Broken Honor Page 11

  Dustin shrugged. “What commission report? God knows there are millions of them.”

  “The one about your … is it your grandfather?”

  Jordan was not just being obnoxious. Dustin didn’t know why, but he knew a fishing expedition when he saw one. Did Jordan think he could find some advantage here? A hint of a threat to force a favorable recommendation?

  “I haven’t paid any attention to it,” he said lightly. “You must know how much theft—and how many mistakes—happen when an army’s on the move.”

  “Of course,” Jordan said. “I just thought you might have more information.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Dustin said. “If you’ve read the newspapers, you probably know as much as I do.” He guided his visitor to the door.

  “When can I expect to hear from you?” Jordan asked.

  Dustin examined the man. He was perhaps twenty years older than himself. Fifty-five or so. He had a rough charm, a kind of man’s man certainty. Gray hair he didn’t try to hide. In fact, it softened his chiseled features.

  But Dustin knew him well, and his reputation better. Both he and his father were ruthless in their business practices, and there were plenty of rumors about the elder Jordan’s flirtation with unsavory governments.

  He would use anything in Dustin’s past for leverage. He was now putting Dustin on notice.

  But Dustin put his best smile in place as he opened the door. “I have very little to do with it. I only make recommendations.”

  “I know it will be the right one,” Jordan said, and it was all Dustin could do to keep from slamming the door behind him.

  Did Jordan know something he didn’t?

  He made a phone call.

  “Is anyone else snooping around the records?” he asked.

  “Just the CID colonel. He’s put in a request. I don’t think he’s going to stop.”

  “Doesn’t he have anything better to do?”

  The voice on the other end was silent.

  “Give him something better to do,” Dustin said, and slammed down the receiver.

  Who had been searching Sally’s apartment? And why? What did they think they would find? Something they could use to blackmail him?

  He didn’t think Jordan’s comments were just friendly conversation. They were a message. Even a threat. Dustin wondered how much Jordan would make on the potential sale to the African despot. He sold armored vehicles, among other things, and the sale would mount into many millions of dollars.

  Dread filled him. Something was happening. Flaherty. The Mallory woman. The search of Sally’s apartment. Now Jordan’s comment. Dustin hadn’t questioned his request for the meeting when it was made two days ago.

  But now.…

  A subtle kind of blackmail? But what could Jordan know that would give him any leverage? The newspaper story had made the incident public. He’d thought it would die a quick death.

  Maybe if Flaherty stopped interfering.

  Maybe …

  eleven

  JEKYLL ISLAND

  Amy felt safe enough to take Bo for a walk on the lawn between the beach and the hotel. She double-locked the front door from the inside. No one could get in there, and she planned to keep the sliding glass door in direct range of vision at all times.

  The tangy salt air filled her with a sense of security. She almost felt as if she had come home. She often felt that way around the ocean. She had once read that many people had that same feeling of familiarity with the sea because life evolved from there. She had no idea whether that was true. She only knew it gave her a peace she didn’t experience anyplace else.

  Amy wanted to go down to the beach itself, but she wasn’t going to let her door go unwatched. After everything that had happened, she wasn’t taking anything for granted.

  How long would she have to live like this? Why was she not allowed to enjoy several days like everyone else?

  At least she felt better now that they were settled. A hot bath and an ordered-in pizza shared with Bo had made all the difference. After this brief walk, she would start a serious review of the boxes.

  She returned to her room and piled the boxes on the sofa. She curled her feet under her and sat. Bo jumped up, stretching his body alongside hers.

  She started reading.

  Irish wearied of watching the front parking lot. He’d checked the locks of his own room, and with the door guard, he figured she would be pretty safe if she used them all.

  He’d taken up a position then in front of the sliding door leading to the beach. An hour went by, and then he saw her. Framed by an outdoor light, she walked the dog, never going far from her own door. She didn’t use the leash, but the dog stayed right at her feet. He saw her look toward the water, and could see the wistfulness in her stance if not her eyes.

  He wanted to go out to her. Instead, he waited until she went back inside. He didn’t like the sliding glass doors, but he thought he would hear any disturbance. He damn well hoped the dog barked.

  He went out the front door, checked the parking lot again. Nothing suspicious here. It looked as if most of the occupants were attending some kind of conference. Little groups of people were returning with name tags. Most were wearing shorts and T-shirts. A law enforcement seminar would be nice.

  Irish left his front door and walked past her unit. Curtains were drawn. Good. Her car was parked several doors down. He didn’t see anyone loitering. Good again.

  He decided to get a couple of hours’ sleep. Otherwise he wouldn’t be worth anything. It was nine. If anyone meant to strike, they would do it in the early hours of the morning. He would resume his watch then.

  Amy looked at the red digital numbers of the clock by the bed. Two A.M. Time to quit. She’d been through one box, which held files dated in the spring of 1945. It seemed an odd collection to her. Why would her grandfather keep such things as duty rosters, sheets of them? Maps? Copies of orders? Written scribbles she couldn’t read?

  There was nothing that would incite murder.

  She skipped through the other boxes. Not much there, either.

  She went back to the rosters. Nothing was highlighted, singled out.

  Amy was more puzzled than ever.

  Her eyes were beginning to blur. She looked at the clock. An hour had passed. She might as well forget any more perusing tonight. Time to get some sleep.

  With the dawn, perhaps the fear would leave.

  Irish didn’t know what startled him, what night sound was unusual.

  He had slept several hours, then rose, refreshed, at one A.M. He was like a doctor that way. He could grab pieces of sleep, and that would be enough.

  He had gone outside to the little patio. Each was shielded by walls that provided privacy from the adjoining patios. He pulled the chair out a little so he could watch the light in Amy Mallory’s room. Sipping a cup of coffee, he relaxed in the cool sea breeze and the gentle lull of the tide washing up on the beach.

  Patience again. Another day, and he would head toward Washington, where he hoped he could get his hands on the commission data. And talk to Dustin Eachan. Perhaps Eachan’s cousin as well.

  Amy Mallory should be through with those papers by then. He wondered how he could approach her. How would she feel about being followed? Watched? Even if the reason was protective, not malevolent. Would she believe that?

  He wasn’t sure he would, if he had gone through what she had.

  Irish didn’t know how long he had been sitting on the patio when her light went out. He debated whether he should continue to watch her room, get more sleep, or watch the front. Here was much more pleasant.

  He might have dozed off when he suddenly jerked awake. A dog’s alarmed bark cut the silence of the night. It was faint, but Irish had damned good ears.

  He took running strides toward the sliding glass doors of her room. A light was visible, although the drapes were drawn. He didn’t hear anything. He returned and ran through his own room, picking up his automatic as he
went.

  The door to her room was closed. That meant it would be locked, too. Should he knock? What if the dog had barked at a passing car? Or perhaps the bark came from another dog.

  How in the hell could anyone get inside her room?

  He hesitated. A sharp bark, then a whine. A cutoff scream.

  Then he saw that someone had backed into her car. That’s how they had gotten inside. An apology. An explanation.

  He could knock. Start a disturbance. No. They could kill her and get out the back. He slipped his revolver in his belt and took out his wallet, removing a plastic card. He slid it into the door. As long as the deadbolt wasn’t fastened.…

  It wasn’t. He heard a click. The gun was back in his hand. He very quietly opened the door a fraction of an inch. No bark now.

  He started in, but then heard a sound—little more than a breath of air—on the other side of the door. Someone was standing against the wall. Waiting for him. Using all his weight, he slammed the door against the wall, and he felt it hit flesh. A gun skittered across the floor as someone grunted with pain.

  A man in a ski mask held a gun on Amy. The intruder turned to train it on him, and Amy drove her elbow into his chest. It was just enough to make him drop his aim. He fired just a second before Irish did. Irish heard the soft thud of a silencer and the loud crack of his own weapon. He was aware of a blow to his leg, but not yet pain, as red blossomed across the intruder’s chest and he fell to the floor, releasing his hold on Amy.

  “Look out,” Amy cried, and Irish whirled to see the second man lunge at him with a knife. He twisted out of the way, and the intruder took that moment to get out the open door. Irish started after him, but the pain in his leg stopped him, that and the realization that he didn’t know whether the man on the floor was dead and unable to hurt Amy.

  As he stood in the door, he heard tires squeal and the roar of a car. He barely got a glimpse of a large black sedan as it sped out of the parking lot.

  At least they had one of them. He turned back to Amy. She was kneeling next to her dog, who was lying unnaturally still. Her face was chalk white.

  The assailant, head covered by a ski mask, lay still near the bed. Blood spilled over on the carpet. Several people were at the open door, obviously awakened by the shot from his pistol. “Call the police,” he said to one of them. “And the office.”

  He went over to Amy. Her face was pale, but it was obvious that she cared more about the dog than a body in her room. Or her own shock. She wore a long shirt she apparently slept in.

  He ran his hands gently over the dog. No open wounds. “What happened?”

  “Bo bit one of them and he kicked Bo against the wall. He was … trying to protect me.”

  Irish felt the dog’s heart. It was beating. “He’s alive.”

  She looked at him with such fear and yet relief that his own heart nearly stopped. “I need to get him to a vet.”

  “I doubt the police will let you leave,” he said. But he went to the phone and called the office. No one answered. Probably everyone was on the way to Amy’s room.

  He looked at the dog. Ugly as sin, but gallant. The animal stirred and whined pitifully. “I think he’ll be all right,” he said, gently scratching the dog’s ears. “Brave boy.”

  Then Irish stooped beside the fallen assailant. No pulse here. He wanted to rip off the ski mask, but he knew the police wouldn’t like that. Hell, they wouldn’t like anything about this. He placed his own gun on a table.

  This was going to play hell with his career. Shooting a civilian while on vacation most likely would be frowned upon.

  “Sit down,” he told Amy.

  Holding the dog gently, she did as he said. Silently. Questions were in her wide gray eyes.

  “I followed you,” he explained gently. “I was afraid you might still be in danger.”

  “I was so careful. How …?”

  “I put a tracking device on your car. I imagine your … visitors did the same. I’ll check it out later.”

  Her gaze studied him. “That’s the second time you saved my life. Thank you.”

  “They might just have wanted your grandfather’s papers,” he said.

  “No. They thought I knew something. They.…”

  He saw it in her eyes. They had meant to kill her. She’d known it.

  Once again, he wanted to pull off the man’s mask. Was it the one from the hospital? And why Amy? He had been the one to see the man’s face.

  Now they were back to the starting line. No more information, except someone very determined was after Amy. He heard the sound of sirens, then a screeching stop. Two uniformed officers moved into the room along with a suit-clad desk clerk who looked at the man on the floor with horror.

  Amy stood up, still cradling the dog, who was whimpering.

  “Well, damn,” one of the officers said as he saw the body on the floor. He immediately radioed for backup.

  The other officer, older and obviously in charge, had his revolver out, uncertain as to who to aim it at. Irish pointed to the assailant’s gun on the floor, and handed his own automatic to the officer, butt first. The policeman took Irish’s automatic and left the other gun on the floor. He’d obviously been trained to leave a crime scene undisturbed.

  “Two men invaded this woman’s room. I heard her cry and came in. The man on the floor shot at me.”

  The older man’s gaze went around the room, then rested again on the fallen man. He knelt at the dead man’s side and checked for a pulse, shook his head, and stood, moving just inches from Irish. “Who in the hell are you?”

  Irish already had his billfold out with his credentials showing. “I’m Colonel Lucien Flaherty,” he said. “This is Miss Mallory. Amy Mallory. She was attacked in Memphis last week, and came here to relax. I came to provide some protection. I heard the dog bark and came in. Two men were attacking her.”

  “Two?” the older cop said.

  “One left in a dark car. Obviously someone was waiting for him.”

  “A woman,” Amy said. “Middle-aged. Brown hair mixed with gray. She woke me, said she’d accidentally run into my car, and wanted to give me her insurance card. She wanted to do it now because she was leaving. When I opened the door to take it, two men pushed their way in.” She shook her head in disgust. “I should have realized. I parked several spaces down.”

  “They’re probably already off the island,” the officer said. “Did you see anything of the car?”

  “No,” Irish said.

  The manager or assistant manger or night clerk, or whoever he was, had sat down, eyeing the body with horror. “Nothing like this … has ever happened.”

  The older police officer put a plastic glove on and went back to the body and pulled the mask off. He looked up at Irish and Amy. “Recognize him?”

  It wasn’t the same man as the one in the hospital. This one had dark hair. The other had light brown. The face was thicker, the lips thinner. “No,” Irish said, then turned to Amy. “Do you?”

  She looked at the face of the dead man for several moments. Then shook her head.

  The officer then looked at the clerk. “Tim, could he be a guest here?”

  The white-faced clerk shook his head. “I haven’t seen him before.”

  Bo was trying to move in Amy’s arms, but every time he did, he whimpered. Irish went over to them, and put his hand on the dog’s body. He was panting hard.

  “Look, Officer, we need to get this dog to the vet,” Irish said.

  The older officer shook his head. “No one leaves here.”

  “There could be internal injuries,” Amy said. “Please.”

  “She’ll be right back,” Irish interjected. “I’ll stay, of course. She’s the victim here, after all.”

  The officer looked skeptical.

  The other officer took a step forward. “I could run her over there. I’ll call Stephanie on the way. She can meet us at her office.”

  The older officer obviously wanted to say no
, then relented after looking again at Amy’s face. “You take the mutt, Richard,” said his partner. “She stays here.”

  “He’s terrified of strangers.”

  “I’m good with animals, ma’am,” the officer said. “I’ll treat him real gently.”

  Obviously hesitant to delay getting him medical help, she reluctantly agreed and handed Bo to him. “His name is Bo. He’s five years old and has had all his shots.”

  Richard nodded, taking the dog, who yelped in dismay.

  Amy leaned down. “It’s okay, Bo. I’ll get you soon.”

  Her left hand was shaking. Irish took it in his, steadying her.

  The officer named Richard left with Bo. Amy looked white and drawn, her gray eyes huge in her face. Still, she seemed uncommonly collected.

  “Now we’ll sit down and wait for the detectives,” the older officer said. His face changed as he followed Amy’s gaze.

  Irish looked down to the same spot. Blood was pooling on the floor at his feet.

  “You’re hurt,” Amy said.

  “Ah, damn,” the policeman said. He used his radio again. “We need an ambulance. Atlantic Motel. Unit 220.” He looked disgruntled. “But no one leaves here until the detectives arrive.”

  Irish shrugged. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Otherwise I wouldn’t be standing.” He tried a cocky grin. He didn’t know if he succeeded; the burning was intensifying.

  Still, it wasn’t much compared to the hole in the man on the floor. He’d heard about elephants on the table. A dead body in the middle of the room had the same impact.

  They left the county police department together. He’d spent two hours at the hospital, then joined her at the police department. He’d brushed off her worries about his wound. “Barely a scratch,” he’d said dismissively.

  The sun was directly overhead. Amy thought it was rather remarkable that the sun rose as usual.

  Someone had tried to kill her, and not for the first time, and yet people still walked the streets and drove their cars as if nothing had happened. Once she’d been like that. She wondered whether she would ever be again.