All the Wrong Moves

by Lovelace, Merline

  I had a sudden nasty thought. Maybe that’s why Mitch hadn’t kept me posted on the unfolding developments as promised. He couldn’t trust me not to blab ’em. Or maybe it was more a case of out of sight, out of mind. I didn’t particularly care for either alternative.

  I thought about calling him and asking what gives, but decided to wait another day or two. I was glad I had when he showed up at my apartment the next evening.

  I was once again wearing my favorite gray drawstring shorts but had donned a slightly more reputable red tank top. An Eiffel Tower picked out in sequins was splashed across my breasts, compliments of my previous place of employment.

  When I peered through the peephole, it took me a few seconds to recognize the distorted apparition on the other side of the door. His cheeks and chin were stubbled, his eyes bleary. Nary a trace of a green uniform showed at his neck or shoulders.

  He must have noticed my eyeball blocking the light from the inside. Scraping a hand over his chin, he ID’ed himself. “It’s Mitch, Samantha.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” I muttered as I slid back the safety chain.

  I don’t usually hook the chain. It’s not exactly industrial strength and probably wouldn’t keep out a determined ten-year-old. Besides, as I think I’ve mentioned, I live in a friendly apartment complex. Especially on Friday and Saturday nights.

  Last night was no exception. But I’d ignored the splashes and other sounds of revelry outside my sliding glass doors and kept my nose to the grindstone. I’d spent hours double-checking inventory numbers and polishing my report. Seeing those long columns of numbers and realizing how much valuable test instrumentation we’d lost to an arsonist really pissed me off. It had also made me just a tad nervous to think someone had deliberately set out to destroy our lab. Thus the peephole and chain.

  All thoughts of arson and inventory numbers dissipated the moment I opened the door to Agent Mitchell. Even scruffy and bleary-eyed, the man got to me. Pure reflex had me chanting my personal mantra. The one designed to prevent my hormones from sabotaging my brain.

  “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.”

  I didn’t realize I’d muttered my chant aloud until Mitch leaned a tanned forearm against the doorjamb, a quizzical expression in his gold-green eyes.

  “Charlie Who?”

  “Charlie Spade. My jerk of an ex. I invoke his name whenever . . . Uh . . .”

  I floundered around for an explanation that wouldn’t make me sound like a total nympho.

  “Whenever men who promise to call me and keep me apprised of unfolding events, don’t.”

  “Sorry ’bout that. Everything happened so fast I didn’t have time to call. That’s why I’m here. To apologize.”

  “Oh. Okay. Apology accepted.”

  I started to ask how he’d tracked me down at home but realized just in time what an asinine question that was. Law enforcement types had access to all sorts of databases unavailable to lesser mortals.

  That thought led instantly to another. Did I pay my last speeding ticket? Or the one before that? I must have. Mitch didn’t look as though he was ready to slap on a pair of cuffs and haul me down to traffic court.

  Although . . . I wouldn’t have minded the cuffs part. Especially when a smile crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t one of his full-out grins, but it came close enough to generate some extremely salacious thoughts.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  As I indicated before, my place is cozy but small. The addition of a broad-shouldered male shrank it to minuscule proportions. He took a moment to look around. I took the same moment to look at him.

  I couldn’t fail to note the aforementioned shoulders were encased in a faded navy blue T-shirt that also show-cased a very nice set of pecs. The muscular thighs hugged by his well-washed jeans weren’t bad, either, but I wondered at the stubble on his cheeks and chin. Ditto the red rimming his eyes.

  “Long weekend?”

  “Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “After the Armstrong arrest went down, I drove back out to Dry Springs.”

  “Why?”

  “I kept thinking I’d missed something. And I wanted to take a look at your lab. Pretty grim.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  I ushered him into the living room, scooped some glossies off the sofa and dumped them on the coffee table.

  “Would you like a drink? I don’t have anything diet, but I could put some coffee on. Or I have bottles of green tea in the fridge.”

  He sent me an odd look.

  “It’s Lipton’s,” I hastened to assure him. “Not the seaweed and sunflower brew Pen—Dr. England—forced on you out at the site.”

  I realized I’d misinterpreted his look with his next comment.

  “Just out of curiosity, why did you assume I wouldn’t want a beer? Or a scotch?”

  “I saw what you were drinking at Pancho’s.”

  His eyes narrowed at my deliberately nonchalant tone. “And . . . ?”

  “And Tess Garcia mentioned you were fighting your way back from a rough patch.”

  He started to close up and retreat inside a defensive shell. I recognized the signs. I should. I’d seen them often enough. Reluctantly, I shared some of my less-than-stellar family history.

  “I know what those rough spots can do to people, Mitch. My grandfather got drunk and drove a semi into a bridge abutment. My mother and middle brother have both been in AA for years. And I worked my way through college as a cocktail waitress in Vegas. I can tell when someone really wants a drink but won’t let himself have it.”

  He dropped his glance, shielding his eyes and his thoughts for several moments. When his lids lifted again, he nodded to my stretchy tank top.

  “You worked at the Paris Casino?”

  “Right.”

  “I lost a bundle there my last trip to Vegas.”

  He didn’t want to talk about whatever had sent him to the bottle. Fine. I could live with that.

  “So what will it be?” I quipped, smart-mouthed as ever. “Coffee, tea or me?”

  His glance zoomed to my sequined Eiffel Tower again and a real, live grin slipped out.

  “Why don’t we start with the coffee and see where it goes from there?”

  Yowza!

  Struggling to remember my ex’s name, I retreated to the kitchen. While the coffeemaker gurgled, I extracted the Triple Chocolate Meltdown I’d ordered in a moment of sheer gluttony at the Applebee’s on Airway Boulevard. Since I’d also ordered an Ultimate Trio of appetizers, I’d ended up bringing the dessert home and sticking it in the freezer.

  I zapped the frozen white chocolate, ice cream and brownie just long enough to make it cuttable into halves. When I returned to the living room with coffee mugs and the sinfully rich desert, Mitch was flipping through the latest edition of Cosmo.

  “Five Different Sex Positions to Test on Your Man?” he read aloud. “Confessions of a Hopeless Shoe Addict? Great Summer Glows?”

  I bristled and was ready to defend my choice of educational materials when he shook his head.

  “I can’t believe my wife lets my daughter read this.”

  I unbristled, intrigued by the comment. Interesting that he didn’t brand his former spouse with a big, fat EX as I always did. Even more interesting, he had a hitherto un-mentioned offspring.

  “How old is your daughter?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “She probably reads CosmoGirl. It’s geared more toward teens.”

  “God, I hope so!”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Jenny. She lives in Seattle with her mother.” His attention swerved to the plates I’d carried into the living room. “That looks good. What is it?”

  “Applebee’s infamous Triple Chocolate Meltdown.”

  I settled in at one end of the sofa with my coffee and ice cream. Mitch eased back at the other end. When he hooked an ankle over his knee, I caught a glimpse of a black, Velcro’ed holste
r.

  “You always come armed on visits to friends?”

  “We make as many enemies as friends here on the border,” he said with a shrug, digging into the Meltdown.

  I let him scoop down most of his share before demanding details. “Okay, fella, talk to me about John Armstrong.”

  Mitch’s account pretty well dovetailed with the chain of events described by FBI Agent Donati on Channel Six. Information supplied by the USMC Avenger/Stinger school commandant had led to interviews with various marines, including one who’d served with Gunnery Sergeant Armstrong prior to his death. That interview had in turn led to John Armstrong Sr., who’d kept in touch with members of his son’s unit and echoed their disgust over Hooker’s release.

  What Donati hadn’t mentioned was that Gunnery Sergeant John Armstrong Jr. had trained as a sniper and had been specifically selected for the joint U.S.-Colombian task force because of that skill.

  “Armstrong Jr. spent a couple weeks at home with his folks before shipping out,” Mitch said quietly. “He brought his weapon with him. And several cartons of M118LRs. It’s against regs to fire those rounds for non-mission-related purposes, but he and his dad were both shooters. According to Armstrong Sr., he talked his son into demonstrating his skill by demolishing cacti at a thousand yards. He also talked him out of a carton of M118LRs as a keepsake.”

  “Which he used to take out the man he believed responsible for the death of three marines,” I murmured. “His version of frontier justice, I guess.”

  Mitch nodded and set aside his bowl. “No question it was premeditated. Armstrong admitted he’d laid in wait for the two men and took great care to erase his tracks after the shooting.”

  “Except the boot print EEEK uncovered.”

  “Except that.” Mitch scraped a palm across his jaw. “What bothers me is how Armstrong knew where and when Hooker would try to slip back into the U.S.”

  “How did he know?”

  “He says he got an anonymous call. The caller gave him the date, approximate time and place Hooker would cross the border. We checked his phone records and traced the call to a disposable cell phone that’s no longer in operation. It was purchased at one of those mall kiosks. Cash transaction, and the purchaser gave a false name and address. The clerk who sold it remembers only sketchy details about the buyer. Male. Caucasian. About five-nine or -ten. Brown hair. My guess is the phone is at the bottom of the Rio Grande right now.”

  “So someone set Hooker up and let Armstrong do his dirty work for him?”

  “That’s the current thinking, although we can’t completely discount the possibility Sandoval, not Hooker, was the main target.”

  “Are you going to try to track the caller? Wouldn’t he be, like, a conspirator to murder?”

  “The FBI’s working that, but I didn’t sense a whole lot of enthusiasm from Donati. Or anyone else, for that matter. The general consensus seems to be that Armstrong did the country a service by taking out both men.”

  “I have to say I agree. How about you?”

  “I don’t like the idea of a father who lost his only child being set up like that.”

  As he turned to reach for his coffee I caught a flicker of something I couldn’t quite interpret in his eyes. It was gone when he faced me again.

  “Did Armstrong say anything about firebombing my lab?” I wanted to know.

  “No. In fact, he categorically denied knowing anything about the fire.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Yeah, I do. He was ready enough to confess to murder when faced with the evidence. He wouldn’t have held back on a little thing like arson.”

  “That leaves two loose ends.” I stirred the mush at the bottom of my bowl with my spoon. “The anonymous call to Armstrong and the fire at my site.”

  “There’s no hard proof the two are related,” Mitch reminded me.

  “Not yet. But we may find a connection when we dig deeper.”

  “We?”

  “We,” I repeated firmly. “I’ve got a score to settle with whoever put me through the hell otherwise known as Chapter Seven.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Chapter Seven of . . . ?”

  “Volume Twelve, DOD Manual 7000.14.” My voice reverberated with undisguised loathing. “Financial Liability for Government Property Lost, Damaged or Destroyed. Damned report took me all weekend!”

  “At least you got yours done. I still have to write mine.”

  Weariness tinged his reply. I added it to his red eyes and stubbled cheeks and firmly repressed any lingering, yowza-type thoughts.

  The spark was there. I’d felt it when I opened the door to him. And in the way his glance had lingered on my face during our conversation. But the man was dead on his feet.

  “You sound almost as wiped as you look,” I told him sympathetically. “Maybe we should call it a night so you could get to your report.”

  He looked at me with a question in his gold-green eyes. I didn’t pretend to misunderstand.

  “There’ll be a next time,” I said.

  This from the woman who’d always lived for the moment? Who’d tumbled into and out of marriage in six short months? Who’d reacted to her husband’s cheating by marching into an air force recruiting office?

  I was amazed at this new, restrained me, although the regret on Mitch’s face as I walked him to the door came perilously close to undercutting my decision. That, and the knuckle he curled under my chin.

  “Next time,” he promised, tipping my face for a kiss that curled my toes.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I rolled out of bed, pulled on my uniform and departed my apartment at the unheard of hour of six A.M. Monday morning. I wanted to beat the traffic and have time to look over my report one last time before zinging it off to my boss.

  I wasn’t consciously attempting to demonstrate my thoroughness and dedication to duty. Still, I did nourish a secret hope Dr. J would note the time of dispatch and be suitably impressed.

  The sun was just beginning to bathe the Franklin Mountains in soft dawn light when I drove through the main gate of Fort Bliss. Did I mention that FST-3’s suite of offices is located in the historic section of the post?

  The original garrison was established in 1848 to protect settlers from marauding Comanches and Apaches. General Black Jack Pershing launched his raid on Pancho Villa from here in 1916. He’s the guy the Pershing Missile System was named for, in case you didn’t know. I didn’t, until I toured the post museum on a slow afternoon.

  Here’s another bit of trivia I picked up at the museum. Fort Bliss is named for Lieutenant Colonel William Wal lace Smith Bliss. A West Point grad and veteran of the Mexican-American War, W.W. married Miss Betty, the daughter of Major General and later President Zachary Taylor. What’s interesting is that W.W. never set foot on this particular patch of Texas dirt. Guess if you marry the boss’s daughter you don’t have to be present to have a military installation named after you.

  Fort Bliss has always been predominantly army but does have ties to my branch of the service. Briggs Airfield, one of the very first flying fields, was established here in 1919. Back in the day, Briggs handled blimps, B- 17s, B-29s, B-36s, B-47s, and B-52s. For those of you not familiar with military prefixes and numerology, “B” stands for bomber. Don’t be embarrassed. The prefix didn’t register with me, either, until months after I’d donned an air force uniform.

  Following WWII, German scientists dubbed “the prisoners of peace” began arriving at Fort Bliss to work on American missile development. Coming from a country where it rains more often than not, I can only guess what they must have thought of our searing blue skies and sun-scorched desert topography.

  Since those early days, Bliss has grown into the army’s premier missile training center . . . and the home of FST-3. We’re housed in a thirties-era building that’s been renovated at least a dozen times over the decades.

  Renovation dollars come out of Operations and Maintenance funds, you see. O&M is a dif
ferent pot from New Construction, which requires congressional approval. Thus, it’s easier to gut a facility and rebuild it from the inside out than construct a new one. The problem is, you’re still left with the same exterior shell and limited square footage. All this was explained to me by a rather exasperated deputy post commander when I voiced a number of complaints about our cramped quarters.

  After my team’s quarterly expeditions to CHU-ville, however, our 1930s building always assumes the aura of a well-loved architectural work of art. This morning was no exception. I gazed fondly at the two-story edifice as I parked the Bronco in the lot across the street.

  I then took the unusual precaution of locking it. Not because I feared anyone would steal it. Truth was, I prayed every night this collection of rusted dents would disappear so I could file an insurance claim for whatever it was worth. No, my concern this morning was EEEK, who’d taken up semipermanent residence in the back of my Bronco until I could ship him to Harrison Robotics in Phoenix.

  Since I was first in, I flipped on lights, powered up computer systems and made coffee. With luck, I could swill down a half a pot before Pen arrived and badgered me into switching to tea.

  My luck held. By the time my team straggled in just before eight A.M., I was on my third cup and had sent my loss/damage report winging through cyberspace to Dr. J at DARPA Headquarters.

  O’Reilly stuck his head in my office first. Since we’d returned to post and had to maintain at least a semi-professional image, he’d exchanged his T-shirt and wrinkled cargo shorts for a polo shirt and wrinkled Dockers.

  “Greetings, oh Princess of Putterers.”

  “Hi, Dennis.”

  “Morning confab as usual?”

  We’d formed the habit of gathering at the start of each workday to coordinate schedules and discuss ongoing projects. Since many of those projects involved unbelievably wacky inventions, our morning gathering often produced groans, howls or hoots of laughter that had started some weird stories circulating about FST-3 among the other occupants of the building.