A Man of Honor

by Loree Lough

  As he got closer, Dusty overheard Agent Two ask about her teaching credentials while One pecked data from her driver’s license into his iPhone. She’d earned a few points back there—for keeping up with him, for not asking inane questions, but mostly, for not falling apart when she got that first gruesome eyeful of the girl’s battered body. He gave her a few more points now, for holding it together under the agents’ onslaught: How long had she known Missy? Had she heard of any bad blood between Melissa and other students or teachers? Was she aware of boyfriend problems? As a chaperone at the prom, did she believe alcohol or drugs played a role in the girl’s disappearance and death? Would she be willing to help them access school records, saving the time it would take them to get in touch with Missy’s parents by other means?

  “Yes, yes, of course,” she said, “but you need to know that Missy is. . . .” She shook her head and pressed her fingertips into her temples. “. . . was an only child. And that her father died, just last spring.”

  Agent Number Two returned her license. “Is that right?”

  She glanced toward the grassy hill where they’d found Melissa. “Well,” she said, standing as tall as her five-foot-something frame would allow, “Mrs. Logan has barely had time to adjust to being a widow, and now. . . .” Those sad, dark eyes darted back to the knoll, where the narrow strip of yellow plastic flapped in the breeze.

  And now this, he finished silently.

  She cleared her throat. “I just thought you should know, so that you can take it into consideration. When you could break the news to Missy’s mom, I mean.”

  Before he’d nearly stumbled over the body, her cheeks had glowed with vitality. Now, it reminded him of that delicate porcelain serving platter his mom dragged out when it was her turn to host bridge club. Dusty had a feeling that stubbornness, mostly, was the only thing keeping the poor kid conscious and upright. He stepped up beside her, thinking to catch her if she passed out.

  Agent One said, “We’re finished with your interview, sir.”

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been branded by the hot glare of a cop, and he met it with one of his own. “I’m here for moral support.”

  The agents exchanged a “What’s his problem?” expression, then shrugged.

  “What did Mr. Logan die of?” Agent Two asked the teacher.

  “Bone cancer. It was a very long and painful illness. I remember how hard Missy took it when his doctors were forced to put him into a drug-induced coma.”

  “Why did they have to put him in a coma?” asked One.

  “Because the slightest movement, even the weight of his own body, shattered bones, and none of the drugs were powerful enough to ease his pain.” She cringed, as if the memory hurt her, too. “Mrs. Logan is a librarian. I don’t remember which branch, only that it’s somewhere in Baltimore County. I ran into her in the hall at school, when she came to get some things from Missy’s locker. She told me that she’d taken a leave of absence, and that she was waiting for a sorority sister to let her know if she could drive down from New York, to stay with her while . . . well, while . . . you know.”

  Now Dusty cringed, too. While the cops looked for her little girl.

  She shook her head again and started over. “I’m not sure if her friend is still in town, but I do remember hearing at Mr. Logan’s funeral that she doesn’t have family nearby.” On the heels of a deep breath, she took a step forward. “If you think it’ll help, I’m happy to sit with her while . . . when. . . .”

  When you tell her that her little girl was slaughtered?

  Dusty ground his molars together. If he ever got his hands on the animal who—

  “Will you go to her house? To break the bad news, I mean? Or will it be necessary to make her come to your office?”

  Dusty didn’t hear the agent’s answer, because his cell phone rang. Mitch Carlisle, the caller ID block said. Turning, he took a few steps away to answer the call from his assistant pastor at the halfway house. “Think you’ll be back before we leave,” the younger man asked, “or should we head on over to the soup kitchen without you?”

  Dusty glanced over his shoulder, thinking he’d offer to tag along with the teacher, wherever the agents decided to break the bad news to the girl’s widowed mom, but she was gone. “Hold on a sec, Mitch,” he said, taking the phone from his ear. “Where’d she go?” he asked Agent One.

  “Home. To feed her cat, I think she said,” he answered before turning back to his partner.

  He could’ve kicked himself for not asking her name. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had time. You’re an arrogant idiot, he chided. If he hadn’t been so busy feeling put-upon for getting stuck with yet another newbie. . . .

  Armed with that fact, alone, he could have pried more information about her from any one of a dozen officials on site. “He who hesitates is lost” had been one of his Uncle Brock’s favorite adages. Brock’s second favorite, “Too little, too late,” fit just as well.

  “Sorry,” he told Mitch, “I’m back.”

  “So did you guys find the missing girl?”

  Dusty heard concern in Mitch’s voice. “ ’Fraid so.”

  “Uh-oh. Dead?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Exposure?”

  The image of her battered body flashed in his mind. “I wish.”

  On the heels of a lengthy pause, Mitch asked, “Do the cops have any idea who killed her?”

  “Not a clue. At least, not yet.”

  “I’ll lead the boys in a prayer for her and her family, and everyone who was there when they found her.”

  When they found her. . . . Memory of the way it felt when the toe of his boot made contact with Missy’s shoe caused an involuntary flinch. “Thanks.” First thing Dusty intended to do when he got home was trash these ugly reminders of what he found next.

  “And for the cops, too, so they’ll find something, soon, that’ll lead to her killer.”

  Butcher was more like it. “Say one for the girl’s teacher, too. She was practically in my lap when I found the body.”

  “You got it.”

  And while you’re at it, send one up for me.

  Because though he couldn’t explain it, and it went against every self-imposed rule he’d written about merging the personal and professional aspects of his life, Dusty needed to find her.

  2

  Grace clenched her teeth and prayed for the self-control to keep a civil tongue in her head.

  It was bad enough that the agents insisted on interviewing Mrs. Logan at their noisy, crowded office in Baltimore County, rather than the quiet comfort of her own home. Did they have to pummel the poor woman with questions that made her look like a prime suspect in her daughter’s murder, too?

  They’d closed the blinds in a half-hearted attempt at privacy, but the bent slats had been pried apart so many times that anyone passing by could peer into their workspace through any one of a dozen v-shaped gaps. One of those openings gave Grace a clear view of her SAR sidekick, standing on the other side of the glass, nodding. She took it to mean that he approved of her decision to remain at Mrs. Logan’s side as the agents’ pounded out question after question:

  Had she talked with the other parents before granting permission for Melissa to attend the after-prom slumber party? Which parents had agreed to transport the girls from the school gym to the friend’s home? And was she aware that, instead of going there, the youngsters had booked a room at a nearby hotel, where a keg of beer and half-empty bottles of tequila and whiskey had been found? Had she verified any aspect of her daughter’s story before letting her leave home with a boy she’d never met before prom night? And why had she waited until mid-afternoon of the day after prom to wonder about her daughter’s whereabouts?

  Out there in the hall, Grace saw the SAR guy frown, then shake his head. “Sorry,” he mouthed, hands extended in a gesture of pity.

  Not as sorry as Mrs. Logan, I’ll bet, she thought as the agents described—in gory detail—what Melissa h
ad looked like when she was found. Would they pull out the shocking crime scene photos, and force her to look at those, too? Grace prayed they would not, because if hearing the cold, hard facts of the case could reduce Mrs. Logan to a weepy bundle of nerves, what would viewing full-color images of her little girl’s mangled, bloodied body do to her?

  “We’d like to have a look around Melissa’s room,” said Spencer.

  His tone and stance made it clear he’d just issued an order, not a request. Grace bristled, but kept her silence; if Mrs. Logan hadn’t exploded into a fit of hysteria when the agents told Grace to wait outside, she’d be out there in the hall, waiting alongside the stern-faced SAR guy. She plucked a tissue from the box on Spencer’s desk and handed it to Mrs. Logan.

  The woman blotted her eyes. “But . . . but you people have already gone through her room.”

  Timmons jutted out his big square chin and adjusted the Windsor knot of his navy tie. “We’re just being thorough, ma’am.” He poked his ballpoint back into the pencil cup beside the tissues, then made a move to help her up. “Now then, what-say we pick up this conversation over at your house.”

  They’d referred to this meeting as an interrogation, an interview, a simple discussion, and now, a conversation. In Grace’s opinion, it was a bully session, plain and simple. And she was sick and tired of standing by quietly as they continued to browbeat the poor woman. “I’ll drive her,” Grace said when he pulled out his keys. “She’s exhausted, and I’m sure she could use a bite to eat. We’ll meet you at her house in a couple of hours.”

  Mrs. Logan gasped. “Oh, would you do that?” she said, clasping Grace’s hands.

  The agents exchanged a frown before Spencer pulled back his left shirt cuff and glanced at his watch. “I suppose that’ll be all right.”

  “But let’s meet up in an hour,” his partner inserted.

  And when Grace opened her mouth to object, he quickly added, “The sooner we get all the loose ends tied up, the sooner we can write our report and get out of her hair, once and for all.”

  “That would be fine,” Grace began, “if we weren’t a half hour’s drive from her house. Surely you don’t expect her to order a burger and fries at some drive-through window, then wolf it all down in just a few minutes. Not after all she’s been through.” She drilled his eyes with her own. “Do you?”

  Timmons grinned a bit and leaned toward Spencer. “Now, if that isn’t a living, breathing example of the old ‘if looks could kill’ maxim,” he said from the corner of his mouth, “I don’t know what is.”

  When Spencer nodded, Grace decided to lean on an adage of her own, and get while the getting was good. “I’m taking her somewhere quiet, for something that won’t upset her stomach.” She didn’t wait for their approval. Instead, Grace helped Mrs. Logan to her feet and, as she led her to the door, wondered if her SAR partner would still be out there in the hall. Last time she’d seen him, he’d been leaning against the wall, arms folded and booted ankles crossed as he nonchalantly maneuvered a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. A quiet note of disappointment rang in her head when she rounded the corner and he wasn’t there. All the way outside and across the parking lot, the reaction continued to surprise her. Seriously, Grace, get a grip, and remember your decision. . . . “So,” she said, opening her Jeep’s passenger door, “what are you in the mood for? Italian? Asian? Good old American?”

  The woman moved as if dragging twenty-pound weights. “I really don’t care,” she said, sliding across the seat. “I’m not the least bit hungry.” She gave Grace’s hand a little squeeze. “Be a dear, will you, and do the choosing?”

  “I know just the place.”

  She’d take Mrs. Logan to T-Bonz, where the friendly staff and fun menu would help her relax, at least enough to get a few bites of something healthy into her stomach. An hour later, after emptying a bowl of hot crab appetizer, the women polished off their sweet iced tea and started the short drive to Mrs. Logan’s house. Grace suggested using her GPS to get them from the steakhouse to the quaint Ellicott City neighborhood, but Mrs. Logan waved the offer away. Just as well, Grace thought. Perhaps directing the lefts and rights would provide yet another diversion for her poor overwrought mind.

  She drove five miles under the speed limit, hoping to delay their arrival as long as possible. The historic townhouse was the first and only home the Logans had ever owned. Missy had been born and raised there. If she’d lived, the girl would have slipped into her wedding gown in her bedroom, and it’s where she and her husband and kids would’ve celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, too.

  All too soon, they made the final turn onto Oella Avenue. Grace’s heart lurched when she spotted the ominous black SUV parked alongside the curb.

  “Wonder how long they’ve been here,” Grace grumbled.

  “Lord only knows.” On the heels of an exhausted sigh, Mrs. Logan said, “You can pull in behind my car if you like. It isn’t like I’m going anywhere any time soon.”

  Nodding, Grace nosed her Jeep into the driveway. The agents were out of their vehicle and marching closer even before she slid the gearshift into park. In a real hurry to pick up the bully session right where you left off, eh boys?

  Mrs. Logan’s hands trembled as she dug through her purse in search of her keys. When she found them, she pressed them into Grace’s palm. “I’ll never get the front door open in the condition I’m in.”

  The condition deteriorated rapidly as she stood wringing her hands in the doorway of her daughter’s room, watching the agents turn every pocket inside out and dig through every drawer. Not even the girl’s diary was off limits. Mrs. Logan was nearly hysterical when she cried out, “If you’ll just tell me what you’re looking for, perhaps I can help you find it!”

  “I know this is tough,” Spencer said quietly, “but the truth is, we’re not sure what we’re looking for.”

  “We’ll know when—if—we find it,” Timmons agreed. He looked at Grace to add, “Maybe it would be best if you two waited downstairs. This won’t take much longer.”

  For the first time since meeting the men, Grace agreed with them. She slid an arm around Mrs. Logan’s shoulders. “I don’t know about you,” she said softly, “but I sure could use a cup of coffee. If you’ll show me where you keep things, I’ll make a pot, okay?”

  At first, the woman resisted. “They’re making a huge mess. Again,” she complained as they headed downstairs. “It took a whole day to put things back in order last time they were up there. Why can’t they just leave me in peace?”

  Grace had no idea how to answer the question, so she didn’t even try. Instead, she focused on making the grieving mother as comfortable as possible. Coffee, she soon learned, wasn’t going to accomplish that.

  “I don’t have any decaf. Last thing I need,” she said, extending a trembling hand, “is something that’ll make me even shakier!”

  What did comfort her, as it turned out, was talking about Missy. Mrs. Logan slid a photo album from the bookshelf, and for the next thirty minutes, told Grace the story of her daughter’s life. Ballet recitals, solo performances with the school choir, Girl Scout outings, leisurely summer trips to Ocean City, birthday parties, and Christmas mornings, all captured in vivid color. “This was taken right before her father was diagnosed with cancer,” she said, pointing at a picture of the smiling threesome, standing in the spray at Niagara Falls.

  “You all look very happy,” Grace told her.

  She’d barely finished the sentence when the agents bounded down the stairs.

  “We tried not to mess things up too much,” Spencer said.

  Mrs. Logan closed the album and returned it to its proper place on the shelf. “So you’re finished at last, then?”

  “Not quite.” Timmons gestured toward the sofa, his not-so-subtle way of telling her they’d be a while. When Mrs. Logan stood her ground, he shrugged. “Why did you wait so long to report Melissa missing?”

  The question hi
t her like a hard backhand to the jaw. Huge silvery tears spilled down her flushed cheeks as she sagged to the floor, like a marionette whose puppeteer had let go of the strings. If Grace hadn’t reached out when she did, the woman would have a bruise on her temple to go with the one on her heart. Once she got her settled on the couch, Agent Timmons said, “She’ll pass out for sure if you don’t give her some space.”

  The only thing keeping Grace quiet now was her belief that impudence would only add to fuel to the agent’s ire. She stared Timmons down and said through clenched teeth, “Are you quite finished?”

  “Listen. Lady. We appreciate your willingness to help, but—”

  Spencer silenced Timmons with a stern frown that softened to a smile when he faced Grace. “Think maybe you could find something cool for her to sip on?”

  Good idea, she thought, because as much as Mrs. Logan needed something cool to sip on, Grace needed an excuse to leave the room. With her luck, she’d say or do something in the woman’s defense that might get them both arrested. She was halfway to the door when Spencer said, “Miss Sinclair, would you do me a favor while you’re in the kitchen?”

  Grace stopped, but didn’t turn around as he said, “Could you look for her personal phone book?”

  Now she faced him. “I have no intention of snooping through her cupboards. You seem to have mastered that art. Why don’t you look for it?”

  Spencer raised a hand, traffic-cop style, then crossed the room to meet her. “Sometimes Timmons takes the ‘good cop, bad cop’ thing way too seriously,” he said quietly. “He’s like a pup with a bone once he smells a clue, so I’d rather not leave her alone with him.” He took a step closer and lowered his voice still more. “I just want to see if the family doctor’s name is in there. If it is, I’ll give him a call, let him know what’s been going on here.” He shrugged. “Hopefully, he’ll prescribe something to help her sleep.”