Fleet Hospital

“I wanted an interview. I wanted a big story for AP. I wanted everything except a murder. You know, you should have family here with you. Isn’t there anyone you can call?”

“I already have,” Michael said, conscious of the personnel watching his every move. “Let’s go. Puripong’s waiting. Grab another water on the way. Keep yourself hydrated.”

“I will.” She grabbed two and passed one to Michael.

“So, you still feel that way?” he asked.

“What—faint? Nah, I’m okay.”

“Good, but I meant romantically interested in the chaplain.”

“Never was! He’s not my type. I was just trying to be cute.”

“Don’t. There’s no place for it in a murder investigation.”

“I know. Besides, any flirting notions I might’ve had ended when I saw your cousin.” She uttered a harsh, vulgar oath directed at the killer.

Somehow, her foul language made him feel better. It was exactly what he wanted to say himself, except he couldn’t—not while in uniform.

That would be a Bad Thing.

“Huh? You say something?”

Michael shook his head. I’m losing it. I’ve got to go tell Sunshine. But then I’ll be back…and I’ll find Selena’s killer.

CHAPTER FIVE

Patrick and Sunshine’s home, San Diego

Day 2, 8:00 a.m.

THE SMELL OF THE BEACH and frying sausage—tofu sausage, she later discovered—met Jo as she stepped into the breakfast nook. Michael had refused any escorts last night when leaving Camp Pendleton, but he couldn’t order Jo around. Nor did he wish to forbid her presence. When she’d climbed into his car with him, he’d found her company more than soothing. He’d found it a necessity. Delayed reaction had hit him in the parking lot and he couldn’t insert the shaking key in the ignition slot; Jo had silently traded places with him and driven him home.

All other personnel were to complete the exercise as originally ordered—in the isolation of the camp. Jo had been allowed to exit the compound after turning all her film over to Puripong. Jo’s night in the tastefully furnished guest room and lush bed hadn’t been restful. She’d had nightmares, but not about death. She’d seen her first overdosed druggie at age five in an alley, and her first gunshot victim at age six, right in her own schoolyard.

No, her nightmares had been about failure. Failing to get her story, since her film had been confiscated. Failing to hide that she’d never worked for AP. Still hiding her forged press pass. Being investigated for a murder she didn’t commit. And now she had to sit and eat breakfast cooked by a family member of the deceased. Her nerves were taut with stress. First she’d spent most of the money from her last story on fake ID, then ended up witnessing a crime and photographing the scene. She’d been more or less forced to reveal her true name, which would make it much easier for the military to find out about the ID.

Ordinarily something like this would have sent her scurrying to cover her tracks or even making a quick escape. But she couldn’t, nor was her decision hard to make. She vowed to think of Michael’s welfare, as well as her own, although that hadn’t included staying overnight as a guest of his parents.

I only came along to help him out. She’d seen Michael’s type before. He was every brokenhearted parent whose son or daughter died by bullet or knife or drugs in East St. Louis, every child at a loss for words because of the raw violence at school or home.

He doesn’t know how to tune it out. He can’t, or he wouldn’t be carrying old grudges around. If you don’t take out the trash or at least hide it away, bad memories will eat you alive. People who hold on to the past never make it for long in the present real world. Not that the military is the real world as far as I’m concerned.

So Jo had insisted on going home with Michael to spend an awkward evening. Michael had left her with his father while he comforted his stepmother, Sunshine, and Selena’s fiancé, a civilian named Paul O’Conner. The father hadn’t wanted Jo’s comfort—or presence, for that matter. He’d made her feel like an intruder.

I am an intruder, but only for Michael’s sake. I hope his father isn’t joining us for breakfast, she thought, pulling on another worn but clean pair of jeans, a clean shirt and clean underwear, still slightly damp from being washed in the shower the night before. She hoped they’d dry soon in the heat outside. The Thrift Store or Goodwill couldn’t carry used underwear, a health law Jo had cursed more than once since most of her clothes were stolen—and she’d given up shoplifting along with the cigarettes back in high school. That forged pass was high quality, and she’d paid dearly for it.

As she was paying now, about to sit down with Patrick Andrew McLowery. Everyone except Paul the fiancé, who’d left last night, had appeared at the table for breakfast. Jo didn’t like Patrick. He seemed too sure of himself, too smooth, too charming—especially when he was telling stories the previous night about his youthful self flying jets in ’Nam, even if he was doing it to distract the family from their grief.

If he’s not a heavy drinker now, he used to be. I’ve seen enough of them to know the look. No wonder Sunshine serves him fake eggs and tofu sausage.

Michael’s stepmother was another story. Jo had warmed instantly to Sunshine, who treated her like an honored guest. She was gracious and kind, even in crisis, and Jo found herself wishing her own mother had been so giving. But she couldn’t enjoy Sunshine’s solicitude without guilt.

I should have stayed back at the compound, Jo thought. I’m not family. Michael’s in good hands here, surrounded by all this fancy pottery and stuff. Not only do my clothes clash with the decor, I do, too. I’ll have to remember to keep my mouth clean. I sounded like trailer trash yesterday swearing in front of Michael. Still, my intentions were good.

She sighed once—a poor substitute for a good earthy curse word—slung her denim backpack with her gear and meager wardrobe over her shoulder, then headed for the cooked breakfast Sunshine had insisted she share.

Michael and both parents were waiting as she hurried to the table.

“You’re late,” Patrick remarked.

“This isn’t the military, Patrick,” Sunshine rebuked softly as she turned a welcoming face Jo’s way. “Let’s make some allowances, shall we? Good morning, Jo.”

Jo smiled at Sunshine. “Good morning, all.”

“Morning.” Clad in military cammies, Michael rose from his chair to pull out hers and settle her in before a spread of fresh fruit, eggs—both real and substitute—toast and tofu sausage. “How’d you sleep?”

“The room’s great. Thank you for putting me up, Mrs. McLowery. You really didn’t have to.”

“Please, call me Sunshine,” she murmured, pouring everyone coffee. “And it was my pleasure. I’m so grateful Mac wasn’t alone yesterday.”

Jo didn’t know what to say to that, so she reached for her orange juice and took a sip just as Patrick made the sign of the cross and started to say grace out loud. Nervously she set the glass down again.

“You don’t pray, Miss Marche?” Patrick asked, lifting his coffee with arthritic fingers when the prayer was concluded.

Sanctimonious old man. Jo decided to match his blunt words with her own. “As a kid I did, but our prayers were usually for more food. There was never enough to pray over if I wanted to eat before my brothers beat me to it. I lost the habit.”

“So did Mac. My son stopped going to church a long time ago.” Patrick shook his head.

“Dad, please,” Michael protested. “We have a guest.”

“It’s okay,” Jo said. “Mr. McLowery, I’m not anti-prayer, especially after a day like yesterday. Michael could have used the services of the preacher. But he wouldn’t have anything to do with Reverend Preston—”

“That’s because the bastard killed my daughter.”

Dead silence struck the table.

“What?” Jo said, aware that she’d just triggered some terrible memory, unveiled some painful family history. Michael threw his linen napkin onto his plate of eggs, tipping over his chair with a loud crash in the process. Before Jo’s horrified gaze, Patrick and Sunshine also rose.

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