The General's Secretary
“Supposedly, the case was open and shut. They didn’t need to place me on the stand.”
Hearing Lillie’s response ignited a fire deep within Dawson’s belly. From what he had read about the trial, the prosecution had deemed the case open and shut because Granger was a drifter who worked construction when he needed money. Personnel records at Nelson Construction verified the laborer had been on the payroll at the time of Irene Beaumont’s disappearance and again when the steel drum, bearing the Nelson Construction name and logo, had been found.
“Do you know anything about the case?” Pritchard stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Dawson hadn’t heard him come back inside.
“I did an internet search before I got here.” Dawson pocketed his notebook. “Easy enough to access news stories about Granger’s release from prison. The article included information about Irene Beaumont’s murder.”
“The article probably didn’t mention that they found the T-shirt she must have been wearing in the drum along with her decomposed body.” Pritchard sniffed, unaware of the pained expression on Lillie’s face. “Two blood types were identified on the fabric. A-positive, which was Irene Beaumont’s blood type, and B-negative. That matched Granger Ford’s type.”
Anger welled up within Dawson. He had read the transcript of the trial and knew Granger had denied, under oath, ever seeing the bloodied T-shirt or having known the victim.
Dawson made sure his voice was even, his gaze level, before he spoke again. “Yet Mr. Ford was recently released from prison?”
The cocky cop nodded. “Law students from the University of Georgia got wind of the case. They probably hoped to make a name for themselves.”
“And the outcome?” Dawson knew too well what the determination had been.
Pritchard pursed his lips. “Something about the blood type being incorrect.”
Granger’s blood had proved to be a rare “Du”-positive, which would appear negative on an initial rapid-slide test. More definitive blood typing had not been run prior to his trial, and the jury found Granger guilty because of a bloodied T-shirt and an inaccurate blood type. In addition, DNA testing had not been done, and as Lillie had mentioned, a photo of the deceased had been found under the mattress in Granger’s motel room, which anyone on the housekeeping or janitorial staffs could have accessed.
“An open-and-shut case, eh?” Dawson couldn’t resist the barb that went over Pritchard’s head.
“Recent DNA testing verified the B-negative blood on the T-shirt wasn’t Granger’s. He was released from prison ten days ago, but we’re not sure when he arrived in Freemont.”
At least seventy-two hours earlier, judging from the phone call Dawson had received when Granger got to town. He kept the information to himself. Pritchard could do his own investigation.
A second cop opened the back door. “Sarge, we’re ready to transport the body.” Pritchard followed him outside.
Once they were alone, Dawson turned back to Lillie. “What did Granger say when you opened the door tonight?”
“That someone had found him and beat him. I heard the shot. He fell forward.” She stared at her hands. “I...I tried to catch him.”
“Did he mention who had found him or did he say anything about your mother?”
She shook her head, but something about her expression told Dawson the secretary knew more than she had revealed.
“Do you think Granger killed your mother?”
She chewed her lip. “I...I don’t know.”
“Don’t know or won’t say?”
She hesitated.
“Did Granger contact you after he was released from prison?”
“He called me and wanted to meet. I refused. He said he had information about my mother’s death.”
“Yet you turned him down?”
“Part of me didn’t believe him. The other part wanted to keep the past locked away.”
She lowered her gaze and picked at her sleeve.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Dawson asked.
“I know it sounds crazy after a man has died, but...” She pulled in a nervous breath. “I’m worried about what this will do to military and civilian relations in the local area.”
“Meaning?”
“You’ve heard about the new Fort Rickman Museum scheduled to be built on post?”
Dawson narrowed his gaze, trying to make the connection. With construction ready to commence, the huge, multistoried structure promised to be state of the art, with an extensive collection of historical memorabilia and artifacts. In addition, a grand ballroom, auditorium and banquet facilities would attract large-scale events and needed revenue to this part of Georgia.
“I know the museum will be a boon to the local economy,” Dawson said, “but I don’t see how one man’s death could adversely affect the project.”
“Funding is the problem.” She sighed. “Which sounds so inconsequential compared to the taking of a human life.”
“But—”
“That’s why I didn’t want to meet Granger when he called a few days ago. I knew if anything about my mother’s death was brought to light, the construction project could be affected.”
Dawson rubbed his hand over his jaw and let out a frustrated breath. “I still don’t get the tie-in.”
“You’re not from around here so you probably don’t know Karl Nelson.”
“Only by name. Didn’t the stolen barrel your mother’s body was found in belong to his company?”
“That’s right. Nelson Construction Company was the low bid on the museum. Mr. Nelson has been more than generous keeping the projected costs at a minimum.”
“He also owns a number of businesses in town?”
“And is known for his charitable contributions. Over the years, he and his father before him have done a lot for the local area. Mr. Nelson has also donated heavily to the museum building fund and has been working with General Cameron to attract more donors. They’re hosting a special ceremony on Wednesday to secure the remaining pledges.”
Dawson was aware of the event. “The CID, along with the military police on post, will be providing security for the high-profile guests.”
Lillie nodded. “General Cameron wants everything to go without a glitch. Mr. Nelson personally assured the donors that Freemont and Fort Rickman are exemplary communities that will showcase the best in Georgia living and draw new businesses and attractions to this part of the state.”
“You’re afraid the murder investigation could cause the donors to change their minds?”
She nodded slowly, as if struggling to find the words to express her feelings. When she finally spoke, she splayed her hands. “I work in General Cameron’s office and am the contact person for those attending the ceremony. A pending murder investigation that involves the company, especially since Granger was killed on my property, could shed the wrong kind of light on Freemont and the project, maybe even on General Cameron. Especially if information leaks out about my mother’s murder.”
After everything that had happened, Lillie wasn’t thinking rationally, but Dawson understood her concern. The museum project had been the talk of the post for months and everyone was eager for construction to commence. Small-town gossip could get out of hand, and with an abundance of charities needing funding, negative publicity could sway donors into changing their minds about supporting the building project.
Before Dawson could offer her reassurance, Pritchard stepped back inside.
“We’re ready to wrap things up.” He glanced at Lillie. “The front step is sealed off. Some of my men will return in the morning to go over the crime scene again. Use the kitchen entrance until I give you the all clear, and stay in the area in case we have more questions.”
“I’m not planning to leave town.”
Dawson stood and pulled two business cards from his pocket. He gave one to Pritchard. “The CID office phone number and my personal cell are under my name.”
Retrieving the pen from his pocket, Dawson jotted down an additional number on the back of the card he handed Lillie. “I live in the bachelor officers’ quarters on post. The handwritten digits are for the direct line to my apartment at the BOQ.”
A uniformed cop approached Pritchard. “We found some numbers scratched on a scrap of paper tucked in the victim’s jacket.”
Pressure pushed on Dawson’s chest as Pritchard read from the paper. “Nine-seven-one-four.”
Lillie stared at Dawson’s business card and silently mouthed the last four digits of his BOQ phone number. Nine-seven-one-four. The same numbers found in Granger’s jacket.
She glanced up at Dawson. Her forehead furrowed.
Oblivious to her questioning gaze, Pritchard pulled out his cell. “Might be a portion of a phone number. I’ll add the local prefix and see what we get.”
Pritchard tapped in the digits and then shook his head as he disconnected. “The number’s not in service.”
Dawson needed to leave the little house in the woods before the Freemont cop tried the unique prefix for Fort Rickman phone lines.
He turned to Lillie, who continued to stare at him. “Don’t hesitate to call me, ma’am, if you think of anything else that might have bearing on this case.”
One of her finely arched brows rose ever so slightly. “Shall I use your cell phone or your BOQ number?”
The muscle in Dawson’s neck twitched. “My cell.”
Lillie knew he was withholding information from Pritchard. Just as she was.
Maybe they could trade secrets.
TWO
The CID agent climbed into his car as Pritchard and his men prepared to leave the area. Instead of returning to Fort Rickman, Dawson turned right out of the driveway and sped along the rain-washed road that headed north toward the interstate. Rounding a bend, he passed under a train trestle and spied the lights from the Hi-Way Motel in the distance.
The triangle of red, green and blue neon pointed toward the one-story brick building that offered small rooms at a modest rate for those who couldn’t afford the larger chain motels closer to Freemont. Vacancy, the sign flashed, begging for business.
Pulling into the drive, Dawson cut his lights and circled to the rear of the complex. He parked under an oak tree away from the handful of cars in the back lot.
Grabbing a pair of latex gloves from his console, Dawson hustled toward the last room on the far end of the building, the room where his father had said he was staying when he called three days ago. Dawson slipped his hands into the gloves and tried the knob, relieved when it turned.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness. The bed was rumpled, pillows and comforter strewn over the nearby throw rug. Two dresser drawers hung open. An unzipped duffel bag sat on the floor next to a small desk and overturned lamp.
Either a scuffle had ensued or someone had ransacked the room. Maybe both.
Using his cell phone for light, Dawson checked the duffel, finding only underwear and socks. He opened the remaining dresser drawers. Empty except for a hardcover Bible. Standard toilet articles in the bathroom. Two shirts and a pair of jeans hung in the closet.
A car pulled to a stop outside. Footsteps approached on the walkway that edged the rooms. Dawson’s pulse kicked up a notch, realizing, too late, he had failed to flip the latch.
Rap, rap, rap.
He glanced at the bathroom that offered no place to hide. The closet hung open. Small, dark, confining. Exactly where he didn’t want to go.
A key scratched against the lock. The knob turned.
Sweat pooled around his neck. He didn’t have a choice and slipped into the closet’s confining darkness. His heart skittered in his chest. He left the door ajar and peered through the crack.
Someone stepped into the room.
Five-seven and slender with shoulder-length hair and big eyes that took in the room with one glance.
Lillie?
* * *
The last place Lillie wanted to be was Granger Ford’s motel room, but she had thought the key would unlock the door and lead to information about her mother’s death.
Three nights ago, Granger had phoned and asked her to meet him here. In hindsight and despite her concern about the museum project, she should have accepted his invitation.
He’d claimed to have answers, which she took to mean information about what had happened on that stormy night so long ago. Obviously, from the disarray, someone had searched the motel room, looking for the information that must have played into Granger’s death.
Lillie pulled in a deep breath to calm her runaway pulse. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she stepped toward the duffel bag. After rifling through the contents, she opened the dresser drawers. Her fingers rested briefly on the Gideon Bible. Lord, let me find the truth.
Granger claimed he had never known her mother and had had nothing to do with her death. Not that Lillie was sure she believed him. Easy enough to beg forgiveness after the fact.
“Go back to bed, child.”
Yet Granger’s voice wasn’t the one she heard in her dreams. Nor was his face the one that returned to haunt her with each passing storm.
Knowing it was only a matter of time before the Freemont police or the muscular CID agent from Fort Rickman found where Granger had been staying, she tugged on the closet door.
A man stood shadowed in the recesses.
Her heart exploded in her chest. She screamed.
Turning to flee, her foot caught on the leg of the bed. She lost her balance.
“Lillie.”
Hands reached for her, easing the fall. He took the brunt of the blow as they both crashed to the floor.
She kicked, heard him groan and kicked again.
He pinned her down, the weight of his legs impeding her movement. “I won’t hurt you.”
She screamed again.
He covered her mouth with his hand. His breath warmed her cheek.
“Lillie, stop.” His voice was low, insistent.
She bit his hand.
“Augh,” he groaned. “Listen.”
Sirens sounded in the distance.
“The police are coming. You don’t want them to find you here.”
Reason tangled through her fear as she recognized Dawson’s voice.
“I’m going to let you go. Leave the room. Take the back road out of the motel. Meet me at the truck stop one exit north on the highway. We need to talk.” His hand eased up ever so slightly. “Do you understand?”
She nodded.
He drew away from her and stood.
Scampering to her feet, Lillie raced for the door and threw it open. Light filtered into the darkness. She turned, seeing the special agent bend down and pick up something from the rug.
Dawson Timmons was a fool to think she would meet him anywhere except at military police headquarters on post.
“You dropped something.” The key dangled from his hand.
The sirens screamed in the distance. Not much time to get away.
“Meet me at the truck stop,” he said again. “We can share information.”
The police would never understand how she had known about the motel room and why she had been there with the CID agent. Leaving the parking lot, she headed out the back way.
On the phone, Granger had said he’d been framed. At the time, she hadn’t wanted his excuses to buy her sympathy. Now she wasn’t sure about anything or anyone, especially the special agent who seemed to be one step ahead of her.
General Cameron had spoken highly of the Criminal Investigation Division on post. A number of big cases had been solved over the past few years because of their hard work. That’s why she had felt comfortable sharing her story tonight with the special agent.
Now she wondered if she could trust him. How had he known about the motel room? Could he have been one of the people Granger claimed had framed him? If so, Dawson was the last person Lillie should meet. Yet, he now had the key that might unlock information about her mother’s disappearance.
Lillie needed to be smart and careful, which meant having something to hold over Dawson’s head if things got ugly. Grabbing her phone, she dialed her private line at work that hooked into the voice mail she checked each morning as soon as she arrived at her desk.
If something happened to her, General Cameron’s aide would eventually review the messages. “This is Lillie Beaumont,” she said once the call transferred to voice mail.
She glanced at the clock on her dash. “It’s four-thirty a.m. I’m on my way to the truck stop at the exit north of town to meet CID Special Agent Dawson Timmons concerning Granger Ford’s death. If something should happen to me, question Agent Timmons.”
Years earlier her mother had disappeared on a stormy night. She glanced at the leaves and branches strewn across the road. Meeting Dawson could put her own life in danger.
A shiver slipped down her spine. Lillie had to ensure that she wouldn’t disappear on this stormy night like her mother.
THREE
Dawson parked on the far side of the truck stop where his car wouldn’t be seen from the interstate. Quickly pulling out the wax kit he kept in his glove compartment, he made a mold of Lillie’s key. Later, if need be, he could make a duplicate.
Leaving his car, he rounded to the front of the one-story stucco building and glanced at the few cars driving along the highway, their lights cutting through the darkness. The rain had stopped, but a wind blew from the west. He rubbed his bare hands together as he approached the all-night diner and peered through the large windows. Standing behind the counter, a waitress poured coffee for two husky guys in parkas.
Dawson wiped his feet on the doormat, frustrated by the damp cold that gnawed at the old gunshot wound to his leg. He thought of the investigation that had left him injured, hating the ever-present limp and accompanying pain.
Stepping inside, Dawson unsnapped his windbreaker and nodded to the waitress, who raised a pot of coffee. He held up two fingers and pointed to the booth where Lillie sat. She watched him approach the table and slide into the seat across from her.
“Thanks for meeting me,” he said, adding a smile to counter her frosty glare.
“You have something that belongs to me,” she said in lieu of a greeting.
The waitress approached with two mugs she quickly filled. “You folks want breakfast?”
“Coffee’s fine.” Lillie dumped a packet of sweetener and a significant amount of cream into her mug.
“Two eggs over easy, hash browns, sausage and biscuits.” Dawson eyed Lillie. “You like grits?”
“Of course, but—”
“Make that two orders with grits.”
The waitress scurried back to the kitchen.
Lillie raised her brow. “I don’t need breakfast.”
“Maybe not, but it’s been a long night.” He glanced at the men at the nearby counter and lowered his voice. “I’m glad you decided to meet me.”
She wrapped her fingers around the chunky mug. “Did I have a choice?”
“You could have gone home.”
“I need my key.”
She held out her hand, palm up, which he ignored.
“You tried the key at the motel,” Dawson said, “thinking it would open the door. Evidently Granger didn’t tell you what it unlocked when he called you.”
She tilted her head and braced her shoulders before she leaned across the table, her voice low. “When did he call nine-seven-one-four, the number on your business card?”
Touché. Ms. Beaumont had a mind and wasn’t afraid to use it. He stretched back in the booth. “You’ve developed a bit of an attitude since you left your house, Lillie. What happened?”
“I realized you may be more of a problem than an asset.”
“Which means?”
“I thought I could trust you.”
He shrugged. “I’m working for Uncle Sam. I’m trustworthy.”
“Really, Dawson?” She raised a brow and stared at him across the table.
He almost smiled at the cute way her nose turned up and the handful of freckles that dotted her cheeks, neither of which he had noticed earlier. “Let’s make a trade. Okay? You go first.”
She shook her head. “I’ve already told you everything.”
“Why did Granger pick tonight to stop by your house?”
“He was on the run. As I mentioned, someone found him and beat him.”
“But why?”
“Because he was trying to uncover the truth about what happened to my mother.” Lillie glanced at the waitress then back at Dawson. “I overheard the prosecuting attorney talking to my foster parents before Granger’s trial began. The lawyer was worried the evidence wouldn’t be enough to find him guilty. Everyone wanted to pin the crime on someone. Granger was the logical choice.”
Dawson’s muscles tensed. “Do you know that for sure?”
She leaned in closer. “All I know is someone wanted my mother dead, only I never knew who. At the time, it was easier to believe Granger was guilty.”
“And now?”
“Now I want everything to go back to the way it was before Granger knocked on my door.” She sighed. “Only there’s no going back.”
“Why would someone want to kill your mother?”
“I thought it was because of me. That I had done something wrong.”
“Which doesn’t make sense, Lillie.”
“Not to an adult, but children always believe they’re at fault when something bad happens.”
Dawson thought of his own childhood. For too long, he had blamed himself for his absentee father.
Lillie pointed a slender finger at him. “Now it’s your turn, Mr. CID Agent. How are you involved?”
“I’m representing the military in the investigation.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
She was right, but Dawson wasn’t ready to reveal anything else.
His cell rang. He pulled the mobile phone from his pocket. “Timmons.”
“Pritchard here. Thought you might be interested in the latest.”
“Hold on a second.” Dawson glanced at Lillie. “I need to take this call.”
Without waiting for her response, he slid from the booth and hustled outside. The chilly night air swirled around him. He pushed the phone to his ear. “Go ahead.”
“The victim rented a room at the Hi-Way Motel. We’re there now.”
“Did you find anything that has bearing on his death?” Dawson asked.
“A photo cut from the local newspaper of a guy named Billy Everett was hidden in the motel Bible.”
The one place Dawson hadn’t looked.
“Everett got into trouble a few years back,” the cop continued. “The news photo was taken when we hauled him in for questioning. We didn’t have enough evidence and eventually had to release him.”
“Had he been arrested before?”
“For possession. Did some time. Claimed he had cleaned up his life, but the guy’s got problems. Not too smart, and years of abusing drugs haven’t helped.”
“So why would Granger have his picture?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Do me a favor,” Dawson said. “Fax me a copy of the photo.”
“Will do.”
“Any indication Everett was involved in tonight’s shooting?”
“A lamp was overturned, and the bedding was disheveled. Looks like there could have been a scuffle.”
Or someone was looking for something, such as a key, which Dawson didn’t mention. He raked his hands across his face, needing the coffee he hadn’t had a chance to drink.
“If they had argued—” Dawson went along with Pritchard’s theory “—why would Granger go to Lillie’s house?”
“The guilty always return to the scene of the crime. Irene Beaumont’s house burned down years ago, but her daughter was still in town. If Granger killed Irene, he might want her daughter to know about his release from prison.”
“Lillie was only four years old when her mother disappeared.”
“She heard a man’s voice that night,” Pritchard said. “Irene Beaumont had a Fulton County license plate on her car when she arrived in Freemont. Initially, folks thought she had gone back to Atlanta with her lover. No mention of a husband. Most people presumed she had never married.”
“And left her child home alone?”
“No one said she was the best of mothers.”