Hard Press'd

by Linda Rae Blair

  The Admiral looked Press in the eyes. “Yes, you’re right. Your father speaks very highly of you, Detective. You did a very thorough job on that case last year. I heard you were in the hospital for several weeks. Your father was very worried about you.”

  “Yes, sir. I know he was.” Press absentmindedly rubbed his chest where the bullet had torn through his ribs and just missed his heart and lungs.

  “If you run into any…road blocks…at our end, let Foster know. We’ll do what we can to clear them—within reason, of course.”

  “I know Commander Olivette,” the Admiral continued. “If his son is somehow involved in this murder, it will break his heart. He has high hopes for his son—a lot of potential there.” The Admiral let out a deep sigh. “Sometimes potential isn’t enough.”

  “Sons don’t always meet their fathers’ expectations, sir,” Press replied.

  The Admiral was well aware of the senator’s disappointment at Press’s choice of vocations. “True, but some fathers have unrealistic expectations,” the Admiral smiled at Press. Then the smile was replaced with a look of grim determination that Press felt must send shivers down a subordinate’s spine.

  “The Navy has a huge population and crosses every grouping you can imagine—good and bad. If a sailor is involved, he won’t get any special treatment. We’re a close-knit bunch, as you know, but even the best tree can have a bad apple or two. I don’t like them any more than you do.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Press and the Admiral shook hands as Foster returned with word that Olivette had been located and an escort was bringing him to the Admiral’s conference room.

  “Now, Detective, I need to get back to work. Good luck with your investigation.” The Admiral’s door closed behind him.

  * * *

  “Sir.” With his hat neatly tucked under one arm, back ramrod-straight, Olivette entered the room.

  “Have a seat Ensign Olivette,” Press’s bass voice swept through the large room.

  Olivette moved to the conference table, placed his hat on the table in front of his chair and sat across from the two detectives.

  Press saw a young man, approximately twenty-five years old, about five-feet-ten-inches, one-hundred-eighty muscular pounds, sandy brown hair cropped in a short military cut, brown eyes and clean-shaven. A fine example of a sailor, but Press didn’t quite believe that.

  “I am Homicide Detective Andrews; this is my partner, Detective Evans. We’re here to talk to you about Macy Roberts.”

  “Macy Roberts, sir?”

  Press thought to himself, come on kid—try to tell us you didn’t know her. “Yes. You know Miss Roberts, Ensign?”

  “Yes, sir, I did—briefly. We went out a couple of times last year. Is something wrong, sir?” Olivette turned his gaze directly toward Press. “You said ‘homicide’?”

  “Yes, I did.” Press pulled out an autopsy shot of Macy Roberts. “You could say something’s wrong, Ensign.” He threw the picture down on the table in front of Olivette.

  Watching Olivette carefully, Press saw absolutely no physical reaction to what he was seeing. “What does this have to do with me, sir?”

  “When did you last see Macy Roberts, Ensign?” Press left the man’s question unanswered.

  “Several months ago. She really wasn’t my type.”

  “What is your type, Ensign?”

  “Well, sir, how do I put this…she was still a virgin, sir. I really wasn’t interested in someone that…immature, sir.”

  “Immature. So, if a girl doesn’t put out for you, you move on? Is that it, sailor?”

  “Why not, sir? Lots of fish in a very large sea.”

  While others might have found Olivette’s smile charming, it struck Press as cold. “So what was the initial draw?”

  “She had lots of money and looks but that was about all. We didn’t have much in common, really.”

  Press had to rein in his temper, and he could feel the tension pour off Trace. “So you dropped her—when?”

  “Like I said, sir, several months ago. Probably September? I don’t remember exactly.”

  “Hum, September.” Press placed a copy of the photograph he found in Macy’s closet—dated late October—down in front of Olivette.

  Olivette remained silent. “Sir, I’m going to invoke my right to representation.”

  “You’re not under arrest, Ensign. Should you be?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Well, I can certainly see why you would be concerned. A young woman is murdered, and you’ve lied to the police about the last time you saw her. Apparently, you believe you have something to hide, Ensign. If you want a lawyer, we can certainly see that JAG provides one. Then we can finish this at VBPD headquarters.” Press stood up and started toward the door.

  “Never mind, as long as we understand that I had absolutely nothing to do with Macy’s death,” Olivette stopped him.

  “Well, I want you to be very certain of that. You do seem to be in a rather dicey position, Ensign.” Press knew the man had to be nervous, but not one drop of sweat could be seen, and Olivette’s hands were absolutely steady. Either he is completely innocent or the coldest son-of-a-bitch I’ve run into, Press thought. He knew which he thought to be true.

  “I don’t see why, sir. I simply forgot about the dance. She was a last minute invite, as I recall. Didn’t have a date—I’d been busy and had forgotten all about the dance, sir. Not my cup of tea, really. But the old man, my father, expected attendance.”

  Before Press could jump in, Olivette continued, “Oh, yeah, I remember now. I ran into her at a charity function her father’s company sponsored. It was better than going stag—so I invited her. It really wasn’t a very memorable evening; we called it a night early.”

  “I see.” Press looked Olivette directly in the eye and asked, “Where were you between midnight and 2:00 AM yesterday, Ensign?”

  “I was off base, sir. With a young lady,” Olivette smirked. “I prefer to keep her out of this, if possible, sir. She has an attachment of sorts.”

  “A married lady, Ensign?”

  “Yes, sir. An officer’s wife, sir.”

  “I see. Well, I’m afraid we’re going to have to have her name.” Press pushed him for a name, but what he wanted to do was punch this smart-mouthed punk.

  “Kimberly Stuart, sir. Lieutenant Commander Kenneth Stuart’s wife. We have an arrangement that helps Mrs. Stuart bear the long months when her husband is at sea. I do hope you’ll be discreet, sir. I wouldn’t wish to cause Mrs. Stuart any…discomfort.”

  “You can rest assured that we will be discreet and thorough.” Press’s jaw was beginning to ache from gritting his teeth. “Well, I think that’s all for now, Ensign Olivette.” Press wanted to strangle this punk! “We may have more questions later.”

  “Anytime, sir. Glad to help,” Olivette said, as he rose, tucked his white hat under his arm, turned sharply and exited the room.

  Foster, who had been positioned just outside the room, came back in. “Anything more I can do for you, sir?”

  Press didn’t like Ensign Olivette one little bit. He found he’d been gripping his right hand in a fist. He took time to flex his hand to relax it before responding to Foster.

  “Yes. Please ask the Admiral to keep Ensign Olivette from leaving the base until I notify him. And I’d like to have a copy of his service record, if that can be arranged.”

  “I’ll pass that request on to the Admiral, sir. If you’re finished, I can have someone take you to your vehicle.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant. We’re finished for now.”

  After Foster left the room, Trace spoke up. “Olivette is lying his face off. He’s a cold-blooded son-of-a-bitch. He didn’t even blink at the shot of Macy with two bullet holes in her.”

  “And a fast thinker—came up with a story about the dance fast enough. She’s beautiful, she’s loaded, but our man isn’t interested—what’s wrong with this picture? Let’s check into Ensign Olivette and see what
pops up!”

  “You can handle Mrs. Stuart, Trace. She’s going to alibi him; that much is certain. Just get her to provide as many details as possible. Maybe we can catch her in a lie.”

  * * *

  “Well, Foster,” the Admiral pushed his torso back in his chair, “what’s your opinion?”

  “I’d say Olivette has a lot to answer to, sir. Detective Andrews was still trying to release a lot of anger in the form of a clinched fist when he left the room. Evans just looked disgusted. We’ll be seeing both of them again soon, sir. Olivette has himself in a vice, and they’re going to squeeze him hard. He’s dirty, sir. I’d bet a month’s wages on it…if I were a betting man, sir.”

  “Not that I was listening, sir.” Foster cleared his throat. “But I believe I overheard mention of Lieutenant Commander Stuart’s wife.”

  “Damned woman. Don’t know what the hell Kenneth saw in that tramp. Well, I guess I do, but why the man married her is beyond me. We’ll have some dirty laundry getting aired there, too, Foster.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Admiral shook his head in disgust. “Olivette has no idea who he’s dealing with, Foster. Preston Andrews has had tougher men than him for lunch.”

  “They want him kept on-base until further notice and copies of his personnel files,” Foster added coolly.

  “Is that so?” The Admiral thought about this for a minute. “Normally, I would turn that request over to JAG, but just this once I think I’ll notify JAG after we’ve sent the file.”

  “Sir? Admiral Walker’s going to go through the roof.”

  “Did you see that beautiful young girl, Foster? Someone, likely Olivette or someone with whom he’s involved did the deed. I want whomever that was caught—and caught fast, Foster. I’m willing to have a come-to-Jesus talk with the powers that be over at JAG in order to accomplish that goal. Give VBPD what they want, Foster. Let’s see what Preston Andrews digs up on Olivette.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, and Foster…”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Set up court time for tonight and ask the senior Olivette to meet me there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  21

  Virginia Beach

  Day 2

  2:30 PM

  While Trace ran background checks on both George Roberts and Ensign David Olivette, Press ran credit checks on both. Later in the afternoon, the tox report on Macy Roberts came back—normal.

  By the time Press got home that night, he was wiped out. He leashed the tank named Jones and went for a run. Once he had the beast so tired he knew he’d go right to sleep, they headed back to the house. The run not only exhausted the dog, but it erased the day’s frustration from Press’s system.

  He decided to make an early night of it and went up to his room—his room again. Sherry had managed to remove every sign of herself from his room, his house, his life.

  Then, as he stepped into his bathroom to take a hot shower before bed, he found the last trace of her—her fragrance. A bar of her Jasmine-scented soap was still in the shower stall. He knew she’d done what was necessary, but it didn’t make him immune to the sense of loss. As he tossed the bar of soap into the wastebasket, he knew Sherry was a beautiful, smart, genuinely kind human being, and he would miss her.

  22

  VBPD Headquarters

  Day 3

  10:00 AM

  The next morning, sitting at his desk pouring over the reports on Roberts and Olivette, Press heard the Lieutenant call his name. He entered his superior’s office and found two suits seated across from Wallace.

  “Sir?”

  “Come in, Detective. Let me introduce Special Agents Wilding and Forrester from the FBI’s DC bureau.”

  “Uh, oh.” Press shook hands with the agents and flashed one of those smiles. “To what do we owe the attention of the FBI?”

  Press took a deep breath when he looked at Agent Wilding. She was a strikingly beautiful woman—though she’d tried to tame that beauty, no doubt to avoid drawing more attention to herself on the job than was absolutely necessary. He would hate to tell her that nothing she could do would succeed.

  She was probably five-feet-eight-inches tall without those neat little pumps and their three-inch heels. The dark “FBI” suit only accentuated the long, glossy auburn hair worn pulled back into a ponytail that trailed a good foot down her back. Despite the below-the-knee hem of her pencil skirt, her legs absolutely had to go up to her neck.

  Her full, sensuous mouth was just slightly tinted and glossed; her skin was clear and flawless, if you overlooked the faint sprinkling of freckles that spread over her gorgeous patrician nose. Thick lashes framed her cat-like light brown eyes flecked with gold. If anyone had asked him to describe her partner, he would have been at a complete loss.

  “We understand that you have been investigating George Roberts and RTF International, Detective Andrews,” Agent Fielding stated matter-of-factly.

  God, Press thought, her voice is as luscious as the rest of her. There was a touch of Boston in that silken-honey tone.

  They all sat down, and Press began explaining his interest in Roberts and RTF International. He’d run into parallel investigations before—he knew the signs and he knew that, if his superiors were giving him the go-ahead to share information, he would do so. He might not always like it, but, as he had told Trace early in his training, he would do it in the hope that there would be reciprocation when he needed it! The FBI was also looking at Roberts for something. Hallelujah. Maybe a lead!

  At around five-foot-five-inches, about one-hundred-fifty pounds, balding and wearing wire-framed glasses, Agent Forrester looked more like a CPA than an FBI agent. “We’ve been looking at Roberts for some time now. We’d hate to see your investigation jeopardize ours…” noticing Press’s jaw clenching, he added quickly, “or visa versa. There’s been a lot of time and expense put into our case.”

  The Lieutenant spoke up. “Believe me, we have no interest in jeopardizing your case, Agent Forrester, but we do have a murder to solve. Maybe we could work together to avoid any conflicts?”

  Oh, boy! Press thought, there it is—we’ll wind up getting nothing and giving everything. One thing he knew about the Bureau—they didn’t often share and almost never played well together. Still, he had his fingers crossed. He had yet to put away his recently-obtained resentment for the Bureau. The Director was responsible for his near death experience last fall.

  “Detective Andrews,” Agent Wilding said, “the FBI has been courting you for quite awhile, but you’ve chosen to continue working for the VBPD. My superiors have asked me to work closely with you to assure that both cases, yours and ours, are resolved without us stepping on each other’s toes.”

  “Does that include sharing information in both directions, Agent Wilding?” Press looked into those gorgeous hazel eyes.

  “Absolutely—within certain limitations, of course. There are certain aspects of our case that we are not willing to have become public yet. But that shouldn’t be an issue at the moment.”

  Press read between the lines—all sharing would stop the minute she decided it did. He wouldn’t get a vote.

  “Welcome onboard, Agent Wilding,” Press shook her hand.

  “Same to you, Detective Andrews,” she smiled.

  Press decided that a day that had started out tediously was definitely looking up.

  * * *

  The Lieutenant had office space set up for Press and his team—Trace, Rachel Wilding, Bob Forrester. Complete with a conference table, computers for each member of the team—the agents had brought their own laptops—phones, whiteboard and a corkboard with crime scene, autopsy and suspect photos posted.

  “Okay, Agent Wilding…” Press began.

  “Please, Rachel. And this is Bob. If we’re going to be a team on this case, let’s try to put aside who is FBI and who is local. It’ll make things easier, don’t you think?”

  “Alright…Rachel, what do you h
ave on George Roberts and RFT International?”

  “We have a number of young women missing, Detective.” She started posting photos on the corkboard. “This is a sampling.”

  “Oh, my God,” Trace interjected as she posted the eleventh photo.

  “That many?” Press had already noticed the changes in hairstyles and clothing—these girls went missing over a period of years.

  “More. As I said, these are a sampling—there are more,” Rachel explained.

  “But what do their disappearances have to do with George Roberts?”

  “If you look for similarities here,” Rachel said as she pointed to the photographs, “you’ll find that, at the time they disappeared, these young women are all approximately the same age—eighteen to twenty-two, all beautiful, every one of them has a good education—college material, little or no family left. Each had a limited social life due to heavy school studies and/or working to pay for school. Each was, as far as we know now…a virgin.”

  The women were all young, beautiful—just like Macy Roberts. Press’s skin went cold.

  But there was one thing Press knew about Macy that the others didn’t yet. Macy was no virgin—hadn’t been since she was a sophomore in high school. He clearly remembered the heated discussions his parents had had with Steffi.

  He’d kept that information from David Olivette, the arrogant little asshole.

  “In other words,” Press spoke up, “not greatly missed until the trail went cold?”

  “Right,” Bob spoke up.

  “Not one of these girls has been found—no bodies, no personal effects, no ransom calls, no witnesses—they just vanished from the face of the earth,” Forrester added.

  “Okay…so just what does the FBI think has happened to them? Do we have a serial killer here or what?” Press knew he wasn’t going to like what he was going to hear. He was already feeling sick in the pit of his stomach. All those lovely young women, just…gone.

  Forrester continued, “We think Roberts is behind the disappearances. What we don’t know is whether or not he has a partner—or who is working with him. It’s impossible for him to be acting alone, since we can account for his time in at least two of the cases. So, unless those cases are not connected, old George cannot be acting alone.”