Duty and Dishonor

by Merline Lovelace

  Throwing the covers aside, she pushed herself out of bed. She’d have to face Marsh sooner or later and tell him about last night. She might as well get it out of the way.

  She took a quick shower, grimacing at her fragmented memories of the icy wet downs Marsh had subjected her to last night. Toweling off, she pulled on a red sweater and a pair of jeans. She didn’t waste time on make-up. A few quick strokes with a brush and a red barrette clipped at the back of her neck took care of her hair.

  Her soft-soled moccasins make no noise on the stairs. The football play-offs underway on TV told her it was later in the afternoon than she’d realized. She walked through the empty living room to the kitchen and stopped in her tracks.

  A showered but unshaven Marsh sat at the kitchen counter, coffee cup in hand and a plate of beans and Vienna sausages in front of him. Henry the Cat perched on the counter before his own plate, scarfing up beans as though he’d never seen a sardine in his life.

  The thought occurred to Julia that they were two of a kind. The tough, wiry tom went his own way and touched her life only peripherally. The lean, self-contained investigator with the neat thatch of reddish-brown hair and shuttered gray eyes would do the same.

  She cleared her throat. “I don’t allow him on the counter.”

  Marsh looked up, his gaze holding hers for a long moment. Then he slanted his lunch companion a wry look. “How do you keep him off?”

  “I start by putting his food on the floor.”

  “I tried that, but he seemed to prefer mine. So I gave him his own plate.”

  Whisking the dish out from under Henry’s nose, Julia placed it in a far corner. He stared at her for several seconds, his breath rattling in something dangerously close to a hiss. Julia stared him down. With a final twitch of his tail, he leaped off the counter.

  Buoyed by the small victory, she poured a cup of coffee. When she leaned against the sink, the coffee cradled in both hands, she discovered that the urgent need to talk to Marsh about her dizziness last night had somehow gotten tangled up in a reluctance to talk about last night at all.

  He’d warned her. He’d said they would have to put the truce of last night behind them. She could sense his withdrawal already. Hiding her tiny niggle of hurt, she said what had to be said.

  “Thank you for coming when I called last night. I was sick and scared and knew I could trust you.”

  “Because I already know the worst about you?”

  Her chin lifted. “No. Because I’d been drugged, and I knew you’d help me through it.”

  “Were you drugged, Julia?”

  She set the mug aside, afraid that her hands might start shaking. He had to believe her. No one else would.

  “Yes, I was. I went to a restaurant on King Street. I had two glasses of wine. I started getting dizzy at the restaurant and came home. I knew before I reached my front door that I’d done it to myself again.”

  His brows slashed down. “What do you mean?”

  “I was stupid. So stupid! Just like with Gabe.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Balling her fists at her side, Julia got the words out through clenched teeth. “I met a man at the restaurant, okay? He seemed nice enough. We talked about going to the Pickford Theater. He must have thought I was coming on to him. Maybe... Maybe I was.”

  This was harder, a lot harder, than she’d thought it would be. Shame coursed through her, along with a biting, corrosive anger at her sheer stupidity.

  “He must have slipped something in my wine when I went to the ladies room. I heard a news report last week about a new...a new date rape...”

  Marsh cursed and shoved the stool back. He came around the counter, his face flat and hard. “A new date rape pill? Is that what you’re trying to say? It’s called Rohypnol, Julia. Rossie, as it’s known on the streets. It’s not new. It’s been around for years. It’s also illegal as hell in this country, but any college kid knows how to get his hands on a bottle or two. You think this guy you tried to pick up at the restaurant slipped some in your drink?”

  The lash in his voice added to her stinging hurt. He couldn’t feel any more disgust for her than she felt herself.

  “That’s the only explanation I can come up with! I don’t take drugs. I never have. And when that car followed me home, I figured...”

  He gripped her arms. “What car?”

  “It was just a car. It trailed behind me on Fairfax Street for a block or two. He must have wanted to see if his pills worked.”

  “Did you get this man’s name?”

  “No.” She hated him for the doubt in his eyes, and herself for putting it there. Her lip curled in a faint sneer. “I didn’t get his telephone number, Marsh. So I called you instead. I have to admit, this...this Rossie is pretty potent stuff.”

  She expected anger, or a fresh flare of disgust. To her considerable surprise, he displayed neither. His brow creasing, he stared down at her for several, tense moments.

  Jesus! Marsh weighed the odds. It could have happened the way she described it. She was lonely, frightened. She went to a restaurant and struck up a conversation. He shoved aside the jealousy that spiked through him, and the savage regret that she’d had to turn to a stranger for comfort.

  This guy could have followed her home. Or someone else could have...

  His stomach twisted into a tight, hard knot. Julia had castigated herself for her stupidity. Marsh could go her one better than that. He’d been more than stupid. Instead of listening to his suspect and hearing what the hell she was saying, he’d taken advantage of her confused, weakened state and compromised the hell out of himself and his investigation. In the process, he’d let the lead she’d given him grow stone cold.

  He should have tried to track that car down last night. He should have sent Barbara or another agent to the restaurant and tried to verify just who Julia had talked to...or hadn’t talked to. He’d let her desperate plea that he not take her to the emergency room and get the incident recorded blind him to the fact that it could work for her, as well as against her.

  A voice far back in the corner of his mind reminded him that he had no proof Julia was drugged and followed. Only her word. She could have doped herself up. Could have planned that desperate, pleading scene.

  He stared at her, absorbing the clean skin and soft, silky hair. As quickly as the thought had come to him, Marsh dismissed it. Every instinct he possessed told him her need last night was real. Still, he couldn’t request protection for Julia without explaining why he wanted it, and the explanations were going to get sticky as hell. First, though, he had to follow up on the only lead he had.

  “I have to go back to the office,” he told her, his voice tight. “I want to check Dean Lassiter’s whereabouts last night.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Stay inside,” he instructed tersely. “Call me if you need me.”

  “I will.” Her mouth edged into a tremulous smile. “I did.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The last of the afternoon sunlight slanted between Old Town’s tall, narrow buildings when Marsh drove back through its streets. Despite the late Sunday afternoon hour, the sidewalks were crowded. Even the blustery wind off the Potomac couldn’t keep the tourists from snapping a few more pictures or picking up just one more souvenir from the trendy boutiques and bookstores.

  In the bright light of day, he found Julia’s house on Queen Street easily enough. Squeezing his Camaro into an empty space a half a block from her townhouse, he slammed the door behind him without bothering to lock it. In its primed and unpainted state, no one would want to steal the car. Marsh had been restoring it for several years now and wasn’t in any hurry to finish the job. As his ex-wife had acidly observed, he enjoyed tearing things apart far more than putting them together. That particular deplorable habit had ranked number eleven or twelve on her list, he remembered.

  Carlene had been
right, he thought with a twinge of self-disgust. He had a knack for tearing things apart. He’d certainly done a helluva job on this investigation. He’d compromised himself and his case. And he’d come up empty-handed after a futile attempt to chase down the only solid lead that might have pointed to someone other than Julia as the killer. To cap it off, he’d just about run out of time. He squinted at the low hanging sun and cursed.

  Julia answered his ring and greeted him with a determined smile. “You don’t have to tell me. Dean Lassiter attended a dinner at the White House last night.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I saw a clip on CNN.”

  “CNN, huh?” Marsh followed her up the short flight of stairs to the living room. “It took me four phone calls and an outright threat to his obnoxious assistant to get the same information.”

  She hung his jacket in a hall closet, leaving him to wander into the airy living room. He’d explored the room earlier this morning, while he was waiting for Julia to come out of her exhausted sleep. Not a book out of place or an unread newspaper anywhere, but the clean, open feel to the room appealed to Marsh. Julia had decorated her home for comfort as well as beauty. Like her, the white leather furnishings carried an air of cool sophistication, yet the armchair he sank into welcomed his weight.

  “Is that by any chance food?” he inquired hopefully as sniffed the tantalizing scent drifting in from the kitchen.

  “After I saw that news clip, I needed something to cheer me up. I called the market on King Street and ordered grilled porcini mushrooms and pasta.”

  “Mushrooms cheer you up?”

  “Well...I ordered a triple chocolate torte, too. Are you hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry.”

  "I ordered enough for two. The pasta's in the oven now."

  He nodded, all too aware that they were dancing around the subject the investigation hovered in both their minds like a gathering black thundercloud. Marsh knew he’d have to broach it sooner or later. Sooner was more his style.

  “I’m sorry, Julia. I shouldn’t have leaped to conclusion that Lassiter might have been the one who drugged you last night. Granted, he got all tight jawed when I questioned him about his arrival at Yakota. Also granted, he formed some kind of tight partnership with Hunter while he was in Vietnam that I don’t quite understand yet. But I’m damned if I can find any connection between him and Hunter’s murder.”

  “So...” She drew in a deep breath. “So you think my friend at the restaurant slipped me that little surprise in my wine?”

  “Right now, we can’t prove that anyone did.”

  Julia fought to keep the fluttering panic his words raised from showing in her face. She’d run a tortuous gamut of emotions since stumbling across that seeming discrepancy in Dean Lassiter’s travel dates. From nervous, tingling excitement she’d progressed to guilty hope, then to a crushing disappointment at the glimpse of Lassiter at the White House dinner last night. Now, she faced only the bleak, stomach-clenching prospect of remaining the prime suspect in Gabe Hunter's murder.

  Tomorrow, she decided fiercely. She’d deal with that tomorrow. Tonight, she’d share a dinner and maybe...

  She yanked in her wandering thoughts. She wouldn’t plan beyond dinner. Marsh had warned her they couldn't let down the barriers the way they had last night. She’d seen it in his eyes this morning, and felt it in the way he’d reverted to the roles they each played in this investigation. Once again, he was the investigator. Once more, she was the suspect.

  Uncurling her legs, she started to invite Marsh to join her in the kitchen when the faint clink of coins caught her attention.

  “Do you have Claire Hunter’s phone number?” he asked thoughtfully.

  “Of course. We talked to each other at least once every few weeks until...” Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Until recently.”

  “Is there a possibility Claire might know something about her husband’s association with Dean Lassiter?”

  Julia searched her memory. “I doubt it. Claire only met Dean once or twice.”

  “She was Hunter’s wife. He might have told her something, or written her about Lassiter.”

  “Gabe? He wasn’t the sharing type.”

  “He married her. He must have felt something for her.”

  Had he? Julia glanced down at her hands. She had to get past her own feelings about Gabe Hunter, still so intense after all these years. Had he loved his wife? Claire believed he had. In his own way, she’d always insisted, Gabe had loved her.

  Julia had done everything she could to protect her friend’s illusions about her husband. Until this investigation forced the truth out of her, she’d never told anyone about Gabe’s crude propositions. She’d never talked about that deserted stretch of perimeter road. She’d kept that night bottled inside her, along with her rage and her self-blame. She’d let Gabe Hunter dominate her, even from the grave.

  How ironic, she thought. Only after she’d been accused of Hunter’s murder had she been able to throw off his dominance.

  “I don’t know if Claire will speak with me,” Julia warned as she eased off the sofa. “This investigation has hurt her. I’ve hurt her.”

  Marsh rose slowly. “I’ll talk to her, but it’s probably better if I do it in person. If you’ll get me the number, I’ll call and ask if she can see me tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  Julia grimaced at the note of disappointment in her voice. Dammit, she’d warned herself not to think beyond dinner!

  Marsh didn’t try to soften the blow. “If Claire’s available, I’d better skip the mushrooms and cut right to the triple chocolate torte. I have to talk to her tonight. If I don’t find some reason to extend the investigation, it’s over.”

  Ever after, Julia would be feel a small, dart of pride that she managed something close to a smile. “Then I guess you’d better get on the phone and I’d better dish up the desert.”

  She prayed that her shaky legs would get her out of the living room. She’d sobbed in Marsh’s arms once today. She refused to do it again. Her throat tight, she pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen.

  From the top of the fridge, Henry the Cat sat watching the simmering pots on the cooktop. His hooked tail swished back and forth patiently.

  “I hope you like mushrooms as much as sardines and Vienna sausage,” Julia muttered.

  Like most Washington residents, Marsh often drove miles out of his way to avoid the crush of late weekend traffic on I-95. Even with the weekenders clogging the lanes, however, the interstate still offered the fastest route to Claire Hunter’s home in southern Virginia.

  He used the long drive to ease the regret that had grabbed him when he’d walked out of Julia’s house. He didn’t like leaving her with only that seedy cat for company. He disliked even more the thought of her slipping into that wide, empty bed upstairs.

  He could have shared the bed with her tonight. He'd read the signs, felt the need. She wanted him almost as much as he did her. But Marsh didn’t try to kid himself that she had craved anything more than the most basic human contact. She’d needed help and comforting, and had called the one man who’d understand why better than anyone else. He’d provided that what help and comfort he could. He’d also broken every rule in the book, he reminded himself grimly.

  Whatever Claire Hunter came up with tonight, Marsh knew he’d be off the case tomorrow.

  Richmond, VA

  A deep, starry darkness had fallen by the time Claire Hunter greeted him at the door to her Colonial brick home and showed him into the living room. Brass lamps spilled circles of light onto the thick carpet and chased the shadows in the room to the far corners.

  Marsh knew as little about decorating as he did about porcini mushrooms, but it struck him that women expressed themselves in their homes far more than men did. Julia tended toward smooth, polished hardwood floors, tall ceilings, and light colors. Claire Hunter preferred rich, wine-colored wing-backed chairs and rose
scented potpourri. Marsh didn’t want to think what the week-old newspapers, scattered clothing and the comfortable brown recliner in his apartment said about his personality.

  Claire gestured him to a chair and took one opposite him. When Marsh explained his mission, she shook her head.

  “I don’t have much. Only a few letters Gabe wrote after I left Vietnam.

  “Did he make any reference to Dean Lassiter in those letters?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “May I see them?”

  Her reluctance showed clearly in her face. Marsh understood. The few letters she’d hoarded all these years constituted her only link to her husband and the father of her son.

  “Why are you asking about Dean? What has he to do with your investigation?”

  “Maybe nothing. I’m just following up on a question Colonel Endicott raised.”

  Her dark brows feathered together. “Julia raised a question about Gabe and Dean? What kind of question?”

  “She pointed out a possible discrepancy in the date Mr. Lassiter left Vietnam. He supposedly left the day before your husband disappeared, but a new story has him on a flight that stopped over in Japan a day later.”

  Claire stared at him, then her eyes slowly widened. “Does... Does Julia think Dean Lassiter might have killed Gabe?”

  “She hasn’t made any accusations. She simply brought a discrepancy in the date to my attention and I’m...”

  She surged to her feet, cutting him off. “Why would Dean kill my husband?”

  Marsh scrambled up. “I’m not saying he did, Mrs. Hunter.”

  “Someone did, and it wasn’t Julia!”

  He countered with a swift question of his own. “How do you know?”

  Bright spots of color rose in her cheeks. “I was in love with my husband, Mr. Marsh, but I wasn’t blind. He was aptly named. He loved the thrill of the chase. I surrendered the first time he took me in his arms, but Julia resisted. Whatever she gave him, she gave him unwillingly, even that damned kiss at Christmas. I know that. It took me a while to work through my hurt over that kiss, but I know that.”