Chase couldn’t imagine Okamoto married to such a woman. Everything about him, from his starched white shirt and plain black tie to his black-rimmed glasses that reminded her of those given to recruits during boot camp, signaled no-nonsense.
He added, “We met at a Halloween party. Can you believe that?”
“Maybe that’s why she celebrates Halloween.”
A chuckle escaped him. “You know, you could be right.” He stretched across his desk for a file. “Let’s talk about your Jeep.” He opened, then closed the file, and tossed it back onto the desk. “According to our mechanics, there’s a slice in the brake fluid line that would have led to failure. Whether this was done intentionally we can’t determine. In other words, there’s no conclusive evidence that anyone tampered with your brakes.”
“Okay,” she said, already halfway out of the chair he’d just indicated for her to take. “Will you take care of sending my Jeep back to the body shop, please?”
“Not so fast,” he said, gesturing her back into the chair. “There’s no mistaking that the loss of fluid caused brake failure. Do you remember running over anything in the road last week that might have damaged the brake line?”
“No.” She collected her purse and the candy, and set both on her lap.
Okamoto leaned against his desk and folded his arms. “I think I’m beginning to agree with my friend Paul Shapiro.”
“About what?”
“That you could be in danger.” Okamoto had assumed the persona of the detective he was. The friendly chitchat about wife, son, and trick-or-treating—all gone. She tried to picture him as he might be later that night, following close behind his young son and warning about not eating anything until they returned home where he’d spread the loot on the table or on the living room floor and scrupulously inspect each piece. Then again, she could imagine Okamoto as the sort who’d throw away everything his son brought home behind the child’s back and replace it with candy he’d bought himself. Or maybe that’s just because that was what she was tempted to do each year. If not for base housing and the sense of trust she felt there, had felt there, she wouldn’t allow Molly to even leave the house.
For a brief moment, she considered confessing all she knew about Hickman and Farris and the 81 helicopter they were protecting. But Okamoto was a civilian. Even if she did tell him everything, he could do little—no, nothing—about it. This was a military matter that needed to be handled by the military. O’Donnell hadn’t acted as if she were in any sort of danger. Stone was the one who had placed himself in a precarious position, not her. What she didn’t understand was why O’Donnell hadn’t just contacted Major Sims himself, rather than contact General Armstrong. Too many questions were pinging around and around in her brain, and all the while she was struggling to maintain a certain controlled façade before Detective Okamoto. What would he say if she were to blurt out that Colonel Figueredo had confessed to breaking into her home for White’s dog tags and might have been the last person to see Melanie Appleton—his lover, by the way—alive? Maybe O’Donnell and Figueredo weren’t ready to report their findings to N.I.S. authorities or to Major Sims, but she was. And then she thought of Molly and what impact Stone’s relationship with Tony White might have on her.
Okamoto was now drumming three fingers on his desk. “Tell me something, are you and Colonel Figueredo … involved?”
“Good heavens, no.” Involved was not the word she would have chosen. However, her mind flashed back to what O’Donnell had said in the commissary, about Figueredo having feelings for her, and she thought also to last evening, to Figueredo’s hands on her in the kitchen, of his pinning her against the sink, and under Okamoto’s keen stare, she felt the rush of heat in her cheeks. “Why do you ask?”
Okamoto raised one eyebrow. “Someone is obviously out to hurt you.”
“But why insinuate the colonel?” And here she was, defending the very man who just the night before had nearly raped her in her own kitchen. If O’Donnell thought Figueredo had fallen in love with her, he had an awfully skewed idea of love.
Okamoto’s hands had formed a steeple beneath his chin, and his voice took on a reverent tone. “I’m just trying to put together the pieces, Captain Anderson. Do you know him well?”
She thought about what she’d just learned about Stone, about the sham of a marriage they’d had. “How well do we know anyone, Detective?”
On the way back to the office, she’d placed a half-dozen calls to Shapiro, leaving a voice mail request on the last call, pleading for him to call back A-SAP. She’d decided on the walk back to her car at the HP headquarters garage that perhaps she should slow Shapiro down until she had time to talk all this over with Figueredo. She still didn’t trust the colonel a hundred percent. After all, the man had broken into her home for White’s dog tags. Yes, she could grant there was a reason, but he’d practically assaulted her while Molly slept down the hall. Colonel Figueredo was arrogant and, apparently, too used to getting everything he wanted.
Back in the office that afternoon during one of Cruise’s meticulous briefs, Chase had to feign interest about the upcoming issue of the Hawaii Marine. When North reminded Chase of the final Marine Corps Ball practice at 464 in an hour, she’d nearly snapped at him. “What happened at HP, Ma’am?” North asked, slowly closing her office door to ensure privacy.”
She told him about O’Donnell surprising her at the commissary, though she omitted the truth about how Stone had been blackmailed. North was leaning with both palms pressed flat on her desk, his head cocked slightly right as he listened intently. “Apparently General Armstrong is the one who initiated a secret investigation.” At the mention of Armstrong’s name, North’s eyebrows lifted. “I know,” she said, reading his mind. “Seems O’Donnell and Colonel Figueredo know about me and Armstrong. I don’t know how. Can’t imagine the general would have placed himself in such a court-martial situation, but then again, when has Armstrong ever been afraid of anything?” North nodded, and she knew they were both thinking of the two Silver Stars on Armstrong’s chest.
“Did you tell Major O’Donnell about … your run-in with Colonel Fig last night?”
“Yeah. He seems….” and here she hesitated. “I don’t think O’Donnell believed me,” she finally said and an aggravated North let his head drop lower over her desk. His shoulder blades were sharp angles that pointed toward the ceiling. She hadn’t realized how thin he’d gotten, and on the crown of his head was the faintest beginning of North’s future as a balding, older man. Given what they’d been through in Fallujah, though, it was a miracle either of them had any hair left.
He looked up. “What about your Jeep?”
“Inconclusive, according to Detective Okamoto. But he still believes I’m in some sort of danger.”
“Have you already put your plan in motion?”
She nodded. “I may have moved too fast,” she said as much to herself as to North. “N.I.S.?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. Armstrong wanted this thing quiet for a reason, and Figueredo and O’Donnell have been uncovering what they can. I suppose when they have enough, they’ll contact the authorities.”
“Question: what makes you think you can trust either of them, ma’am? What makes you think they’re not a part of this whole thing? What if O’Donnell is bluffing you? Look at Colonel Fig’s actions last night. Let’s look at what he told you about having a relationship with Shapiro’s sister. Let’s look….” North was now pacing her office, and struggling to keep his voice low. “Let’s look at Colonel Fig’s admission that he broke into your house for the dog tags. What if you’re being set up and we just haven’t put all the pieces together yet?”
He could be right, she thought. There were too many inconsistencies of behavior and actions on nearly everyone’s part, on O’Donnell’s, Figueredo’s, Hickman’s, and Farris’. Maybe she would call Major Sims and unload what she knew—let the chips fall, so to speak.
They finally agreed that they couldn’t solve anything
for the time being. Chase, breaking under the silent pressure of waiting for Shapiro’s call decided to walk to the cantina in the next building for a soda. She took along her cell phone, though after the discussion with North, she was uncertain what she’d even say now to the reporter. Truth was, she was mentally and emotionally spent. Between a near sleepless night and the shocking revelation about Stone, all she really wanted to do was crawl under the covers for the next ten years or so.
She jumped when her cell phone rang. It was North with a ring of the ominous in his tone. “Ma’am, General Hickman wants to see you A-SAP.”
“Did he say why?” Two young Marines had burst from the cantina, and sobered themselves when they saw an officer, rendering Chase snappy salutes. She returned a salute.
“He didn’t say, ma’am. Just said that you were to report to him ‘A-SAP.’ I’ll head over to 464 and cover for you at the ceremony practice.”
The parking lot that afternoon at headquarters was already thinning by the time she arrived. Inside, she tried not to nervously clomp in her high heels down the long, narrow polished corridor. This was the first meeting with Hickman since she’d learned the truth about his involvement in the 81 cover-up. Of course, he wouldn’t know what she knew, so the idea was to play this visit as she would any other. However, when Chase reached O’Donnell’s office, she noticed that the major’s nameplate had been removed. This was an ominous sign, one that nearly caused her to retreat back down the hallway, but the door to Hickman’s office was open, and she could tell from the shadow she saw moving from the doorframe that he most likely knew she was in the building. In the outer office, the one leading into the general’s, the aide was nowhere to be found, so she rapped on the doorframe, entering when he called out.
Chase smartly reported at the position of attention before the general’s desk. Hickman motioned her toward the sitting area. Her stomach was fluttering and she settled on the edge of a chair. Hickman, she thought, looked tired, as if he, too, had spent a sleepless night. He joined her at the sitting area but remained standing behind one of his wingback chairs with his arms folded across his chest.
“Captain Anderson,” he finally said, “I’ve decided to fire you as my base public affairs officer.”
For a moment, it seemed as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Fired. Fired. The word seared through her brain. He added, “You’re one of those people who just won’t play by the rules.” His silver eyebrows had knitted into one long, crooked line. His face was red and swollen, the way her father’s had been during those drinking years.
She rose to her feet on shaky legs. “What reason will you offer headquarters?” Her tone had a purposeful patronizing quality, and when she saw the flash of anger in his eyes, she found herself wishing for the return of Hickman’s aide.
“For one, I’ve never tolerated disloyalty among my staff….”
He’d paused for an obvious reaction, so she gave him one. “Of course, you realize I’ll use the chain of command to explain my side of these events, when word gets out.”
The wingback chair and the seven feet between them disappeared when Hickman rushed her with a pointed finger so close to her face she flinched and recoiled against the back of the sofa. “You’re nothing but a cunt!” he shouted. “Women like you are all the same!”
“Am I dismissed, General, or should I call on your aide to witness the rest of this conversation?”
He leaned in closer. He smelled of booze, sour. “Get the fuck out of here!” he whispered.
She slid across the cushion of the sofa, and once on her feet again, plowed through the thick carpet in her high heels, making it halfway to the door before he grabbed her arm. He yanked her to his chest. “I hear you have a thing for stars,” he said. She tried to pull away from him. “Don’t bother contacting Armstrong, Chase.” At the sound of Armstrong’s name that seemed to reverberate throughout Hickman’s office, she stopped struggling. So Hickman knew too. Which meant Hickman probably knew about the secret investigation, as well, unless Figueredo had also been swayed by a promise from Hickman.
Hickman had pinned both arms behind her back. “One star just not enough for you, Anderson?” His mouth was on her neck.
“Stop it,” she shouted, hoping the aide had returned to the outer office. She managed to free herself and pushed Hickman across the room.
She was scrambling for the door when he shouted, “Who do you think recommended me to National AeroStar? I doubt I could have nailed it without Armstrong’s endorsement!” At the door she turned to see him smiling. His red cheeks were bloated.
“Chase, Chase …” He was now settling into the leather chair behind his desk. “I always knew you’d strike out. Women like you always do in the end.”
Rage coursed through her. “Women like me? Women like me? Is this what they teach at the Naval Academy, sir? I’m just asking since both you and Armstrong went to Annapolis.”
Hickman gripped both armrests. “Get out of here.”
“Call this one a strikeout, General, but the game’s hardly over. There’s more fight left in a player who has nothing to lose.” She was staring him down and he looked pathetic in his fancy office chair. She’d never seen him in anything but a uniform, and suddenly she was imagining him stripped of those stars on his collar. How ordinary he would be without them.
She turned for the door and heard him say, “Don’t take it too hard, Chase, about Armstrong not coming to your rescue. No woman can compete with a third star. You know, he could go all the—” She closed the door on the rest of it.
As if Marines had been warned this was not the evening to linger around headquarters after work for chatter or to even catch up on work, the building appeared to have been abandoned. There was no trace of Hickman’s aide, no ringing phones, no tapping of keyboards, only the clicking of Chase’s high heels down the long, lonely corridor.
Halfway, she removed her shoes and ran.
CHAPTER 18
She’d stopped by the office just long enough to retrieve the Halloween candy and to report to North what had happened, but everyone had closed up shop for an evening of trick-or-treating, and she remembered that North was most likely still at 464 for the Marine Corps Ball practice. She was still trying to determine what it meant exactly to be fired by Hickman, a man who was himself about to be fired. That is, as soon as she contacted N.I.S. She maneuvered the rental car past the soccer fields and up the hill past the Officers’ Club toward base housing, passing home after home that was Halloween decorated with skeletons dangling from the monkey pod trees, fake spider webs over fat hibiscus bushes, pumpkins with carved out spooky faces on the porches, and paper lanterns already glowing with candles along the walkways. She’d never gotten around to buying, much less carving, a pumpkin. With her home sandwiched between the all-out efforts of Paige and the thrown-together attempt of Samantha’s, Chase’s total lack of effort seemed to send a rebellious signal against the whole notion of Halloween. She wondered if Molly noticed such things, and Chase vowed she’d do better at Christmas. “I am the one you can count on, Molly,” she whispered aloud.
Samantha had picked up all three girls from the aftercare, and Molly, barefoot and wearing the raffia hula skirt and a bright pink bathing suit top, burst from Samantha’s house as soon as Chase pulled into the driveway. “It’s almost time,” she chimed, and twirled in the front yard for Chase’s inspection.
“You look just like a hula doll,” Chase said. “But you have to wear shoes.”
“That’s what Miss Samantha said, too.” Each word had been uttered through a giggle.
“I’m thinking your pink sandals.”
“Okay,” Molly shouted, and ran from the yard. Chase could hear the footsteps thudding down the hallway, heard the slide of the closet door and the bang against the door jamb.
In the kitchen, Chase was preparing her daughter a sandwich, though she doubted in Molly’s current state of excitement, she’d get her to eat more than a few bite
s.
Molly had run back into the kitchen, this time in sandals.
“Where’s your lei?” Chase asked, and the child dramatically threw up her hands, and raced back toward her bedroom. “And stop running before you fall and hurt yourself.”
Chase was rinsing mayonnaise from the knife when she glanced out the window above the sink. “Molly,” she shouted. “How did the back gate get open?” But if Molly heard, she never responded, and before Chase could ask again, her cell phone rang. It was Sergeant Cruise. “Ma’am, I’ve got duty tonight and just arrived. Thought you might want to know that another 81 went down today, in Afghanistan. I’m thinking I might get a call or two from the media since our crash is so recent. Have we got a statement on this?”
“Survivors?” she asked, drying her hands with the dishcloth.
“No, ma’am. They’re already blaming it on the conditions—sand and dust.” Molly, like a bag of cherry bombs, exploded into the kitchen. “Don’t forget to put a flower in my hair.” She was holding up a hairpin and an orange hibiscus bloom that Chase recognized from the tree outside their front door. “Behind my right ear.”
Chase draped her daughter’s hair behind an ear, tucked the stem of the flower out of sight, and pinned. She stepped back to examine; forced a smile. “Go look,” she urged, and when Molly was down the hall, said to Cruise, “If you get any calls, just confirm the crash and be prepared to read whatever release headquarters has extended. Don’t let yourself get dragged into any sort of speculation.”
“Aye-aye, ma’am.”
“Did North make it back to the office?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. Probably went on home after the ceremony practice. They were still at it when I left to grab chow a few minutes ago.”
“Call him and tell him about this latest crash, and tell him I’m home from my meeting with Hickman….” She could hear Molly returning up the hallway. “Ask North to call me about 1900. That’ll give me time to settle Molly down after taking her trick-or-treating.”
An Unlawful Order (The Chase Anderson Series) Page 24