"Witnesses stated that they heard your wife needling you about your close liaison with a secretary at your last base," Carly said quietly.
"I didn't have an affair with that woman."
Evidently, Elaine Dawson-Smith had believed him. The tenor of her remarks that night had held more derision than anger. She'd confided to one of the other women present that her husband didn't have the balls to cheat on her.
No one could say the same about her.
"The same witnesses also heard you accuse your wife of having an affair here at Maxwell."
The muscle under his eye jumped. "I thought... I sensed she was seeing someone." He brought the words out stiffly, reluctantly, a private man forced to reveal his inner torments. "With all else that had started to go bad between us, the sex was always good. Until lately. Then Elaine didn't seem to want any. From me, anyway."
"You thought she was seeing someone else? Another student? Someone she met in town?"
"I don't know. She'd just laugh when I asked her what was going on and tell me there wasn't anyone I'd have to worry about. Lately, she'd stopped laughing, and we argued more."
"Like when she threw a glass at your head?"
"She was flying high that night, almost drunk. She'd sobered up by the time we got home, but it wasn't the first time she lost it in public. We talked about getting some professional help."
"Did you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Elaine woke up the next day convinced I was the one with the problem, not her. She was also concerned about the impact on her career... and on her father's appointment... if word got out that she needed help."
Carly had wondered how long it would take for
General Dawson to surface in the interview. Commander in Chief, Pacific Air Forces, General Ronald Dawson was responsible for U.S. Air Force operations from the west coasts of the Americas to the east coast of Africa—an area covering more than half the Earth's surface. A seasoned veteran and senior commander, Dawson had recently been nominated by the president as the next chairman of the joint-chiefs-of-staff.
"Did General Dawson know about his daughter's problem with alcohol? "
"Not that I'm aware of. I didn't discuss it with him."
"Why not?"
Smith's eye ticked. "Have you ever met my father-in-law, Major?"
"No."
"If you had, you could answer that question yourself."
"I'd prefer that you answer it."
"Let's just say that neither my wife nor I wanted her father involved in our problems."
Carly wasn't going to get more out of Smith on that one. She saw the barriers going back up, the coldness descending.
She hadn't met General Dawson personally, but she certainly knew him by reputation. A decorated Vietnam War hero, he didn't suffer fools or malcontents willingly. He also believed in swift execution of justice. During Carly's stint at the Pentagon, he'd kept half the legal staff at the headquarters jumping through hoops with his demands for immediate, decisive action on sensitive cases.
The one weak spot in the general's armor, which he professed to fondly and publicly in several media interviews, was his daughter. He'd molded her, shaped her in his own image, took immense pride in the fact that she followed in his footsteps. Carly could understand why Elaine Dawson-Smith might hesitate to admit a failed marriage or a problem with alcohol to the father who wanted her to someday wear four stars, too.
"Tell me about your wife's daily trips to the base stables," she said, trying another tack. "Did she make a habit of exercising her mount even in the rain? "
"Rain, snow, or sleet." For the first time, a flicker of real emotion crossed Smith's face. Was it pain, or regret? "Elaine loved that animal. Sometimes I think it was the only thing she really cared about."
G. Putnam inserted a gentle rebuke. "Let's stay focused on April twelfth, Mike."
Smith took the hint. From then on, he kept his responses to the minimal required to answer Carly's questions. She terminated the interview an hour later, having gained nothing she didn't already know from the accused.
"When can we expect to receive a copy of your report?" Jones asked, snapping the gold clasps on his pigskin briefcase.
"When it's finished, Counselor."
Her lawyer's sixth sense put Smith at the scene of his wife's murder and the smoking gun in his hand. Her gut told her to dig a little more before she wrapped up her investigation.
"My report goes directly to the forty-second Air Base Wing commander for review," she explained. His staff will see that you receive a copy. You'll have five days from date of receipt to present objections if you have them."
"I expect we will," Jones answered. With a nod to the stenographer, he shepherded his client out.
With their departure, Carly suddenly needed away from the small conference room. She craved air, space to think, some quiet to anchor the thoughts swirling around in her head. Deciding to grab a few hours of privacy in her office at the law center, she left Sergeant Hendricks to finish printing out the transcript of the Smith interview.
As she crossed the parking lot to her MG, thunder rumbled in the distance. Oh, Lord! More rain. If these storms kept up, the Alabama would surely crest its banks. Local stations had already begun broadcasting warnings. To hammer the danger home, channel 6 had run a series of black-and-white stills from the great flood of 1929 on the news last night.
The Judge retained vivid memories of that devastating spring. Carly had grown up with stories about the incessant rains that brought the river over its banks and left almost a dozen Alabama cities totally submerged. Thousands of people had been stranded for days on rooftops and high hills. Raging currents made rescue by boat impossible.
As a result, the fledgling air group at Maxwell flew round-the-clock missions for weeks to drop food and supplies to stranded citizens. That heroic effort marked the first time U.S. aircrews dropped supplies during a major civilian disaster, cementing relations between the base and the community for the many decades that followed. Carly only hoped the Maxwell aircrews wouldn't have to provide such relief again.
The black thunderclouds piling up in the north changed her mind about her destination. With Michael Smith's statement still vivid in her mind, she wanted to time the short drive from the library to the stables, then walk the path Elaine Dawson-Smith had taken to her death. She'd better do it now, before the storm broke.
She followed Chennault Circle to the parking lot next to Air War College and clocked herself from there. After a short swing past the CADRE building, she took a right onto March Street. The golf course sat forlorn and deserted under the threatening gray sky.
March Street flowed into Mimosa, then into River Road. The turnoff to the stables appeared less than a mile later. Carly pulled into the lot behind the cluster of stalls. A quick check of her watch verified that the trip had taken less than seven minutes.
The medical examiner had fixed Elaine's time of death between one and three p.m. Her husband could easily have left the library, met her in the woods beyond the stable, shot her, and returned to the library. There were no witnesses other than McMann to prove or disprove his claim.
The only employee at the stables was a high schooler paid by the riding club and by individual members to feed and exercise their mounts in their absence. She came early in the morning, before school, then again after school. The agents from the Office of Special Investigations who worked the case hadn't located any riding club members who'd been in the vicinity on the afternoon of April twelfth.
Except Elaine Dawson-Smith. The investigators had carefully pieced together her movements on the last day of her life. She'd attended classes in the morning, had lunch at the Officers' Club with two classmates, taken advantage of a scheduled physical fitness block to drive out to the stables, ostensibly to indulge in her favorite form of exercise. She'd arrived just after one. Some time after that, she'd walked into the woods and taken a bullet through the heart.
Digging the crime-scene photos out of her briefcase, Carly exchanged her heels for the sneakers she kept with her racquetball gear in the MG's trunk and followed the horse path into the pines. It skirted the golf course for a short distance, then led to a broad, open field bordered by two fairways. Turning her back on the field and the manicured golf course, she crossed River Road and plunged into a stand of pines.
Moisture hung thick and heavy on the air. A spongy cushion of needles squished under her soles. Within moments, her short-sleeved uniform shirt lay limp against her breasts and her panty hose clung to her thighs like clammy Saran Wrap.
Aside from the distant thunder and the rushing roar of the Alabama less than a hundred yards away, the only sound that disturbed the stillness was the choking cough of an engine. A lawn mower, she surmised, one of those giant machines the inmates operated as part of the cooperative agreement between Maxwell and the Federal Bureau of Prisons. The base kept the prisoners busy. The prisoners kept the base trim and neat.
No doubt McMann had operated one of those machines during his confinement, or walked the perimeter, picking up trash. Carly tried to picture him in prison greens, one of the hundreds of men who blended into the background on the busy base. She couldn't imagine Ryan McMann blending in anywhere. Not with those slicing blue eyes and that lean, rugged face. That lean, rugged, bruised face. Anger shot through her again. She still hadn't quite forgiven Parker for his interference.
Preoccupied with thoughts of McMann, Carly walked farther than she realized. Frowning, she turned and retraced her steps to where the path curved. Joanna West had spotted the body from the road, only a few yards off the path. The spot had to be near, maybe... "Oh!"
She jerked back, narrowly avoiding a collision with the figure who lumbered out of the pines. Startled, she registered two instantaneous impressions. One, he wore prison greens. Two, he filled out the nondescript uniform in a way she'd never imagined it could be filled. The pants that bagged on most of the inmates clung to his thick, corded thighs. The white T-shirt stretched across a chest and shoulders roped with muscle.
Carly stumbled back another step or two, overwhelmed as much by his sheer size as by the grisly reminder of what had happened at or near this spot two weeks ago.
"What do you want?" she asked sharply.
"I...I...I..."
He didn't move toward her, didn't try to close the distance between them. He looked so startled, so frightened, that Carly's galloping pulse slowed to a fast trot.
"I...I..."
He swallowed convulsively. His Adam's apple bobbed under a chin lightly fuzzed with a blond shadow.
"It's okay. You scared me as much as I scared you. Are you working here?" She swept the area and caught a gleam of metal on the far side of the pine thicket. "Mowing grass?"
He nodded.
While he kept his distance and regarded her with a combination of nervous fear and wariness, Carly's mind raced. The military investigators had talked to prison officials and to those inmates on road and grounds duty the day of Elaine Dawson-Smith's murder. The closest crew had been detailed to the runway supervisor, who'd kept them at work clearing the field between the runways... less than a mile from the murder scene. None of the inmates had seen or heard anything, but Carly decided it was worth a shot to ask a few questions of her own.
"What's your name?"
"B... Billy. H... H... Hopewell."
In a gesture at once subservient and polite, he tugged off his hat. Carly's jaw sagged. Freed of the ball cap, his short, burnished curls framed a face that the Greeks might have immortalized in marble. Belatedly, she realized she was gaping.
"I'm Major Samuels, Mr. Hopewell. I work here on the base."
He nodded again, wringing the green ball cap with both hands. "I'd like to talk to you."
Panic flared in his eyes. "Not s... s... sposed to t...talk."
"I'm aware that inmates aren't supposed to carry on casual conversations with base personnel, but this is official business."
"T...t...t..."
His face twisted in an effort of getting out the words. The struggle was painful to watch.
"T... t... trouble."
"No, you won't get in trouble."
He looked so close to tears that Carly found herself oozing gentle assurances.
"It's all right, I promise, it's all right."
"N... not all right. Ry says s... so."
"Ry? Ry who?" Her pulse jumped. "Do you mean Ryan? Ryan McMann? Do you know him? "
"My f... friend." His big fists mangled the ball cap. "Not right. Ry said so."
"What's not right?" She took a step closer, her attention riveted on his awesome face. "Did Ryan McMann tell you it wasn't right to talk to people? What aren't you supposed to talk about?"
"Can't... can't... talk. Ry said so. J... Joy said so."
"Who's Joy?"
The inmate backed away, his panic increasing with each question she threw at him. For an absurd moment, Carly felt like a predator stalking a prey at least a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than she was.
"Who's Joy, Mr. Hopewell?"
"I...I..."
With an inarticulate cry, he spun around and fled. Frustrated and a Little ashamed of badgering him as she had, Carly watched him race through the trees. Moments after the trees swallowed him up, the mower's engine chugged to life.
She decided she now had two options. The first was to drive to the prison and make an official request to speak to Hopewell. The second option... The second was to have another chat with Billy's friend.
She set off for the stables. She'd check the OSI reports, find out who McMann worked for. With luck, she could catch him on the job this afternoon. Intent on her quick change of plans, Carly walked right past the tall pine that had partially obscured Elaine Dawson-Smith's body.
She didn't notice the limp cluster of pale pink woodroses laid at the base of the pine.
Flowers! The friggin' idiot dropped flowers where the Smith bitch got it!
Gator Burns snatched up the wild roses, cursing viciously. He'd figured something was up when he'd spotted Billy-boy stumbling outta the woods like a big, crazed bear. The fragile roses disintegrated in Gator's hamlike fist.
That fucking goonhead was gonna get them all fried! It was bad enough Billy had started crying like a baby at night, callin' for his dead momma, stuttering and stammering even in his sleep. Now he had to go drop flowers like he was decoratin' a goddamned grave.
Gator had worried that the kid might crack sooner or later. Looked like it was gonna be sooner.
Well, he wasn't letting no halfwit take him down. Hopewell had brought in some good bucks this past year, but Gator didn't need him. He had other inmates on the string, not as big, not as pretty, but eager enough to get their rocks off. It was time, he decided grimly, to put his prize stud horse out to pasture.
He backtracked to the mower he'd left parked just off the fairway and climbed into the seat. One foot worked the clutch. The other pushed the rusted pedal to the floor. The engine coughed and spit. The double circular blades rattled under their casings. Gator pulled the lever to raise the blades and let the clutch out. The mower humped and bumped down the fairway.
Good thing he'd worked it so's he got put on the same crew as the kid. Him and Jimbo both. Pauly was pullin' kitchen detail the rest of this week. Gator coulda got him off but he liked keeping someone in the kitchen. The guards came in for coffee, talked as if the inmates scrubbing the floors didn't have no faces, let alone ears. 'Specially Murphee. Ole Murph could shoot the shit with the best of them. He liked his coffee, Murph did, and sitting around on his fat ass. He also liked the money Gator slipped him to put him and Jimbo and Billy-boy on the golf course detail more or less regular. It was easy work riding up and down the grassy stretches. Convenient, too, for their little side business.
'Course, things got hairy on the East Course, where the greens hugged the river and deep ravines gouged right through the fairway
s. Cutting them slopes was tricky, 'specially on fairway number seven. A big, heavy machine like this wasn't angled right, it could tip right over.
A few moments later, Gator caught sight of Billy's mower up ahead. His boot stomped down on the rusted pedal.
Chapter Six
Thunder rolled in from the north, sweeping toward the construction site like an oncoming tide. Scudding clouds sent shadows flitting across the partially shingled roof. The accompanying breeze cooled Ryan's bare, sweaty back.
He leaned heavily on his bent knee. With one hand, he slapped composite shingles onto thirty-pound underlay. With his other, he shot heavy-duty staples through shingle, felt, and wood. Whap! Whap! Whap!
In a rhythm that matched the crack of the staple gun, he kneed his way along the plywood roof deck. The prickly composite shingles scraped like sandpaper on his palm and the reek of the tarred under-paper stung his nostrils, but Ryan barely noticed either. This was exactly the kind of work he wanted at this point in his life. Brutal. Mindless. Exhausting.
His parole officer had tried to convince him to take the job offered by the owner of a sporting goods chain, hawking football jerseys and baseball caps in a mall store on the east side of the city. Ryan hadn't wanted any part of it, any more than he'd wanted to organize the warden's prison Olympics. He'd put that part of his life behind him. Soon, he thought with a shaft of grim satisfaction, he'd put this part behind him as well.
Two and a half months and counting.
Two and a half more months of backbreaking labor. Two and a half more months of twice-a-week visits to the prison, followed by a final meeting with the parole board and a certificate of rehabilitation, which Ryan figured was about as useful as a wad of used toilet paper. Then he was out of here. His last sight of Alabama's red clay roads and gray, dripping skies would be the one framed in the rearview mirror.
He... Whap!... couldn't... Whap!... wait— "Hey! McMann!"
The foreman's shout barely carried over the staple gun's ear-splitting crack. Ryan corkscrewed around, taking care not to let his knee slip off the deck.
River Rising Page 7
