“I’m on my way into town,” Dawson said when Jamison Steele answered. Working together, the two agents had formed a strong friendship. Trust ran deep, and just days earlier Dawson had told Jamison about his past and the father he had never met.
“Otis said you agreed to handle the shooting.” Jamison let out a breath. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened and that you have to be the one to handle the case.”
“It’s not like Granger and I had a relationship. The last thing he wanted was a kid. My mother said he hightailed it out of town as soon as she told him she was pregnant. I never met him.”
“Still, it puts you in a difficult spot. I’ll explain the situation to Chief Wilson when he gets back to work on Monday.”
Dawson pursed his lips. “No need. I can fight my own battles. Besides, tonight should be fairly straightforward. I’ll ensure the Freemont cops handle the case appropriately. Once I share the information with General Cameron concerning his secretary, I’ll file my report and move on to the next case.”
“It’s Friday, Dawson. I’m hoping the weekend is crime-free.”
“Which might be wishful thinking.”
Jamison hesitated. “Have...have you told anyone else about your dad?”
“I didn’t see the need.” Dawson stared into the roadway ahead. “Of course, his death changes everything.”
“We’ll talk at the office.”
“Roger that.”
Dawson disconnected and shook his head with frustration. Granger had made a huge mistake visiting the daughter of the woman he was supposed to have murdered. From what Dawson had pieced together about his wayward father, Granger’s life had been as littered as the pavement with a series of wrong places, wrong times. Exactly what tonight felt like—a wrong turn that could end up detouring Dawson off the straight course he had chosen for his career in the army.
When he saw the secretary’s house in the distance, his gut tightened. Police lights flashed from the driveway. The crime-scene crew hovered around the front porch, where a man’s body lay spotlighted in the rain. Maybe this homicide wouldn’t be as cut-and-dried as he had first imagined.
Pulling to a stop, Dawson sucked in a deep breath before he stepped into the wet night. His left leg ached. More than a year had passed since he’d taken a bullet, but the pain remained and grew more insistent with the cold weather.
He rubbed his hands together and grabbed the keys from the ignition, his mouth dry. Steeling himself against any unwanted rush of emotion, he approached the crime-scene tape and held up his identification to the closest cop.
“CID, from Fort Rickman. Who’s in charge?”
The guy pointed to the house. “Head through the kitchen. Sergeant Ron Pritchard’s inside with Ms. Beaumont.”
“Is she a suspect?”
The cop shrugged. “All I know is that we found her huddled in the hallway, crying like a baby.”
Dawson hesitated for a moment and then glanced down at the victim’s twisted body. Regret washed over him. This wasn’t the way life should end. Granger had been shot in the back, probably with a forty-five caliber hollow point from the appearance of the wound.
In stark contrast to the grisly death scene, beds of yellow pansies edged the small front stoop. Ignoring the flowers, Dawson circled the house, picking his way through the wet grass. The back porch, trimmed in white latticework, was graced with more winter blooms that danced in the wind, oblivious to the crime that had recently been committed.
Stepping into the kitchen, he opened his navy windbreaker and wiped his shoes on the small entry rug. The smell of the wet outdoors followed him inside and mixed with the homey scent of pumpkin and spice. A large melon-colored candle sat on the counter near a bouquet of yellow mums and a plaque that read, God bless this home and all those who enter.
The irony wasn’t lost on Dawson, yet surely death hadn’t been Granger’s just reward. The estranged son might have argued the point before the phone call, before Granger had asked forgiveness. Something Dawson hadn’t been able to give. Now he wasn’t sure how he felt. A little numb, a bit confused, even angry. Long ago, he had realized it was better not to feel anything than to feel too much.
Entering the living area, he signaled to the officer in charge, held up his badge and nodded as the local cop continued to question the woman huddled on the couch.
Lillie’s life had been inexplicably intertwined with Dawson’s, although he doubted she was aware her mother’s killer had a son. They’d never been introduced, but Dawson had seen her on post. It was hard not to notice the tall and slender secretary. Usually she was stylishly dressed and perfectly coiffed. Tonight wild, honey-brown tresses fell across the collar of what appeared to be flannel pajamas. Even from where he stood, Dawson noticed the blood spatters on the thick fabric.
She turned, hearing him behind her.
He hadn’t expected her eyes to be so green or so lucid. She wore her pain in the knit of her brow, in the downward tug on her full lips, in the tear-streaked eyes whose sadness wrapped around his heart. His breath hitched, and time stood still for one long moment.
Pritchard asked another question. She turned back to the lead cop, leaving Dawson dangling. He straightened his neck, trying to work his way back to reality.
Long ago, Dawson had learned to weigh everything, never to take a chance. He put his faith in what he could do and affect and impact, not on emotions that left him hanging in thin air.
“The middle of a stormy night.” Pritchard restated the last question. “Yet you opened your door when Mr. Ford knocked?”
“I...ah...” She searched for an answer.
“Do you always open your door to strangers, Ms. Beaumont?” Pritchard pressed.
She shook her head. “Of course not, but—”
Once again, she glanced at Dawson, as if asking him to clear the confusion written on her oval face.
“Had you been asleep?” Dawson knew better than to prompt a witness, yet the question sprang from his lips before he could weigh the consequences.
She nodded, her brow raised and lips upturned for the briefest of moments. “I was dreaming. The knock sounded. Before I realized what I was doing, I was staring at him through the open doorway.”
Pritchard cleared his throat and jotted her answer in a notebook. After recording the statement, he glared at Dawson. “I’m finished questioning Ms. Beaumont. If there’s anything you want to ask her, go right ahead. I’ll be outside.”
Dawson read between the lines. Pritchard didn’t want his interrogation compromised by a newcomer from post. A subtle reprimand, perhaps? Not that Dawson would be intimidated by a small-town cop.
As Pritchard left through the kitchen, Dawson took a seat on the chair next to Lillie and held up his identification.
“Special Agent Dawson Timmons, ma’am. I’m with the Criminal Investigation Division at Fort Rickman. The Freemont Police Department is handling the murder investigation, but the CID was called in because you work on post. I’m here as a liaison between the local police and the military.”
“Does...does General Cameron know what happened?” Lillie asked.
“He’s being notified.”
“I don’t want anything to—”
“To jeopardize your job? I don’t see how that could happen. Unless your position as the general’s secretary has a bearing on this crime.”
“No, no.” She held up her