Broken Honor

by Potter, Patricia;

  “A security guard,” the voice on the other end corrected with a sneer. “Would you rather that I sat in jail?”

  An implied threat radiated across the miles.

  “Sloppy work. I expected better from you.”

  There was silence. Then, “Someone may have seen me.”

  “Explain.”

  “I … had a run-in at the hospital with Flaherty. He … could have seen my face.”

  “You know it’s Flaherty?”

  “I’ve seen his pictures.”

  A curse came across the lines. “Come back. I’ll send someone else to tidy things. Did you find anything?”

  “Nothing in Foster’s files. There were some boxes with Mallory’s name on them. I had one when the bitch showed up with the security guard. One of them might contain what you want.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “The police probably have them.”

  A pause. “I’ll have someone else try to get them.”

  “What about a tap on her phone?”

  “They might be looking for it. Leave it alone for now. Don’t go near her.”

  “I don’t like that Flaherty saw me. Maybe I should.…”

  “Get the boxes and get back here. We’ll take care of Flaherty. And Amy Mallory, too.”

  MEMPHIS

  The morning wore on endlessly. The detectives had asked question after question, then remained until a uniformed policeman arrived and took his post outside her door.

  Amy wanted to go home. She didn’t want to be guarded. She didn’t want to be reminded of the last few days. The last week.

  Then remembered there was no home to go to. She didn’t feel safe anywhere, particularly not at a hotel swarming with people she didn’t know.

  Sherry couldn’t help. She had two roommates. And Amy didn’t want to put her friend in danger. She wouldn’t feel safe in her office again, either, and that had always been her refuge.

  Her blood froze every time she saw the uniform of her police guard when someone opened the door to come in the room. Even Sherry, who visited early this morning, had been disconcerted. Amy had already been told she would be released tomorrow morning if everything went well. She still had a headache and her side still hurt badly, but the burning agony had lessened. She wanted Bojangles. Amy wanted to bury her face in his thick fur and feel the comforting sympathy.

  But where?

  She spent the morning calling two academic friends, one of whom was a wizard on the computer and one who had gone to the Department of Defense as a researcher. She asked both to check on Lieutenant Colonel Lucien Flaherty and to get back to her as soon as possible. Then she called the security office at the university and asked about the box that had been stolen and any others in Foster’s office.

  Larry Green, the chief of security, came to the phone. She had met him several times, once when one of her students had been attacked on the campus. She liked him.

  “Miss Mallory, I’ve wanted to come see you, but things have been hectic here.”

  “I’m so sorry about Claude. I want to see him, but he’s still not allowed visitors.” She also had Jon’s funeral to attend. Her voice caught at that.

  There was a silence on the other end. Then, “Claude died last night.”

  She didn’t think she could feel worse than she already did. She was wrong. “Please tell his wife I am so sorry. He was just … trying to protect me.”

  “I hope you don’t blame yourself,” he said.

  She was silent for a moment. She did blame herself. She didn’t know why a black cloud was following her like Joe Blfsph in an old Dick Tracy comic strip. But that black cloud was a person, and by damn she was going to find out who.

  “Miss Mallory?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Can I do anything for you?”

  “I … was just calling about the box that the thief dropped. The police asked about it, and I told them I wanted to be present when it was opened.”

  “That’s odd,” Larry said. “Someone came by a few minutes ago from the police department to pick it up, but I didn’t remember seeing him here that night, or the next day, and I was surprised it wasn’t one of the detectives working the case. I told him I couldn’t release it without the proper paperwork.” He hesitated, then added in a strained voice, “He protested until I started to call police headquarters. Then he left. Fastlike.” A pause. Then anger laced his voice as he asked, “Do you think he had anything to do with … Claude’s death?”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Tall. Six feet. About a hundred and ninety pounds. Dark hair.”

  It couldn’t be her burglar. He’d been thinner than that. And Colonel Flaherty had said the assailant in her room had light brown hair. Still a chill ran up her spine. “Was there anyone with you?”

  “The office was filled. We were raising money for Claude’s family. In fact, we were just leaving for his house when you called. I’ll put the stuff in our safe,” he said, “and call the detectives who worked the case.”

  She heard voices in the background, and she remembered the faces. Pain twisted inside her as she saw Claude in her mind. Tall and proud in his uniform, his large hands fumbling with his wallet as he thumbed through photos of his family.

  The silence on the other end stretched for a moment, then Larry Green spoke over other voices in the background. “I should have stopped him.” Anger laced his words. And self-accusation.

  “You didn’t know,” Amy said simply. She hesitated, then added, “But someone attacked me late last night. In my hospital room. I think he was trying to kill me. Someone—an Army officer—stopped him, but he got away.”

  “Flaherty?” the security chief asked. “The CID guy? He was here asking questions about you yesterday.”

  “About me?”

  “About you and Dr. Foster.”

  Amy tensed. The colonel hadn’t said anything about that.

  “I didn’t tell him anything,” he said, as if he sensed her uncertainty.

  “Thank you,” Amy said.

  “Do you have any idea of what’s going on?” Larry’s voice was rough with frustration and, she thought, exhaustion and grief. Security was a tight-knit group.

  “I wish I did,” she replied, knowing that her voice trembled. She hated that. She wanted to be strong and independent. She was strong. But how do you fight shadows?

  Larry muttered something that was probably a curse. “I can’t believe someone would actually pretend to be a cop.”

  “Maybe he was one,” she tried to soothe him. But even as she did, she knew—and knew he did, too—that it was unlikely. Why else would he have left as soon as Larry called police headquarters?

  “You will be careful about the box?” she said. “Can you get the others from Jon Foster’s office?”

  “I’ll do it now. The office has been secured. The lab people have been there to fingerprint, but they told me there are so many prints that it’s almost hopeless.”

  “The burglar wore gloves,” she said. “And a ski mask. I told the police that.” Amy heard voices in the background. “And I want to contribute to Claude’s fund. I’ll send you a check.”

  “I’ll stay here and call the detectives,” he said. “Your boxes go into our safe, and I’ll instruct my people that no one, absolutely no one, is to let them go out.”

  “Thank you,” Amy said, then added in a low voice, “I’m sorry. I am so very sorry about Claude.”

  Irish spent the day at police headquarters. The two detectives—Rick Ames and Bill Davies—had been fairly helpful yesterday, but today they were tight-lipped. They watched him as he gave a description to a police artist who worked on a computer. It took an hour, but he felt he had a fairly good likeness despite the fact that he’d had only a quick glimpse of the man’s face.

  “How long are you going to stay in Memphis, Colonel?”

  “I’m not sure. I want to be certain Miss Mallory is safe.”

  “Your inte
rest again?” An eyebrow raised. These cops were not like the campus security. They were cynical and suspicious.

  “Our grandfathers served together in Germany,” he said patiently. “I hoped Miss Mallory might have some records relating to that. I met her yesterday.”

  “And why were you in her room last night?”

  He told himself it was standard investigating procedure. Keep asking the same questions, but in different ways. Try to trip a suspect.

  “I wanted to apologize for barging in on her.”

  Bill Davies frowned. “You indicated yesterday that you were on a case. Your commanding officer seemed unaware of that.”

  “I said I had an interest,” Irish said. “I did not say it was an official case.”

  The detective named Ames glared at him. “Your commanding officer, Colonel Fuller, would like a word with you.”

  “I appreciate your passing along the message,” Irish said.

  “If you’re holding anything back, I won’t hesitate to file obstruction of justice charges,” Ames said.

  Irish understood. He would have felt the same way. “I wish I did know what in the hell was going on,” he said. “I came here to seek information. I’m as puzzled as you by all these attacks on this particular young woman.” He paused. “Are you taking steps to protect her?”

  Now it was their turn to look uncomfortable. “We don’t have the resources to guard people indefinitely.”

  “You mean unless they’re of value to you?” Irish asked.

  Ames leaned forward, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on them. “Believe me, Colonel, if it was up to me, she would have round-the-clock protection. I agree that she is probably in danger. But we don’t have the funds to do it. We can keep a guard at the hospital, maybe a few days afterward, but that’s it. And that, Colonel, is why we need to wrap this thing up.” He unsteepled his hands. “You had the best go at him.”

  Irish already felt a hefty dose of guilt at his performance. What if he had been quicker? More prepared? He’d thought he was in good condition, but he’d been no match for the assailant. Not this time, anyway.

  He nodded, silently assuming blame.

  David broke the silence. “At least we have your composite.”

  “He was a professional,” Irish said. “Everything about this screams professional. The fire. The ski mask in the burglary. The way he handled himself. The descriptions vary, but not the height. I think it was the same person. He just made minor changes. Hair color, bulky clothes. When I was on the floor with him, I felt padding.”

  Ames looked at the composite, then back at Irish. “You’re not going away, are you?”

  Irish shook his head.

  “Even if I ask your superiors to call you off?”

  “No.”

  Ames sighed. “I don’t suppose I can keep you away, but I want to know everything you learn. When you learn it.”

  Irish would have demanded the same thing. But he had told them everything he knew, which was damned little. He just hadn’t told them his suspicions that this all had something to do with events that had happened before they were born. At best, the detectives would think he was reaching. At worst, it would be in all the newspapers. And that would alert whoever was behind what was happening.

  Amy apparently was the key to everything. She was the unwilling catalyst. Or had he been that, and she the unwitting victim?

  If so, she was his responsibility. And possibly the answer to the puzzle.

  But how was he going to convince her of both?

  eight

  MEMPHIS

  No protection after she left the hospital. Or very little.

  A detective explained that sad truth to Amy as she waited to be checked out of the hospital.

  She could move now without the stunning pain. Her headaches were gone. She’d stayed this long only to make sure there was no infection.

  But what now? Even though she felt awkward about the policeman outside her room, he did represent safety. Now, according to the detective, they would patrol the area around the hotel frequently, but they just didn’t have the manpower to do more. Did she have another place to go? Somewhere out of the city? Friends?

  Not friends she wished to endanger.

  She’d missed the funerals of her two friends. Jon’s was yesterday, and Claude’s an hour ago. She sent flowers to Jon’s funeral and a check to Claude’s family. Silently and alone, she cried for both men.

  Visitors had dropped by. Sherry brought her books and clothes, and told her about Jon’s funeral. The colonel stopped by several times, but he’d had nothing new to offer. Neither had the police. They’d shown her the composite sketch the police artist had produced from Colonel Flaherty’s description, and wanted to know whether she could add anything. But she’d been in a drug-induced fog, the room had been dark, and she had barely caught a glimpse of the assailant.

  She stared at the composite for a long time. This was the man who had tried to kill her. She hoped it was a close likeness. Flaherty said it was, but she’d too often seen composites that looked nothing like the real person. Still, she’d stared at it, memorizing every feature.

  The detectives reported they had picked up her boxes from the security office and gone through them. Nothing interesting turned up. Could she review the contents? Perhaps she would find something they hadn’t.

  She intended to do exactly that. Until now, her concentration had been weakened by drugs. But on her release, the police said they would deliver the boxes to her hotel room. They had dusted for fingerprints, and now their only value as evidence seemed to be whether she could find something in them. She used her wound as an excuse not to go to police headquarters to pore over their contents.

  And the colonel? She wished she could trust him, but after the last few days she couldn’t trust anyone. Not even those eyes that made her want to trust him.

  He’d shown up yesterday with flowers.

  “To make up for the ones I squashed,” he’d said with that odd little quirk of his lips that was too darn appealing. He’d dominated the room with his restless presence, and his attempts to tame it were very unsuccessful.

  He had eyed the copy of the composite sitting on the table next to her. “No one you’ve met?”

  The police had asked the same question. “No.” She hesitated, then asked, “Is it very accurate?”

  “I’m good at faces, Miss Mallory. And we were very close to each other. It’s as good as one of those things can be.”

  “It’s odd,” she said, “looking at a picture of someone you don’t know but who tried to kill you.” Her voice sounded calmer than she felt.

  He nodded, hesitated a moment, then said, “The police said they didn’t find anything in that … box that was taken from your friend’s office. Would you mind if I looked?”

  Her gaze met his. “I thank you for saving my life that night,” she said. “And I appreciate the flowers. But I want to go through my grandfather’s possessions before anyone else does.”

  He nodded as if he expected the answer. “And then?”

  “Then I will decide.”

  He smiled at that. It was a very attractive smile, especially since it touched his eyes, making the skin around them crinkle. “I don’t think I would ever want you as an adversary,” he said lightly.

  She fought an answering smile. He wanted something from her. It was nothing more. “Is this happening to anyone else?” she asked. “To the other families?”

  “Not that I’ve discovered. I’ve warned them, though.”

  Thank God, he didn’t add that he was not even sure that it was her relationship to General Mallory that had caused this … curse. Nothing else made sense. “You will let me know?”

  “Yes.” He paused. “Whoever is behind this must know that I’m here, probably even that I’ve contacted the Eachans. That might deter them.”

  “Or it might not,” she said.

  His silence gave her the answer.

 
“I have sources you don’t,” he said. “And neither do the police. I can help you.”

  She was considering that, and whether she could—or should—trust him when a nurse entered the room.

  He stood for a moment, obviously uncertain, then gave her a slight smile. “I better go. I’ll be back in the morning.”

  She nodded, feeling the oddest sense of loss, and unhappy at herself for regretting the interruption. She couldn’t trust him. She couldn’t trust anyone at this point.…

  That had been yesterday, and she hadn’t really expected him to return today. She’d tried to distract herself by making plans for the next few weeks. Her tenure meeting was in three weeks, and she still had some preparation to do. The bulk of the paperwork was done and had been submitted. But there were several additional letters she had requested that had not yet arrived, one last grant application she had almost completed, and the matter of ensuring that all her publications had been included. One had disappeared, and she was trying to find a copy. If only she didn’t need to stay in Memphis.

  Or did she?

  Her classes were over now. She had one day’s work on final grades and paperwork. She’d wanted to consult with Jon about one student. But Jon was dead. Jon, her mentor, who had written one of the letters of recommendation for her tenure.

  A deep sense of loss flooded her again. Not because Jon couldn’t help her, but because of their friendship. She also knew she had to be realistic, no matter how much it hurt. She’d lost her strongest supporter in a department that was none too friendly to women.

  She would go through everything again, see if there was something she’d overlooked, perhaps even try to get more letters from her lectures at other universities. But how could she do that when fear haunted her? It was a living thing within her now. Boring in like a parasite.

  If nothing else, her innocence was gone forever. So was the illusion of safety in her own home.

  Maybe a week at the beach was what she needed. She would take the boxes that belonged to her grandfather—and the materials she’d put together for the tenure meeting, and Bojangles—and go somewhere no one could find her. And she would be careful. She would use another name at a motel; she could do that if she paid in cash. Once she took off in the car, she would make sure no one followed.