they might have been more specific. I might have been able to warn her.”

  “I hate to ask this, because I can see that you’re hurting, but were you intimate with her?”

  “No. Not physically. That would have been taboo, given both our circumstances on the boat and my position as leader of our community. Also, despite what you may have heard about wild pagan ceremonies, I’m faithful to my wife. Who, by the way, I met at a moot to celebrate a sabbat while I was still in college.

  “At the time I couldn’t understand my feelings.Witches were female. Or so I thought. So I couldn’t be a witch. Unless, perhaps, I was gay. But that didn’t fit, because I was attracted to women. Then I wondered if I might be one of those men mistakenly born into a female’s body.

  “But my wife, who is an old soul, and wise beyond her current years in this realm, assured me that a witch was exactly what I was. As soon as I heard her affirmation, I felt positive and assured in a way I’d only ever felt beneath the moon.

  “She was also the one who convinced me, when I felt myself turning from astronomy to the biological sciences, that if I became a doctor, I wouldn’t have to end up like my father. That I could choose my own path toward helping others.”

  “Which led you to the Navy.”

  “And the deck of a ship. Where there are more stars and the moon appears larger than anywhere back on land. If this storm blows over before we reach Pearl, you and your partner ought to go out and take a walk on the flight deck. It can be a stunningly beautiful place.”

  “Deadly for some,” Julianne said.

  The smile that had accompanied his suggestion immediately faded, like a candle snuffed out by an icy wind. “Too true,” he agreed.

  “You’ve no idea who she’d slept with? Who might have wanted to kill her? Or the LSO?”

  “Not a clue. I’ve been racking my brain ever since it happened.”

  “Perhaps you’re trying too hard,” Julianne said. Although she had no knowledge of psychics, and wasn’t even sure she believed in them, she did believe that Roberts did. And maybe that would prove enough.

  “Maybe if you open up enough to let in the Goddess, or whatever or whoever it is who brings those dreams,” she suggested, “something will occur to you. Something that will help Agent O’Halloran and me bring the lieutenant peace.”

  She might not have Dallas’s empathy, but Julianne thought she’d hit the right mark when she viewed the hope that suddenly flared in his blue eyes.

  As she left the medical ward, she allowed herself a faint flicker of hope that just maybe she was getting closer to bringing the dead pilot, if not eternal peace, then at least justice.

  48

  Five minutes after joining the captain and the admiral in the flag mess, Dallas was wishing he’d just gone for Mexican night in the enlisted men’s mess.

  Photos of various dignitaries and uniformed guys he guessed were other admirals were lined up on walls painted the color of gold sand.The President of the United States held the spot of honor in the center of the wall.

  The tables were covered in snowy cloth tablecloths, the napkins were scarlet, the silverware looked and felt like real sterling, the crystal sparkled, and the china, with the blue and gold O’Halloran’s crest in the center—and didn’t that seem weird eating on a plate with his family name on it—was porcelain.

  Instead of his going through the steam line, a small menu sat beside his plate. Since he’d had steak for lunch, and Uncle Sam was paying the bill, he checked off the corn chowder, lobster tail, double-baked potatoes, and glazed carrots, finishing up with pie.

  When the snappily attired culinary specialist (the Navy, he discovered, had ditched the term “cook”) delivered the chowder, spiced with red pepper and worthy of being served in the snazziest of restaurants, he decided that perhaps putting up with such rigid stuffiness might just beat the chimis and tacos being served two decks up.

  “This is quite the setup,” he said, glancing around.

  The admiral, despite their reason for being on the ship, had greeted them effusively, then spent a good ten minutes catching up on Julianne’s family, leaving him and the captain, along with the CDO, who’d a
lso been invited to eat with them, to pretty much stare across the table at one another.

  “Serving delicious, healthy foods aboard a ship every day is a challenge,” Captain Ramsey said. “But since a well-fed sailor is a happy sailor, our culinary crew strives for five-star quality. We also have an ethnic night each month, to help fight homesickness. Last month was Middle Eastern, which many of our Muslims on board claimed was better than their own mothers prepared.”

  “I can see how food would be important to morale,” Dallas allowed. “Though if I was pissed about what LT Murphy wrote on her ordnance, I’m not real sure a better-than-Mom-made falafel would smooth things over.”

  “That was unfortunate,” Ramsey said. “And while some might have been offended, I strongly doubt anyone would have killed her over it. The O’Halloran is a very cohesive ship. The best I’ve ever served on.”

  If he did say so himself. Deciding they weren’t going to get anywhere, Dallas shifted the subject.

  “I hate to say it, but most of the guys I’ve worked with over the years would probably go postal if they had to stay aboard any ship, even one as cool as this for—what is it now for the O’Halloran, three hundred days?”

  “Three hundred and four tomorrow,” the captain said. “But, of course, they haven’t been aboard the entire time. They did have occasional shore leave.”

  “Good sailors don’t count the days,” Admiral Miller said. “Instead, they make the days count.”

  “Yeah, I saw that sign.” It’d be hard to miss, since it was posted all over the ship.

  His meal might not be pheasant under glass, but there was no way Dallas could fault the lobster tail dripping with warmed butter.

  As if work topics had been declared off-limits, the conversation turned to life at sea, with the admiral sharing some colorful stories, while the captain kept casting glances at the phone placed at his right side. Waiting, Dallas suspected, for news about the missing LSO, whom the helicopters had continued to search for after the planes had been brought in.

  Speaking of which, after the plates had been taken away, and dessert and a very fine French roast coffee served, he decided it was time to get down to business.

  “Agent Decatur and I are going to need your cooperation about something we’d like to do,” he said.

  The captain glanced up from pouring cream into his cup. “And what would that be?”

  “We’d like to take DNA samples.”

  The spoon clanked against the gilt rim as the obviously startled captain stared at him. “You’re not serious. That would be impossible.”

  “Not everyone,” Julianne jumped in. “Just a few individuals we believe Lieutenant Murphy may have been intimate with. Given that she was pregnant.”

  Neither man looked all that surprised, revealing that the grapevine was working at full speed.

  “The scuttlebutt is that she had some relationship going on with the missing LSO,” the admiral said.

  “I’ve heard the same thing,” Julianne said. “And I’m hoping we can find some hair in his brush, or—”

  “LSO Manning was bald,” Ramsey said.

  “Maybe his toothbrush bristles,” she suggested, refusing to be deterred by his sharp tone. “I’ve used that as evidence in a rape case before, when I was a JAG officer.”

  “I suppose we could allow that,” the admiral said, apparently either forgetting or overlooking the fact that technically, even though they were civilians, Dallas and Julianne outranked him on this issue.

  “We’ll also want swabs from the doctor, her minister, Lieutenant Ford—”

  “You’re accusing her female roommate of impregnating her?” CDO Wright asked, not bothering to restrain his sarcasm.

  “No. But her death could have involved more than one person, and an autopsy may show skin beneath her fingernails or somewhere else on her body.”

  Juls was morphing into the JAG Ice Bitch before Dallas’s eyes, and the transformation was fascinating. A little scary. But fascinating nonetheless.

  “Also, Captain Campbell.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Ramsey said. “The captain’s wife gave birth to their first child four months ago. You can’t be suggesting he was having sex with another woman while his wife was pregnant.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. And they did spend a great deal of time together.”

  “He’s a squadron skipper. The captain was not only her superior officer, he was her mentor.”

  “Neither of those things precludes him from being her lover.”

  “He has a flight tomorrow afternoon. A performance, actually, to welcome the Tiger Cruise participants. His wife will be one of those coming aboard. I do not want him disturbed.”

  Julianne gave him what Dallas had come to think of as “the Look” over the rim of her own cup. Having been on the receiving end of that icy eyeball, Dallas was surprised the skipper wasn’t suddenly covered in frost.

  “We need to speak with him,” she said firmly. “He hasn’t been making himself available. I’m sure, as captain, you can facilitate that. And we’d like to take a swab.”

  It was an order, and everyone in the room knew it.

  “Hell, why don’t you just take one from me while you’re at it,” CDO Wright said. “I’d probably talked to her sometime during the week she died. Surely that puts me on your suspect list.”

  “Or me,” Admiral Miller said. “Or Captain Ramsey.”

  She inclined her head. “That could be arranged.”

  “This is ridiculous,” the captain almost blustered. “If it’ll put an end to this witch hunt, I’ll speak with Campbell. Ask him to cooperate. But believe me, you’re wasting your time. And the government’s money.”

  “Given the Pentagon’s budget, a few DNA tests aren’t exactly going to break the bank,” Dallas said.

  “It’s not Campbell,” the captain insisted. “I’d bet my command on it.”

  “That’s not necessary.” Having gotten her way, Julianne smoothed the edge from her tone. “Asking the captain to cooperate will be sufficient.”

  The convivial mood had been shattered. Even the mess server, who’d been hovering a few feet away, prepared to leap forward and refill glasses or cups, seemed to realize it as he moved forward to clear the dessert plates. Julianne had chosen chocolate cake, which had reminded Dallas—and his dick—of his earlier fantasy, while he and other men had opted for the hot apple pie à la mode.

  “I believe,” Dallas said as they left the mess together, only to find the ever-present ensign hovering outside, waiting for them, “that’s one more Christmas party we’d better not hold our breath waiting to be invited to.”

  “It’s necessary,” she insisted.

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t. I was, however, impressed by your brass balls. Not many people—male or female—would be able to face down a cadre of military bigwigs like you just did.”

  She shrugged shoulders clad in a crisp white dress uniform. He’d worn his dress blues and liked to think that he’d caught her sneaking a couple of admiring looks his way during her earlier catching-up chat with the admiral.

  “Justice doesn’t recognize rank.”

  He grinned. “Why did I just know you were going to say that?”

  She glanced up at him. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Never. To tell the truth, I’ve never been so serious in my life.”

  They exchanged a long, simmering look. Dallas had no idea how long it lasted, but it must have been a while, because the ensign, who’d been mostly silent as a clam the entire day, cleared his throat.

  “Where did they bunk you?” Dallas asked Julianne.

  “With Lieutenant Ford.”

  He lifted a brow. “That was lucky.”

  “I’ve always believed in making my own luck. When I realized she had an extra bunk, I asked for it. And voilà.”

  “Voilà, indeed. Maybe you’ll get even luckier and the LT will talk in her sleep and confess to murdering her
roommate for that locker space she claimed not to lust after.”

  “There’s not a woman in the world who ever has enough closets,” Julianne said. “Even me. But I doubt she’d kill for one. And that motive doesn’t explain the LSO.”

  “Who may have just fallen off the deck.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Sure. Right along with the Easter bunny, Santa Claus, and the tooth fairy.”

  They’d reached the hatch to the LT’s quarters. Dallas glanced behind him, where the ensign was hovering.

  “If you don’t want to be embarrassed, you might want to go over and examine that bulkhead,” he said, nodding his head toward the steel wall. “Make sure we’re not going to spring a leak anytime soon.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young man said. Then, amazingly, he crossed the small passageway and began staring with apparent fascination at the pipes and steel.

  “Our young friend may take things a bit literally,” Dallas said. “But, with the CDO going off duty, while I’ve got you as much to myself as I’m going to tonight, I’m going to seize the moment. So to speak.”

  The kiss was slow, deep, and possessive. It also left him hard as a pike.

  “You know what you said about making your own luck?” he murmured against her ear.

  “It was only a minute ago.”

  “I believe in the same thing.” He lifted her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Which is why, while you were off talking with your sister and interviewing the O’Halloran’s witch doctor—”

  “That’s terrible.” She amazed him by giggling just a little at that at the same time she used her free hand to lightly punch his upper arm.

  “Hey, if the magic wand fits . . . anyway, I went online and reserved the Kamehameha Suite—with early check-in—at the Royal Hawaiian.”

  “That’s got to cost a small fortune.” The historic hotel on Waikiki Beach, known locally as the Pink Palace of the Pacific, was every bit as extravagant as the del Coronado. Perhaps even more so, though she’d certainly never stayed there, either.

  “If Uncle Sam didn’t want the best for us, he shouldn’t have given us an unlimited credit card,” he said. “Besides, did I mention the private lanai? And the massive soaking tub with a view of the ocean?”