An Unlawful Order (The Chase Anderson Series) (7 page)

“Paul!” Chase shouted, unable to hide her irritation.

When he turned, Chase saw that Paul
Shapiro had been talking to Major White’s other woman.

As Chase approached the two, the woman bolted to Shapiro’s left, but he grabbed her wrist. “Captain Anderson should hear this.” The woman looked nervous enough to jump off the cliff. During their assignment to Okinawa, Chase and Stone had visited the cliffs from which women had jumped to save themselves from what they believed would be humiliation of rape and torture by U.S. Marines. Those too afraid to jump had been shoved over by fathers, brothers, and uncles. Major White’s mistress looked as if she could make the leap on her own.

“You know the rules, Paul. I need you to rejoin the group.”

Shapiro was still gripping the woman’s wrist, as if he, too, thought she might be frightened enough to jump. “If you don’t tell her, I will. Someone’s got to know.”

The woman shook her head. She looked as if she might cry.

Chase saw North and Cruise herding their media teams across the parking lot toward the vehicles. Hickman was thankfully climbing into his sedan. The black limousine bearing Mrs. White and her children pulled away from the chapel.

“Time to go.”

Shapiro looked back at the woman. She was shaking her head. “Not yet,” she whispered.

He ignored her. “We think—” he glanced at the woman and back at Chase,
“Melanie—Dr. Appleton—and I have reasons to believe Major White’s accident was no accident.”

“Really—” Chase said, staring down White’s mistress.

Shapiro continued. “We think Major White will be used as a scapegoat by those who want to protect the 81.” He released his hold on the woman.

For a second, Chase thought the woman might seriously jump. The woman was shaking. “I hope you’re not planning on running with that kind of story,” Chase said. “We’re in the middle of an investigation, Paul.”

North was standing beside the van, looking their way. She waved, and North acknowledged with the same. “The others are waiting, Paul. As soon as the investigation is
complete, you’ll know the findings.”

The woman finally spoke. “I told you.” And she dashed toward a small white compact.

Chase and Shapiro stood in silence for a moment. “What’s going on, Paul?” She herded him toward the parking lot. The only cars left now were hers and those of North, Cruise, and Martinez, who were pulling up to the front of the chapel for Shapiro.

“Listen, Captain Anderson,” he said, stopping short of North’s van. “I have information that 464 has been forging maintenance records.”

Another breeze caused Chase to nearly lose her cap, and this time she damned the regulations, and took it off. To look up at him, and she would look him in the eye, she
had to shield hers from the sun with a hand. “Why would 464 need to forge their maintenance records, Paul?”

“Because the truth of what’s happening with the 81 could cause the fleet to be grounded indefinitely.”

“Paul, have you any idea how many channels clear those records?” Before his second deployment, Stone had been 464’s operations officer. His job was to sign off on maintenance records. If something were awry, he’d have confided in Chase. Paul Shapiro was fishing.

“Major White knew about the forged records, Captain. We—I don’t think his crash was an accident.”

Chase switched hands over her eyes. “Who’s your source?”

Shapiro glanced down at his feet.

“Major White’s bereaved mistress?” The shock on his face gave her great pleasure. “Look, Paul, I’ve got to warn you—you need to tread lightly over here. It’s one thing to ambush a few drunk Marines on liberty to get a story, quite another to insinuate a conspiracy.” She walked to the van and opened the door.

CHAPTER 5

T
hat evening was crisp for Hawaii, with temperatures in the upper sixties. At home, Chase poured herself a glass of white wine, changed into her favorite yoga pants
and a tank top, and set the table for dinner.

She was outside on the tiny patio, the glass of wine in one hand, grilling chicken with a set of tongs in the other, and lost in a replay of the scene with Shapiro and White’s mistress, when a man’s voice startled her.

“I said, you could use a little water on that fire.” Of all people, it was Colonel Figueredo. Correction: Fig, as he wished to be called. Damned if she would oblige his arrogance.

“Are you lost, Colonel?” She guessed he was looking for one of her neighbors, either Paige’s husband or Samantha’s. Both houses appeared quiet, deserted.

“I tried your front door—” He was smiling again but looked a bit disarmed himself, perhaps just realizing his own
arrogance at showing up uninvited in her backyard. He was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt that made his features appear even darker, especially in the fading light of sunset.

Chase nodded toward the patio’s sliding glass doors. “My daughter’s probably engrossed in her movie and didn’t hear the doorbell. What can I do for you, Colonel—”

“Fig, just call me Fig.” He was rolling up his right shirtsleeve above one of those large sporty watches with a wide leather band. “Better hand me those tongs,” he said.

“Excuse me?” She flipped over a chicken breast, then rolled over both drumsticks, leaning back when flames shot upward.

“Here,” he said, “let me take over.” His outstretched hand, that she was refusing to
fill, created a long, awkward moment.

Finally, Chase handed over the tongs. “I could use a glass of water for this fire,” he said. “You should have let the coals die down more before you started cooking.”

“Are you always this impertinent?” And then realizing she had just insulted a senior officer, quickly added “sir?”

He pushed the chicken from the hot center of the grill to the edge. “Are you always so sensitive, Skipper?” His face softened into a look of sympathy, the one thing she couldn’t tolerate from anyone. Sympathy cracked her open and calved her from a glacier of icy resolve. She didn’t want to think of herself as a woman who wore her feelings too close to the surface. Any outpouring of sympathy over her current
situation— why couldn’t she just say it, Stone’s
death
, for crying out loud—caused her grief to surface and spillover.

“I should check on my daughter,” she said, sliding open the door to the kitchen.

“A glass of wine would be nice,” Figueredo called out.

Could the man be anymore impudent?
she thought, drawing the sliding door behind her.

Molly was curled up in Stone’s old recliner, her lifeless dolls strewn like dead bodies on the floor. Chase poured a tall glass of water. Out the window above the sink, she watched Figueredo. He’d left the grill long enough to drag over one of her teak chairs, and that was where he’d settled by the time she was tapping at the sliding door with a
foot, in her hands the water and two glasses of wine. He jumped to his feet to help.

“Thanks,” she said, as he relieved her of the water and a wine glass.

He walked back to the grill and moved the chicken back to the hot center. “I saw you talking with that reporter from the
Current
at White’s memorial— ”

“Yes, sir. That was Paul Shapiro.”

“Look, Chase, you don’t have to stand on such formality with me, okay? Call me Fig.”

“Formality? You’re a colonel. I’m a captain. I’m just—”

“I know, but relax, will you?” He set the glass of water on the table. “I think the coals are perfect right now.” After settling back against the chair, he raised his wine glass
toward her in a half-mockery of a toast and drank.

“Colonel,” she said, still standing and now leaning against one edge of the table, preferring the advantage of a little height, “just why are you here? If you’re looking for Colonel Abercrombie or Colonel Harold, they live over there.” She pointed in the two directions of her neighbors’ homes.

“I know that.”

“Then why—”

“Actually, I wanted to warn you about Shapiro. Hickman’s got a burr up his ass for the man.” Tell her something she didn’t know. “Hickman saw the two of you together after White’s memorial service, talking, away from the others, and he went a little crazy. Just thought you should know what position that reporter’s putting you in.”

“My job is to talk to reporters,” she said. “What would you, or the general for that matter, have me do? I can’t ignore my job. I especially can’t ignore reporters like Shapiro. Better to find ways to placate reporters like him.”

“Placate? In what way?” A flame shot up from the grill, and so did Figueredo from the chair, dousing the flame with water.

“Well, for example,” she said, wondering just how far she should trust him, and then deciding that since he was the base’s intel officer— “this afternoon, Shapiro actually insinuated that Major White’s crash wasn’t an accident.”

Figueredo didn’t look up from the grill, but even under the fading light she detected the rise of his eyebrows. “Really? What’s he basing
that
on?”

“He seems to think the maintenance records at 464 are being forged to protect the 81 from being grounded. My husband was once the S-3 at 464 and would have known if anything like that had been going on.” Her voice trailed off. For some reason, she actually felt a little guilty for bringing Stone into the conversation. Fearful of another sympathetic look from Figueredo, she turned her back on him and folded herself into a chair.

“You’re still wearing your wedding ring,” he said.

Instinctively, she looked down at her left hand. Several seconds passed before either spoke. Chase broke the tense silence. “Have you ever been married, Colonel?”

He looked up from the grill, and took a long drink of wine. “In my line of work, you
never get attached to anything or anyone you can’t leave in fifteen minutes or less.”

“Really? How long have you been using that line to avoid commitment?” It was the wine talking, that and she was fed up with his arrogance. She suspected by his silence she’d hit a nerve. He was flipping chicken breasts. Grease sizzled, and a breeze carried off smoke and the scent to her neighbor’s yard. She thought of Stone and how much they’d enjoyed grilling out. She used to relish the idea that others might be salivating over what she and Stone were cooking up together. Something about grilling out said to others you were solid, together, happy. When she was a little girl during the troubled years of her parents’ marriage, she’d envied the charcoal smell of a neighbor’s grill.

“So, what did you say to Shapiro?” Figueredo finally asked.

“I warned him against spreading some sort of wild conspiracy theory.”

“This chicken is done,” he said, and she wondered if he’d even heard her response. She disappeared inside the house and returned with a platter.

“Damn reporters,” he said, arranging chicken on the platter and shaking his head. “Where would he even get such an idea?”

“He wouldn’t give up his so-called source—” She stopped short of telling him about Major White’s mistress. After all, White had been a friend of Stone’s and, therefore, deserving of her protection. She would have valued the same protection of Stone’s reputation.

Figueredo opened the sliding glass door
for her. She said over a shoulder, “I’m just fixing a salad to go with this—suppose I should invite you to stay since you did the cooking.”

He was close enough now for her to smell his aftershave—woodsy or spicy or something like that, but entirely pleasant. “No, thanks,” he said, and handing her the empty wine glass, added, “I’m sorry if I upset you when I mentioned your wedding ring.”

“Colonel,” she said, looking him hard in the eyes, “I don’t talk about my husband to anyone but my daughter and family. I’d appreciate it if you’d—” She stopped because he’d put a finger to her lips.

“Enough,” he whispered. “I’d appreciate a call the next time Shapiro, or any reporter, comes to you with crazy talk of conspiracies.”

When he removed his finger, she said, “No disrespect intended, Colonel, but you’re not exactly in my chain of command. Do you really want to be bothered with such matters?” She stepped inside the kitchen and placed the platter and her wine glass on the counter. Figueredo was still standing in the doorway—half in, half out.

“No disrespect taken, Skipper,” he said coolly. “I only meant I might be able to run interference for you with General Hickman.” He reached to close the sliding door and stopped. “Thank you for the wine,” he said, and closed the door.

Chase was tossing the salad when she thought of White’s dog tags. She glanced over at the garbage can and remembered she’d
emptied the trash since. The bag was in the large trash container already at the end of the driveway for the morning pickup. Three minutes later, she’d retrieved the top bag in the garbage can and was bending over it in the garage, her right arm rummaging past a napkin with Molly’s chewing gum and past the stubs of lettuce and spines of tomatoes and peppers, past the bloody Styrofoam chicken tray she’d tossed the night before—moving the chicken to a dish for overnight marinating—past an empty milk carton, past two mornings’ worth of coffee grounds, and herbal tea bags. But she couldn’t find the dog tags. She began from the top again, sifting past each nasty item to the bottom. Nope. She checked the bottom of the bag for holes, and finding the bag intact, shook it hard, listening
for the rattle of metal. Nothing.

“I’m hungry,” Molly said, startling Chase into a half-scream.

“You scared me half to death, Molly,” she said angrily, immediately regretting it.

“I’m sorry,” the child whispered. “Did you lose something, Mommy?”

“Yes,” Chase said, and sighed. There was only one explanation: the dog tags had to be in another bag. She considered pulling out the others, but Molly was standing there in the doorway, hungry, and smarting from her mother’s harsh tone. She gave up the search. After all, why should it matter now? Because returning them was a chance at redemption with Kitty? “Go wash up, honey,” she said and smiled at her daughter. “I’ll be right there.” She tied up the trash bag and carried it
back to the end of the driveway.