He was being good and had been staying far from Tampa. Crap, going on eight months now he’d been goddamn perfect when it came to Gina Vitagliano, and now this. Somewhere, God was laughing His ass off at him.
“Sam and Mary Lou had separated,” Alyssa told him. “Did you know about that?”
Holy fuck, as Starrett would say. “No,” Max said. “I didn’t.” How come he didn’t know? This was something he should have been told.
She was looking at him hard. “Are you lying?”
He laughed. “Alyssa. Please. Why would I lie?”
“I don’t know, Max,” she said. “Why would you lie?”
No, thanks. He was not going there. “So why did he call you?” he countered. As if he didn’t know.
“He didn’t. He called Jules.”
Which was virtually the same as calling Alyssa. She and her partner were extremely close, and Starrett knew it.
“He’s going to be looked at as a suspect,” Max said, telling her something that she already knew. Husbands and ex-husbands were always high on the list in murder cases.
This was terrible timing. This was all Tom Paoletti needed—one of the top officers in SEAL Team Sixteen under suspicion of murder. It made the entire team look bad, like they were all killers and criminals.
If one member of a SEAL team could kill his wife, then another could sell weapons to terrorists. Damn it, it was even worse considering that Starrett had been the first to spot the weapon in the crowd on the day the President had nearly been shot. The conspiracy theorists would have a field day with this—saying that of course Starrett saw the weapon because he knew where to look.
Forget about the logic as to why, if he were involved, Starrett would ID the shooter, thus preventing the man from taking out his presidential target.
Logic and people who subscribed to conspiracy theories were often strangers to each other.
But okay. Here they were. There was a dead wife on the kitchen floor and a good man—Paoletti—already under suspicion of wrongdoing. Max had to go down to Sarasota and make sure that Starrett had a strong alibi and was no longer a suspect before the news about this murder leaked to the media. And if it turned out that the SEAL really had killed his wife . . .
Tom was royally screwed.
Max flipped through his date book, checking his schedule on his computer, too.
Alyssa knew what he was doing. “You can’t go,” she said. “You have that meeting tomorrow morning with the President.”
“Where’s Jules, again?” he asked. Alyssa’s partner, Jules Cassidy, had taken several days off. But that was before all hell had broken loose.
“His mother’s getting married today,” Alyssa said.
Shit. “Call him in.”
“He’s in Hawaii,” she informed him. “Even if you could be that cruel, it’ll take him a full day to get to Sarasota.”
“I want someone down there who knows Starrett,” Max said shortly, “and I’m not sending you.”
The moment the words left his lips, he recognized how stupid and petty and childish he was being. This wasn’t about him wanting to protect Alyssa from the emotional pain of seeing a former lover. This was about jealousy. It was fear that if she got anywhere within twenty-five miles of Sam Starrett, she’d never come back.
Alyssa was just standing there, watching him with those eyes that could see through all his layers of crap.
Max stood looking back at her, wishing that he could snap his fingers and make everything go away. Mary Lou Starrett would spring instantly back to life. Tom Paoletti would still be CO of Team Sixteen. The World Trade Center towers would still be standing. Terrorists everywhere would be thwarted at every turn.
And Gina . . .
In his perfect, finger-snap-generated world, Max had never so much as met Gina Vitagliano. If he hadn’t, he and Alyssa Locke probably would’ve been married for a year by now, and his life would be tidy and serene and blissfully satisfying, his meager hours away from the office spent with a woman who was a perfect match for him in every way. His life would be orderly—instead of this current train wreck of near-howling frustration and chaotic anxiety.
He picked up his telephone. “Laronda, Locke needs to get to Sarasota ASAP. And schedule a flight for me for late tomorrow morning, after eleven, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
Max hung up the phone. “I’m sorry if I was—”
Alyssa touched him. She never touched him in the office, but now she touched his arm—just a brief squeeze. “I’ll be okay.”
She thought he didn’t want her to go because he was worried about her.
He was a total shithead.
Max broke his own rule for what was or was not appropriate for the office between himself and a subordinate, and as usual, when he broke a rule, he completely detonated it. He pulled her hard into his arms and held her tightly.
She was soft and warm and, yes, she smelled too good. Somehow, over the past year, this woman had become outrageously important to him—she’d become his confidante, his best friend. It would hurt like hell to lose her.
In fact, he might very well never stop bleeding.
“Be careful.” It was such an inadequate thing to say, but it was all he could manage.
“I will.” Alyssa kissed him, her lips soft against his cheek before she slipped out of his grasp. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She gave him one last smile and this time she shut the door firmly behind her.
Max gave himself a little time—at least ten or fifteen seconds—to regain his equilibrium before he got on the phone and started making those calls.
December 1, 1943
Dear Mae,
I wanted to write this letter on Thanksgiving, to wish you and little Jolee a Happy Day, but I was high over the Rockies, transporting a plane to California.
It was a brand-spanking-new North American P-51D Mustang. (I know, I know, this means nothing to you! Suppose instead that I say that a Mustang moves at 435 miles per hour—what a thrill to fly that fast!) This plane had been used for training out in Iowa, and, boy, this baby could fly. I had some fun, all right. I was sorry to land at my final destination in (CENSORED).
I was sorrier still when I caught sight of a newspaper and saw the casualty lists from Tarawa.
That news from the war in the Pacific has made us all somber, I’m afraid, and it didn’t seem as if there was much this year to be thankful for. I know you miss Walt very much, and I’m sure he must be missing you and the baby dreadfully.
Still, I wanted to let you know that regardless of this wretched war, I myself have much to be thankful for this year, and high on my list is my friendship with you and Walter. It’s occurred to me as I’m sitting here that I never told you the details of how it was that your husband came to bring me to your house that night more than a solid year ago.
So here goes. I hope it will make you laugh, or at least lighten your heart.
I was flying a clunker of an old P-40 from Memphis to the airfield in Tuskegee. That’s always the scariest job—taking up an aircraft that has just been pulled out of mothballs. Forget the normal checklist—I nearly overhauled the engine, checking to make sure that thing wasn’t going to fall out of the sky with me inside.
But despite my makeshift tune-up, this P-40 developed a bad case of the hiccups when I was about 130 miles outside of Tuskegee. I pushed on, hoping I’d make it those last few miles. I knew that if it got worse, I could always look for a place, a field or even a flat stretch of road, to set that puppy down.
But I didn’t want to do that. After landing somewhere other than an airstrip, taking off again would be a pain in the you-know-what.
I turned on the radio to let Tuskegee know that I was having some problems and—I swear to you—the switch came off in my hand. There wasn’t much I could do to fix it. I could only sit back and fly.
But then there it was—the airfield. Right in front of me. I said a quick prayer of thanks. (That “God i
s my copilot” thing is no joke!)
I flew by the tower, signaling that my radio was out and that I needed to land immediately.
They gave me the go-ahead, using flags to signal me back, and I turned to come around and land the plane.
Only that P-40 stalled on me. It coughed, and it choked, and then I was in this large piece of metal that was falling fast—too fast—toward that landing strip.
I swear to you, my life—all twenty-eight pathetic years of it— flashed before my eyes. I remember thinking about that too-handsome captain I’d met two weeks earlier in Albuquerque. I remember thinking that I should have danced with him. (And yes, dearest friend, I am being euphemistic when I use the word dance. Oh, how I love to shock you!)
But I wasn’t ready to go to my heavenly reward, and I used every trick in the book, and made up a few brand-new ones, to get that engine turning over again. I still don’t know exactly how I did it, but I did. I came within thirty feet of the ground, and by now I was going way too fast to land, so I pulled up, hard, and went around again. This time, though, I didn’t stall. This time, I brought that POS-40 in and landed it, neat as a pin.
So there I was, climbing out of that plane, shaken to h*ll and white as a sheet, thinking that I’ve got to go change my drawers. I was ready to kiss that dusty ground and spend about a week in church.
Only this man, this tall Negro man, comes running over to me, spitting fire.
“What in Sam H*ll kind of flying is that?” he shouted at me in his clipped Yankee northern accent. “How dare you fly so recklessly here! Not only did you endanger the lives of everyone on this airfield and yourself, but you came d*mned close to destroying this plane! We don’t have half as many P-40s as we need, and you nearly turned this one into a crumpled piece of metal, ready to be dragged to the scrap pile!”
You know me, Mae my dear, and it didn’t take long for my terror to turn into anger. And so I lit back into him, shouting over him as I pulled off my leather flight helmet. “I nearly died flying this piece of sh*t! That engine stalled on me when I went into that first turn, and let me tell you, Jack, landing that plane in one piece was a miracle similar to turning water to wine, and now I’m getting chewed out by a mechanic? I demand to see your commanding officer, and I demand to see him now!”
Well.
He’d stopped shouting and now this tall Negro man was staring at me, at my messy, blond, and very female hair. And as I stared back at him, I realized he outranked me by about a mile. This was no enlisted mechanic. No, this man had lieutenant colonel clusters on his uniform, and it said “Gaines” above the pocket of his shirt.
I looked down at the paper I was holding, and indeed, the name of the CO to whom I was to deliver this plane was Lt. Col. Walter Gaines.
He was clearly as stunned to see a pilot who was a woman as I was to see a lieutenant colonel and commanding officer who was not white.
I did the only thing I could think of to do in this situation. I snapped into a sharp salute and said, “Lieutenant Colonel Gaines, I beg your pardon, sir.”
I’d been trying to be a part of this man’s Army Air Corps since 8 December, 1941, and I can tell you that although I was a first lieutenant, I was only a WASP, and men weren’t allowed to salute me because I’m a woman. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t salute higher ranking officers if I wanted to. And I wanted to make it clear to your husband that my mistake had been from ignorance, not insolence.
Lieutenant Colonel Gaines gave me an answering salute and a smile.
“I’m glad you managed to land safely, Lieutenant Smith,” he told me. “You say you stalled when you turned?”
“Yes, sir. She was temperamental the entire flight, but she completely quit on me a little earlier than I wanted her to.” I took him over to the plane, and we messed around with engine for quite some time.
While we did that, I told him about the Women’s Auxiliary Ferry Squadron (that’s what it was called back then; it wasn’t until last summer they started calling us Women Airforce Service Pilots, or WASPs), and that due to the shortage of male pilots, the Army Air Corps was making use of female flyers for such home front assignments as equipment transport and delivery. In turn, he told me about the Tuskegee experiment—that due to the shortage of white male pilots, the Army Air Corps had begun pilot training for exemplary Negro men. He was the commander of a squadron made up entirely of colored pilots. What an opportunity! I was envious because there was a chance they’d see action, while it was clear that I never would.
As we checked that engine, it was also clear to me that Walter Gaines knew as much about airplanes as I did. And I knew that I’d impressed him as much as he’d impressed me.
Walter shook my hand as I climbed onto the bus that would take me to the white part of the air base, and he said, “That was some good flying today, Lieutenant.”
That made me feel proud, because clearly he was a well-educated man and a skillful pilot himself, and that should have been that. End of story.
Except later that day, in the early evening, I was sitting on a bench outside of the officers’ mess on the white part of the base, and who should come walking along the dusty road from the colored airfield but Lt. Col. Gaines.
He was taking his time because it was a hot summer evening. He lifted his hand to me in greeting, but he didn’t walk any faster.
“Waiting for the bus into town?” he said when he moved into calling distance.
I stood up. “Yes, sir.” I was supposed to catch a flight back to Chicago, but I’d come in a little late, and the next plane wasn’t leaving for three days.
I’m sure he noticed my flight bag, because he said, “You might have difficulty finding a room in town. It’s college graduation tomorrow.” He smiled at me. “On the other hand, there’ll be parties and celebrations going on. You should probably plan to stay back here on base tonight, though.”
“Well, now,” I said. “That creates something of a problem, sir, seeing as how I’ve just been informed that there’s nowhere here on base for a female pilot to be billeted.” I laughed, making light of it. “I’ll just have to throw myself on God’s mercy—find a church in town that has cushions on the pews.” This was not the first time this had happened to me, and I knew for a fact that Walter must have had similar experiences.
D*mn, standing there talking to me, he—a lieutenant colonel—couldn’t even sit down to wait for the bus because the bench was marked “Whites Only.”
I took my flight bag and moved over to the other bench, the one with peeling paint, so we could both take a load off.
“You know,” Walter said, as he looked at me, “you’re welcome to come home with me.”
And oh, Mae, you know me! My brain always finds the nastiest explanation for anything. Or maybe I was still thinking too much about that missed dance with that captain back in New Mexico, because I remember sitting there, staring at Walter in total shock, thinking he’d just invited me to . . .
Well. You know Walt, too. He’s a very smart man, and it didn’t take him long to figure out where my thoughts had flown, just from looking at the expression on my face. I’m sure my cake hole was hanging open!
Walter quickly apologized. I swear, the man began backpedaling so hard, it’s a wonder he didn’t end up three counties away.
After he was done clearing his throat, he said, “I can say with complete certainty that my wife, Mae, wouldn’t be adverse to your occupying the bed in our guest room.”
Me, I’m sitting there, relieved as all h*ll that I haven’t just been propositioned by a lieutenant colonel.
But I hadn’t yet answered, and the bus was approaching, and Walt said, “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to stay in the church.”
And I knew what he was really saying was “Unless like some of the ignorant folk around these parts you have some kind of problem staying in the home of good, honest, and upright colored people.”
I looked him in the eye, and I said, “I would not be adverse—i
n fact, I would be most delighted, sir—to sleep in a real bed in your guest room. Are you sure your wife won’t mind?”
He gave me a smile. And he said, “I’m positive she’ll enjoy the company, Lieutenant.”
And that, dearest friend, is how I came to meet you.
I’m out of space and must rush to get this letter in the post.
You and Walt and precious Jolee are always in my thoughts and my prayers. I hope your health is improving—you must think strong thoughts! I’ll try to stop in and see you soon.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Love,
Dot
CHAPTER THREE
Sam Starrett lay on his back in the grass as the FBI swarmed over every inch of Janine’s little house.
It had been hours, but Noah still sat cross-legged beside him, his jacket off, his tie loosened, and his sleeves rolled up. Claire had gone home to pick up the kids from day camp, but Noah had remained. He didn’t talk, he just sat there, a solid, large, warm presence.
Manuel Conseco, the head honcho of the Bureau’s Sarasota office, had come down to this crime scene himself. His team was taking fingerprints off every surface of that little house. They hadn’t yet removed the body, and they probably wouldn’t for a while. In fact, Sam had overheard a discussion about doing the autopsy right there in the kitchen.
Because, Jesus, Mary Lou had been there so long that, in order to move her, they were going to have to shovel her off the floor.
The forensics team had arrived, and they’d determined where the shooter had been standing just from the splatter marks of blood on the wall.
They also estimated how tall he was. And, assuming he’d held the shotgun at his shoulder, they figured he was just about the same height as Sam.
And wasn’t that convenient?
Sam had told his story about forty-eight times, to forty-eight different people, pointing out in forty-eight different ways that he’d been thousands of miles away when the murder had occurred. And yet Conseco had implied that they would want him to come downtown for additional questioning after his people were finished up here.
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