by Debby Giusti
He had given her his handkerchief earlier. Now he wiped her tears with his fingertips, wanting to touch her cheeks and trail his hands through her hair.
Holding himself in check, he gave her an encouraging hug before he walked her to her car. “Can you drive?”
She nodded and sniffed and tried to smile at him with that determined expression she used to cover her own insecurity.
“I’ll follow close behind you. I don’t think he’ll come back tonight.”
“If it hadn’t been for you—”
“The Suburban turned off the road and raced away, Lillie. That’s what you need to keep in mind. Besides, I never should have let you leave the bus station alone.”
“No, Dawson. I...I owe you my—”
“You don’t owe me anything. Now get behind the wheel, and we’ll meet up at your office. My cell phone will be on.”
She nodded and tried to appear strong, but Dawson was worried. Lillie had to be exhausted and in shock from the string of incidents that had happened, one after the other.
He planned to call Pritchard in the morning and fill him in, but first he needed to see what was on the flash drive—information Granger’s killer or killers didn’t want brought to light?
Dawson followed Lillie while he flicked his gaze back and forth, searching the surrounding area. Thankfully, they only passed a few cars along the way. He sighed with relief when both he and Lillie passed through the main gate and headed toward her office.
Once parked, they walked along the sidewalk and up the stairs together. Dawson’s attention was on the darkness and anyone who might be hiding in the shadows. Although it was doubtful the elusive Suburban had gained access to post, Dawson wouldn’t let down his guard.
Lillie had a master key to the main door. The staff duty noncommissioned officer, Howard Murphy—a sergeant with a square face and serious eyes—met them in the hallway. Lillie introduced Dawson and made an excuse about needing to catch up on some work, which the NCO seemed to accept, before she led Dawson upstairs to the general’s suite.
Once there, she shrugged out of her coat and hung it on a rack. “I could make coffee.”
He nodded. “That’s probably a good idea.”
The smell of the rich roasted beans filled the office as he took off his coat and loosened his tie. Even without caffeine, he knew he would spend another sleepless night. At least until he was sure Lillie was safe. Maybe then he’d be able to relax.
“Cream or sugar?”
“Neither, thanks.”
She poured the coffee and handed him a mug. He took a long swig of the hot brew and watched as she stirred sweetener and two packets of creamer into her own cup. Since they had entered post headquarters, Lillie had seemed more composed, as if she had stepped back into the role of the very competent administrative assistant to the commanding general.
Whether she was totally in control or showing her emotions, Dawson wasn’t sure which side of Lillie he liked better. Certainly he didn’t want fear to be the reason she allowed him to see behind her tough facade, but if truth be told, he was drawn to the woman who exposed her feelings. As much as he tried to focus on the investigation, he would never forget the way she felt in his arms.
Dawson couldn’t think about that. Not now. Not when she was looking at him and waiting for him to tell her what they should do next.
He motioned her toward her computer. “Let’s see what’s on that flash drive.”
Lillie sat in her desk chair and slipped the small memory device into the USB port. She opened the file that popped up.
Dawson leaned over her shoulder. He drew closer, inhaling her perfume and enjoying the feel of his arm against hers.
As he watched, Granger’s face appeared on the screen. Dawson had only seen photographs of his father while he was still alive. Now he stared at the angular jaw, gray hair and wrinkled face, hardened by the elements from years of working construction.
The ex-convict’s eyes were guarded and cautious. He glanced over his shoulder as if to ensure he was alone.
“My name is Granger Ford. I’ve uncovered information about a number of crimes that occurred twenty-five years ago. Hopefully, what I’ve found will eventually lead to Irene Beaumont’s killer. I loaded the information into a jump drive and hid it in the locker at the bus depot. If you’re watching this, you found the memory device. More information needs to be uncovered so Irene’s killer can be arrested and brought to justice.”
Granger’s deep voice sounded from the speakers. The same voice Dawson had heard over the phone just a few nights earlier—a voice and a request to meet, both of which Dawson had rejected.
A weight hung heavily over his shoulders. He knew he had made a terrible error. Granger had wanted to share information with his son. If Dawson had put his personal feelings aside, his father might still be alive. Instead Granger had turned to Lillie for help, hoping she would continue the search for Irene Beaumont’s killer.
Now, leaning close to her, Dawson knew he couldn’t let his personal struggle with his father cloud his ability to be an effective agent. He also had to ensure his desire to protect Lillie didn’t get in the way of uncovering the truth. Somehow her mother’s death played into his father’s murder.
Right now, Dawson needed answers, yet the lives both he and Lillie had created for themselves could be destroyed in the process. If the investigation uncovered too many secrets from the past, she could lose her job on post. Similarly, Dawson’s chance for promotion might end once the truth about his father came to light. The stakes were high, and they needed to move forward carefully.
Would either of them be hurt as the truth was revealed? Only time would tell. And right now, Dawson and Lillie were running out of time.
* * *
Lillie stared at the computer screen, seeing the man who had pounded on her door less than twenty-four hours earlier. Sitting at her desk with Dawson hanging over her shoulder caused her neck to tingle with a mix of apprehension and attraction. Although tired, she was also on edge and anxious to hear what the video would reveal.
Granger seemed equally anxious and glanced repeatedly to where a cheap reproduction of an oil painting hung askew over a double bed.
Lillie recognized the bedspread. “He’s at the Hi-Way Motel.”
Dawson nodded. “You’re right.” His breath fanned her cheek. She forced herself to concentrate on the monitor.
“Someone knows I’m getting close to learning what happened to Irene Beaumont,” Granger said on the screen. “If I’m killed, I hope whoever has these files will continue to investigate on their own.”
With a drawl, Granger laid out the backstory. Slowly, methodically, he talked about the jobs he had picked up working construction in various towns around the South, including the times he had been employed by Nelson Construction.
“On-site, the guys were tight-lipped,” he said from the video. “After work, with a few beers under their belts, they talked. Property theft was a fact of life. Everyone knew the steel drum had been stolen. Probably from Nelson’s company.”
Lillie pulled in a sharp breath when he mentioned a woman’s body found near the river.
“Irene Beaumont had left Freemont years earlier and had abandoned her little girl,” Granger continued. “Although I kept my opinions to myself, I felt the woman had been wrongly judged by the entire town.”
Lillie scooted her chair back as if to distance herself from Granger’s statements, but the video continued to play.
“At the time, I wondered why the police hadn’t made more of an effort to find Ms. Beaumont instead of writing her off as a bad mother who wanted nothing to do with her daughter.”
Granger sucked air through his thin lips. “I had been working for a few weeks on a short-term project with Nelson Construction when she initially went mis
sing, but I moved on to another area of the state after that job ended. When I returned to Freemont ten years later, I never suspected the police would come after me.”
Dawson leaned in closer.
“At the time, I was staying at the Hi-Way Motel. They ransacked my room and found Mrs. Beaumont’s picture stuffed under the mattress.”
Lillie turned from the monitor.
Dawson touched her arm. “We can stop the video if it’s too difficult to watch.”
She shook her head and slipped from her chair. Wrapping her arms across her chest, she walked to the window and stared out into the night, wanting to clear her mind.
Dawson approached her. She could see his reflection in the window. Eyes wide, brow raised, he lifted his hand to her shoulder. The tenderness of his touch eased her internal struggle. She swallowed down the lump of confusion and regret that had threatened to suffocate her only moments earlier.
“I’m being foolish, Dawson. We need to know what’s on the video. All of it.”
“I can watch and tell you what Granger said.”
She shook her head. “No, she was my mother. I need to hear everything.”
“Maybe tomorrow, Lillie.”
She turned to face him, never expecting his concern to be such a powerful draw. She wanted to move even closer and rest her head on his shoulder and allow his arms to encircle her.
Granger’s voice drawled on from the computer, but her focus was on Dawson’s eyes and the depth of his own struggle that reached out to her like a lifeline.
“We’re in this together, Lillie,” he said. She wanted to believe Dawson, but right now she wasn’t sure of anything, especially when it involved a CID agent whose father had been accused of murdering her mom.
Dawson might be grieving, but he was still a cop. Would he remain an ally or would he turn on her and close her out just as the voice from her mother’s bedroom—a voice she would never forget—had done that night so long ago?
She glanced at the monitor. “Granger’s still talking.” Dawson hesitated a long moment before he stepped aside.
Lillie pulled in a determined breath. Returning to her desk, she slipped back into her chair, but she kept her eyes on the computer screen instead of the CID special agent next to her. They might be in this together, but they were coming from opposite directions.
Dawson was looking for clues and evidence and bits and pieces of two murders that were joined over time. Lillie felt like a bystander, watching a drama unfold that was pulling her into the action when all she wanted was to return to the safe and solitary life she had known.
Before Granger had knocked on her door.
Before the bullet had taken his life.
Before Dawson had stepped into her controlled existence with his broad shoulders and blue eyes that saw more than she wanted to reveal.
If she went back to the way life had been, she would be alone again. Dawson wouldn’t be there, and at the moment, she wasn’t ready to lose him. Someday, in the not too distant future, their paths would part. No telling how she would feel when they said goodbye.
All she knew was at this moment she needed someone at her side. Someone willing to walk with her into the darkness and discover the truth—no matter how twisted it would be—about her past.
At this moment, she needed Dawson.
* * *
Dawson watched the video as Granger explained about his trial and the defense attorney who’d seemed less interested in what his client had to say and more interested in copping a plea. To his credit, Granger had refused to plead, knowing nothing could be gained by admitting guilt when he was innocent.
Easy enough to read the writing on the wall, Granger mused on the tape, his face drawn. “The prosecution needed someone to pin the murder on, and I had a bull’s-eye painted on my back.”
When the video stopped, Dawson turned to Lillie, concerned about her well-being. “It’s getting late. Why don’t you take a break?”
“We have two more files to open, but a cool drink of water sounds good. There’s a small refrigerator near the conference room.”
Dawson followed her down the hall and paused beside a table on which a model of the new Fort Rickman Museum was displayed. The three-story structure was surrounded by large cement flowerpots and shade trees. A path headed toward the nearby river where benches provided picnic areas for visitors to enjoy after touring the facility.
He whistled under his breath. “The layout’s pretty impressive.”
“Karl Nelson used an Atlanta architect who’s well thought of in the South.” Lillie reached into the refrigerator.
“Maybe I should have cut him a little slack this morning.”
She smiled. “He and his father have done a lot of good. Burl Nelson’s memory is revered because of the work he did to ensure Fort Rickman remained open when many posts were forced to close. Without the military, Freemont would go back to being a sleepy little farm town.”
Lillie handed a bottle of water to Dawson. “Karl has funded a lot of businesses in town and helped a number of folks. After my mother’s body was found, he stopped by my foster parents’ house, visibly upset that the steel drum had been from his own construction company, even though everyone knew it had been stolen. My foster parents were good people, but they didn’t have anything extra. Karl insisted on paying my tuition and books at a small college not far from Freemont.”
No doubt about it, Dawson had misjudged the construction mogul.
“When it came time to find a job,” she continued, “he made a few phone calls. I had to go through the application process, but I was eventually offered a position on post.”
“And worked your way up to the top.”
She shrugged. “It’s a respected job with good benefits, which I want to keep.”
Dawson understood the deeper meaning to her statement. Lillie didn’t want anything about Granger’s death and the investigation to tarnish her standing with the general or the civil service administration that had hired her. He glanced down at the museum model, knowing she didn’t want anything to affect the building project either.
Water bottles in hand, they returned to her desk. The next file they opened was a text document that contained three women’s names.
“Somehow the women must tie in with what Granger found.” Dawson wished he had more information.
Lillie opened the last file.
Granger’s face reappeared. “With long hours to kill in prison, guys talk, sometimes more than they should.”
Dawson’s inner radar told him to pay attention. He leaned closer to the screen.
“A guy named Leonard Simpson told me his dad owned a bar in Atlanta. Some college kid got drunk one night over the Martin Luther King weekend and talked about three prostitutes his brother had killed.”
Lillie’s eyes widened. Her hand flew to her mouth.
“The women in the previous file,” Dawson said, making the connection.
“The college kid claimed their bodies would never be found,” Granger said on the video.
Dawson’s gut tightened.
“They would never be found,” the ex-con repeated. “Because the three women had been placed in steel drums and buried underground.”
EIGHT
Dawson and Lillie searched the internet to find more information about the three women listed on Granger’s flash drive, but without success. Lillie was unable to hide her fatigue. Dawson encouraged her to relax on the couch and close her eyes.
Glancing up from the computer, he was relieved when she finally fell asleep. Rising from the desk chair, he reached for a throw that lay on the opposite end of the couch. Opening the plush velour, he covered her arms and legs and smiled as she cuddled into the warmth of the blanket.
Hopefully she’d get som
e much-needed rest. Returning to the computer, he accessed his own email and opened the attachment from Pritchard that contained the picture of Billy Everett. After printing the photo, he logged in to the archives of the Atlanta newspaper and searched for information about the women. Eventually, he located three short fillers on their disappearances, noting the dates the women had last been seen were in consecutive years, all in January.
Wondering if the dates were significant, Dawson plugged them into the search engine. The answer popped onto the screen. The dates coincided with the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday in each of the three years.
What Dawson needed now was something that tied the Atlanta women to Irene Beaumont. The muscles in his neck tensed as he read story after story. He flexed his shoulders and, once again, glanced at Lillie, relieved she was able to rest. Morning would come soon enough. Hopefully by then Dawson would know where to turn next.
Refocusing on the archives, he eventually found a short piece buried in the Metro section. The article made note of the three Atlanta women who had disappeared in different years, but each over the Martin Luther King holiday. Jessica Baxter, the reporter who penned the story, dubbed the three women the “MLK Missing Women.”
Because the women were prostitutes, the journalist claimed their disappearances had seemingly gone unnoticed. Homicides were commonplace in Atlanta. Dawson knew the reality of police investigation in a big city and the large number of crimes that went unsolved.
Stepping into the hallway so as not to wake Lillie, he called the Atlanta prison to ensure Leonard Simpson, the convict Granger had mentioned, was still behind bars. Once confirmed, Dawson made arrangements to interrogate Simpson the following day.
His next call was to CID headquarters to check on the Suburban’s license plate, which turned out to have been stolen. Whoever was after Lillie knew enough to cover his tracks. Eventually, the guy who had come after Lillie would make a mistake.
Dawson’s third call was to the Atlanta police department. After all these years, he doubted anyone would remember the three women who had gone missing, but as the saying went, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
