“I’ll take you to Puripong. Give her your film, then answer her questions.”
“Sure.” Jo started to stand, but Michael shook his head. “Sit down. Not just yet. Are you okay with all this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone here is a trained member of the Navy, and most are in the medical profession. They know how to take care of themselves in extreme conditions.”
“Oh.” A smile brightened her face. “You mean you’re worried about me? Even though I’m a suspect?” Her hand reached out and covered his—an action that shocked him because he found it comforting.
“I’m a survivor. I grew up in the old housing projects of East St. Louis with drug dealers, pimps, hookers and gangs. I didn’t like it, but I dealt with it until I got out of there. Same with this. I don’t go to pieces—ever—until it’s safe to do so. You’re the one I’m worried about.”
Her hand remained on his. Michael let it stay there only a few seconds more before he remembered he was in uniform, and in command, no less. Shows of affection were not allowed in uniform. He withdrew his hand.
“This has to be hard for you,” she said.
He nodded. “It’ll be worse if we don’t find her killer.”
“Why don’t you let the chaplain help?”
“No.”
Jo’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t like him? Yet you listened to him when he told you about my pawned equipment—I overheard your conversation. Who is he?”
She’s got brains. And a streetwise toughness I might need. Not to mention a very nice body… It was the first time he’d really noticed.
“Our parents were stationed together in Pearl once. We never got along.”
“No, it’s more than that. You’re enemies—or, at least, he’s your enemy. Why?” she asked bluntly.
She’s a little too streetwise for my liking. I’ve never talked about Klemko to anyone—until now.
“Let’s just say he’s a childhood ghost.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like him, either.”
“Why not?”
“I flirted with him a bit and he treated me like an Old Testament whore. I shouldn’t have, of course—flirted—but it’s not like I was serious.”
“Then why do it?” Michael asked.
“I wanted an interview. I wanted a big story for AP. I wanted everything except a murder. You know, you should have family here with you. Isn’t there anyone you can call?”
“I already have,” Michael said, conscious of the personnel watching his every move. “Let’s go. Puripong’s waiting. Grab another water on the way. Keep yourself hydrated.”
“I will.” She grabbed two and passed one to Michael.
“So, you still feel that way?” he asked.
“What—faint? Nah, I’m okay.”
“Good, but I meant romantically interested in the chaplain.”
“Never was! He’s not my type. I was just trying to be cute.”
“Don’t. There’s no place for it in a murder investigation.”
“I know. Besides, any flirting notions I might’ve had ended when I saw your cousin.” She uttered a harsh, vulgar oath directed at the killer.
Somehow, her foul language made him feel better. It was exactly what he wanted to say himself, except he couldn’t—not while in uniform.
That would be a Bad Thing.
“Huh? You say something?”
Michael shook his head. I’m losing it. I’ve got to go tell Sunshine. But then I’ll be back…and I’ll find Selena’s killer.
CHAPTER FIVE
Patrick and Sunshine’s home, San Diego
Day 2, 8:00 a.m.
THE SMELL OF THE BEACH and frying sausage—tofu sausage, she later discovered—met Jo as she stepped into the breakfast nook. Michael had refused any escorts last night when leaving Camp Pendleton, but he couldn’t order Jo around. Nor did he wish to forbid her presence. When she’d climbed into his car with him, he’d found her company more than soothing. He’d found it a necessity. Delayed reaction had hit him in the parking lot and he couldn’t insert the shaking key in the ignition slot; Jo had silently traded places with him and driven him home.
All other personnel were to complete the exercise as originally ordered—in the isolation of the camp. Jo had been allowed to exit the compound after turning all her film over to Puripong. Jo’s night in the tastefully furnished guest room and lush bed hadn’t been restful. She’d had nightmares, but not about death. She’d seen her first overdosed druggie at age five in an alley, and her first gunshot victim at age six, right in her own schoolyard.
No, her nightmares had been about failure. Failing to get her story, since her film had been confiscated. Failing to hide that she’d never worked for AP. Still hiding her forged press pass. Being investigated for a murder she didn’t commit. And now she had to sit and eat breakfast cooked by a family member of the deceased. Her nerves were taut with stress. First she’d spent most of the money from her last story on fake ID, then ended up witnessing a crime and photographing the scene. She’d been more or less forced to reveal her true name, which would make it much easier for the military to find out about the ID.
Ordinarily something like this would have sent her scurrying to cover her tracks or even making a quick escape. But she couldn’t, nor was her decision hard to make. She vowed to think of Michael’s welfare, as well as her own, although that hadn’t included staying overnight as a guest of his parents.
I only came along to help him out. She’d seen Michael’s type before. He was every brokenhearted parent whose son or daughter died by bullet or knife or drugs in East St. Louis, every child at a loss for words because of the raw violence at school or home.
He doesn’t know how to tune it out. He can’t, or he wouldn’t be carrying old grudges around. If you don’t take out the trash or at least hide it away, bad memories will eat you alive. People who hold on to the past never make it for long in the present real world. Not that the military is the real world as far as I’m concerned.
So Jo had insisted on going home with Michael to spend an awkward evening. Michael had left her with his father while he comforted his stepmother, Sunshine, and Selena’s fiancé, a civilian named Paul O’Conner. The father hadn’t wanted Jo’s comfort—or presence, for that matter. He’d made her feel like an intruder.
I am an intruder, but only for Michael’s sake. I hope his father isn’t joining us for breakfast, she thought, pulling on another worn but clean pair of jeans, a clean shirt and clean underwear, still slightly damp from being washed in the shower the night before. She hoped they’d dry soon in the heat outside. The Thrift Store or Goodwill couldn’t carry used underwear, a health law Jo had cursed more than once since most of her clothes were stolen—and she’d given up shoplifting along with the cigarettes back in high school. That forged pass was high quality, and she’d paid dearly for it.
As she was paying now, about to sit down with Patrick Andrew McLowery. Everyone except Paul the fiancé, who’d left last night, had appeared at the table for breakfast. Jo didn’t like Patrick. He seemed too sure of himself, too smooth, too charming—especially when he was telling stories the previous night about his youthful self flying jets in ’Nam, even if he was doing it to distract the family from their grief.
If he’s not a heavy drinker now, he used to be. I’ve seen enough of