Duty and Dishonor

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Duty and Dishonor Page 12

by Merline Lovelace


  “In case you haven’t noticed,” Julia responded dryly, “I’m under the bed, not in it.”

  She shoved the mattress aside and sat up, wincing at the pull of the heavy flak vest on her stiff shoulders. “How long have you been here?”

  “A couple of hours.”

  He’d sat beside her for several hours? While she slept? The idea raised goose bumps on Julia’s arms.

  He read her thoughts exactly. “Don’t worry, Endicott. I looked, but I didn’t touch. Not with Lassiter in the next room.”

  His grin faded. For a fleeting moment, the other Gabe surfaced, the one he rarely showed the world. Hard. Determined. Eyes glittering like the ruthless predator he was named for.

  “We both know, though, that the time’s coming when I will."

  In that instant, the tension between her and Hunter was stripped down to its most basic component. Raw and elemental, it swirled around her like a living, breathing thing. Julia fought the absurd urge to fold her arms across her chest in an age-old, protective gesture. She refused to give Gabe that satisfaction. Instead, she pushed herself to her feet.

  “I won’t hold my breath, Hunter.”

  Chapter Ten

  Washington DC

  “Mr. Lassiter?”

  “Yes?”

  “May I speak with you for a few moments? Privately?”

  Ted Marsh contained his impatience while the reporter slanted him an assessing glance. Obviously, Lassiter was weighing whether he should detach himself from his circle of friends. Or waste his time with someone who hadn’t been invited to this white-tie affair at the opulent Willard Inter-Continental Hotel. Marsh didn’t intend to leave until he’d spoken to his quarry.

  The old Willard had once welcomed presidents and kings, but had fallen on hard times in the 50s. A long-time Washington resident, Marsh had grown used to seeing its boarded-up windows and grass growing through the cracks in its ornate facade. In recent years, however, it had reclaimed its original elegance. The Secret Service and the State Department had helped design the sixth floor, which once more lodged heads of state. The Willard had reclaimed its title as the crown jewel of Pennsylvania Avenue. Which made crashing this party something of a chore.

  He’d had to flash his ID at the doorman to get through the massive front doors. Then again for the concierge who’d grudgingly confirmed that, yes, the Vice President’s reception for the media was underway in the downstairs ballroom. And finally for the security detail posted outside the entrance to the chandeliered hall.

  Once inside, he’d picked Dean Lassiter out of the milling crowd easily enough. Tall, gray-haired, and casually elegant in his tux, he held court in a brightly lit alcove. Marsh had waited a good ten minutes for a lull in the lively conversation before making his request.

  He’d counted on Lassiter’s curiosity as the means to separate him from the group that eddied around him. He wasn’t disappointed. Excusing himself, the correspondent moved away from his cluster of friends and acquaintances.

  “Do I know you?”

  “No. I’m Special Agent Ted Marsh, with the Air Force Office of Special Investigation. I’d like to ask you a few questions about a case I have under review.”

  “Here?”

  Lassiter managed to convey both surprise and a hint of irritation in a single, well modulated syllable.

  “No, not here. There’s a private office outside the ballroom and down the hall to your left. Would you meet me there in, say, fifteen minutes?”

  “This isn’t a particularly convenient time or place. Why don’t you call my office and schedule an appointment, Mr...?”

  “Marsh. Ted Marsh.”

  “Call my office, Ted. I can give you far more attention there than I can here.”

  “I’ve scheduled two appointments with you, Dean. Your personal assistant canceled one yesterday because the White House called a press conference. The second got scrubbed this morning due to deadline pressure. When I checked back this afternoon, your assistant said you’re leaving early tomorrow morning for a Christmas vacation in the Cayman Islands. After that, you’re flying to Paris to cover the summit. I want to talk to you about the case I’m working, and our talk needs to happen before you get back to the States next month.”

  “What kind of case?”

  “Murder.”

  Interest sparked in Lassiter’s dark eyes. “Who, when, where, why, and how?”

  Marsh gave him just enough to lure him out of the damned ballroom and into the private office.

  “Captain Gabriel Hunter, 1972, Vietnam.”

  The reporter’s face went blank with confusion. For several moments he didn’t move. Glasses clinked. Laughter carried above the noise of the crowd. A second or two later, the sound of a finger tapping against a microphone jerked Lassiter out of his blank stare. His gaze focused, sharpened. Not enough to alert those around him to something unusual. Just enough to make the agent smile inwardly.

  Ted Marsh had spent the last nineteen and a half years as an investigator. First as a military cop. Then, after slugging through night school to get his bachelor’s degree, as an officer assigned to the Air Force OSI. He’d taken a host of courses in interrogation and interview techniques to hone his professional skills and fulfill requirements for the master’s degree he’d collected some years ago. In the process, he’d gained a reputation in military investigative circles as a skilled interrogator. He knew how to read people.

  Lassiter was hooked.

  “Down the hall and to your left,” Marsh repeated. “I’ll wait for you there.”

  Threading a path through the crowd, he left the noise of the ballroom and made his way to the small office. Too restless to sit, he leaned his hips against the elegant desk positioned in front of the window. One hand jiggled the loose change in his pants pocket. Weariness tugged at the edges of his mind.

  He’d put in a long day. Several long days. The case had grabbed him, and he couldn’t let go.

  After his second interview with Colonel Endicott yesterday morning, she’d decided to cease all further discussions with the OSI until she’d had time to consult with an attorney. His hunting instincts at full blood, Marsh had decided to use the delay to follow-up with Dean Lassiter. He didn’t like having to cool his heels while he waited for access to the elusive, charismatic reporter. Nor did he like having to filter the remainder of his interviews with Julia Endicott through a lawyer. He’d put up with both, though. He’d put up with a good deal more than those minor inconveniences to work this one.

  He hadn’t had a case that intrigued him so much in years. A victim who’d been dead for more than two decades. A suspect who walked the corridors of power, with media connections that could prove embarrassing to the Air Force. No wonder Bob Pfligerman, Commander of the OSI’s Investigative Ops Center, had detailed Marsh to work this one personally. He headed the Major Crimes Division, and this was about as major as they came.

  The coins in his pocket clinked as Ted recalled his first search of the computerized index to see what, if any, the OSI had on Colonel Julia Endicott. Nothing. Nada. No flags had been raised during the extensive background investigation update conducted every five years to recertify her security clearances. No references cited her as a witness or participant in other cases. She didn’t even have a parking or speeding ticket on her record.

  The squeaky clean file might have impressed Marsh if he hadn’t heard her anguished moan when he’d informed her that Captain Hunter’s remains had been recovered. And watched her green eyes as she stared at the wall in the interview room, seeing images she carefully edited before sharing.

  What had happened between her and Hunter? What was she hiding? Why did she kill him?

  His cop’s mind had already passed the point of “if”. He was now at “why”.

  She had the means...her father’s Smith & Wesson. She had the opportunity. From what he’d read in the past twenty-four hours about the Easter Offensive launched by North Vietnam on March 30th, 1972, i
ntense fighting had broken out on three major fronts. Captain Hunter was just one more casualty in the battles that convulsed the country for months. Anyone with guts enough could’ve slipped away and ambushed him that night...which sure as hell included Julia Endicott.

  She had the means. She had the opportunity. Now Ted had to nail down the motive. Why did she kill Hunter?

  He turned the question over and over in his mind. Granted, the cocky bastard probably asked for it. If Julia Endicott’s index had been pure as the driven snow, Gabriel Hunter’s was another story. When Pfligerman first handed him the case, Ted had retrieved the aviator’s file from the OSI’s computerized archives.

  In his considered opinion, Hunter epitomized the kind of warrior every commander wanted in his squadron during war and hated to see walking in the front door during peace. Most men could channel and redirect the aggressive instincts they loosed during combat. Some couldn’t. Hunter fell into the later category.

  He’d shipped over to Vietnam the first time as a brand new lieutenant, right out of pilot training. He’d served through most of ‘67, winning a string of air medals. After he returned to the States, Hunter’s performance reports took on a zig-zag pattern. He received top marks for initiative and leadership, and a career-damaging downgrade for “questionable” judgment in aerial maneuvers. In 1969, he paid a stiff fine as punishment under Article 15 of the UCMJ for instigating a brawl that caused several thousand dollars in damage to the Ramstein AB Officers’ Club bar. He’d returned to Vietnam in July ‘71, was recommended for a Silver Star for bravery during the opening salvo of the Easter Offensive, just weeks before he disappeared.

  His widow accepted his posthumous Silver Star. Seven years later, she concurred in the Air Force’s recommendation to change his status from MIA to KIA. With her son and her best friend on either side of her, she’d attended a memorial service and said a final good-bye to her husband.

  Ted wanted to get down and talk to Claire Hunter again. She’d been less than coherent during their first interview. Understandably so. She’d soon have to bury the husband she’d mourned so long ago.

  Marsh guessed Colonel Endicott wouldn’t sit beside the widow at this service, as she had the last. He’d heard the desperation behind Claire Hunter’s insistence that her husband and then-Lieutenant Endicott had shared only friendship. He knew damn well she wanted to convince herself as much as him.

  Which brought him back full circle. What had happened between Hunter and Julia Endicott? Why did she kill him? Maybe Lassiter would have the answer.

  The journalist walked into the office twenty-five minutes later. “Sorry. I got dragged up to the podium. May I see your identification, please?”

  Ted reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the worn leather card case that held his badge and photo ID.

  Lassiter skimmed it, handed it back, and folded his arms across his chest. “Now what the hell is this about Gabe Hunter?”

  “We have reason to believe he was murdered.”

  “By someone other than the VC, I take it, or you wouldn’t be here. Who do you think murdered him, and why?”

  “No one’s been charged yet, but...”

  Ted hesitated, aware that he was stretching regulations here. He shouldn’t reveal the name of the suspect until her commander had preferred formal charges. He also knew he was taking a hell of a risk talking to a journalist about an on-going investigation.

  He’d worked in this town too many years to go strictly by the book, however. Word that the deputy chief of Air Force Public Affairs had been relieved of her duties was bound to spread soon. The only reason Lassiter hadn’t already heard about it, Ted guessed, was because of the holidays. The Director of Public Affairs had worded the official notification to the media and the subordinate PA offices so cautiously that most of field probably thought Colonel Endicott had taken Christmas leave.

  Besides, he wanted to see Lassiter’s reaction when he told him the news.

  “We’re currently questioning Colonel Julia Endicott about her knowledge of the circumstances surrounding Captain Hunter’s death,” he replied.

  The reporter’s arms dropped. “Julia!”

  “You know her, I understand.”

  “Of course. I’m a journalist, she works Air Force public affairs. I haven’t seen her in years, not since I switched to the White House beat, but I know her. You don’t seriously think she murdered Gabe, do you?”

  “Why is that such an implausibility?”

  “Julia Endicott isn’t the kind of person who would commit murder. But if she did, she’s too damned smart to leave a trail that would prove it.”

  “We haven’t proved anything yet,” Ted replied. “We’re still investigating.”

  “What have you got on her?”

  He’d only bend the regulations so far. “Sufficient evidence to question Colonel Endicott.”

  Lassiter didn’t like the reply. That much was obvious from the faint narrowing of his eyes. His reporter’s instincts had been fully roused, though. He wanted as much of the story as he could uncover. Ted had a feeling he’d have his hands full keeping the initiative in this interview.

  “I understand you first met Colonel Endicott in Vietnam. Is that correct?”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you verified it with other sources?”

  “I haven’t, but I could if necessary.”

  “So why are you wasting my time asking questions you obviously don’t need answered? Let’s cut to the chase, Marsh. Ask me the questions you do want answered.”

  “Fair enough. To your knowledge, did Julia Endicott have sexual intercourse with Captain Gabriel Hunter in Vietnam?”

  “So what if she did? That wouldn’t prove she killed him.”

  “No, but it would establish a motive. She’s admitted that Captain Hunter solicited her to have sex with him on several occasions, the latest of which was some time in March 1972. A short time later, Hunter married her best friend. Less than a month after that, he disappeared, presumably the victim of a VC ambush. Jealousy has driven a good many people to commit murder.”

  “Julia wasn’t jealous of anyone, much less the woman Gabe married...I forgot her name.”

  “Claire. Lieutenant Claire Simmons.”

  “Right, Claire. She was a real mouse, as I recall, but...”

  “Yes?”

  Lassiter’s shoulders lifted under his perfectly tailored tux. “Extremely well endowed.”

  Ted hid his surprise. Small and slender, Claire Hunter didn’t fit his definition of well endowed. He filed that seeming inconsistency away for future examination.

  “During our interview yesterday, Colonel Endicott indicated that she was with you in DaNang at the start of the 1972 Easter Offensive.”

  Lassiter let a long, slow breath. “I haven’t thought about DaNang in years. Jesus, what a night! Two nights! I didn’t sleep for forty-eight straight hours.”

  “Tell me about those forty-eight hours.”

  Lassiter’s eyes took on the distant look that Marsh had noticed all too often in this case. The reporter, like the other witnesses he’d interviewed, was remembering a time and a place the agent couldn’t relate to.

  “Julia arrived at DaNang on the morning of March 30th. Holy Thursday. We caught a hop out of there on Good Friday. I remember the date because Gabe remarked just before I left that it was good, damned good. He’d flown a hot mission the night before, the one he was later awarded the Silver Star for, and he’d...”

  “Yes?”

  His forehead creasing, Lassiter studied the tips of his shiny, black leather shoes.

  “He’d what?”

  “Hell.”

  The muttered oath acted on Marsh like a whiff of raw steak on a dirt yard dog.

  “You might as well tell me now,” he said, his cop’s sixth sense tingling. “If this case goes to trial, you could be subpoenaed as a witness.”

  Lassiter lifted his gaze. H
is eyes hard and agate black, he gave the answer Marsh had been waiting for.

  “Despite his all-night mission, Gabe was flying high that morning. According to him, he’d gotten back to the hootch around dawn and found Julia in his bed. It was the best damn Friday he’d ever experienced.”

  “Let me make sure I have this straight. Captain Hunter implied that he’d spent the night, or what was left of it, in bed with Colonel Endicott?”

  “He didn’t imply it. He stated it.”

  Marsh smiled to himself. Bingo! Means. Opportunity. And now motive.

  Hunter had bragged to his hootch mate and to Dean Lassiter about sleeping with Julia Endicott. One man’s testimony might be written off as hearsay. A second man’s could sway a jury. Or, in this case, a duly constituted court martial board. Ted was so caught up in his racing thoughts that he almost missed Lassiter’s next remark.

  “...until I saw them together that night at the Caravelle.”

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  The journalist flicked him an impatient glance. “I said that I didn’t really believe Gabe broken past Julia’s prickly barriers until I saw them together that night at the Caravelle.”

  “What night was that?”

  “The night before I left for Cambodia. That was the thirteenth, I think.”

  “The thirteenth of...?”

  “May.”

  “What happened on that night that made you believe that Captain Hunter and Lieutenant Endicott had engaged in sexual intercourse?”

  His mouth curved. “Can’t you bring yourself to put it in layman’s terms, Marsh? Why don’t you just ask me how I knew Hunter was fucking her?”

  “For the same reason you don’t use the term in your political commentaries,” he returned, unruffled. “I’m working here, Lassiter, not trading bar stories.”

  “Point taken. All right, how did I know they were sleeping together? How could I not know? You could see the sexual tension between them. Smell it even. All the way across the crowded room.”

 

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