Fleet Hospital

CHAPTER FOUR

Naval Fleet Hospital, Secured Compound, Expectant Area

Day 1, early afternoon

DANIEL PRESTON stared at the dead woman on the cot, the woman identified as the CO’s cousin. Young sailors—kids, really, pretending to be other dying patients—talked and gawked, unsure of what to do. Hell, he didn’t know what to do! He’d prayed over the dead woman, saying the Protestant prayers appropriate to the religious classification on her dog tags.

The only person who seemed to know what actions to take was the photographer in tight jeans—Jo Marche. She’d roped off the area with a length of fresh film, using it like yellow police tape to keep away the shocked and the curious. She’d quickly taken pictures of the scene, the people present and the body itself without moving or touching anything. In the meantime, he sat there like an idiot, trying to decide how to tell the commanding officer that his cousin was dead.

“Who’s in charge here?” Daniel heard Jo Marche ask. “Where’re the MPs? Somebody with rank?”

“That would be me,” Daniel said. “I’ve sent for help. I hope you won’t mind giving up your film. I doubt you’ll be able to keep it.”

“I won’t mind,” she said. To her credit, she spoke in a low hushed voice. “That’s the least of my worries. She doesn’t look much older than I am. How could anyone do this?”

“I can’t answer that. But I will have to tell the CO his cousin is dead.”

“She’s his cousin?” Compassion flooded her face. “That poor man!” Jo bent over and studied the small bullet hole through the vital heart area. “At least you can say she didn’t suffer. It isn’t much consolation, but it’s something.”

To Daniel’s surprise, her hand gently brushed back a lock of hair on Selena’s cheek, then pulled away as a Filipina officer marched into the room, accompanied by a Master-at-Arms, Second Class, and a Master-at-Arms, Third Class. The officer immediately took charge.

“I want everyone out of this room. Witnesses will muster outside the guard shack.” Puripong’s eyes took in the cordoned-off area, the photographer and the chaplain.

“MA2, no one is to enter this room until I say otherwise. Touch nothing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” both MAs chorused as they took their positions, rifles at the ready.

“You two—” she gestured at Daniel and Jo “—follow me. I want your statements and I want them now!”

However, the three weren’t able to leave the Expectant area, for Michael McLowery burst through the open canvas door, then stopped, momentarily frozen at the sight of the armed sailors beside Selena’s body. He started to approach the bed, but Jo and Daniel quickly grabbed his arms.

“She’s…not dead, is she?”

Daniel felt ice-cold prickles descend his spine at the question—the same question he’d heard years earlier from Michael in Hawaii, over Anna’s body. That time, he’d been unable to answer. This time, he couldn’t, either, despite Puripong’s glare that urged him to do his job. She obviously wasn’t about to tell him.

“Yes, she is,” Jo said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

Michael staggered, then stared at her, his eyes wide, shocked, agonized.

“Dear God, what happened?” he asked.

Daniel managed to find his voice. “She was playing the part of a dying patient. I was told to enter the Expectant area, counsel her and keep her company until she…pretended to die. I came in and found her pretty much as you see her now.”

Michael blinked again. “Who? Why?”

“We don’t know, sir,” Puripong answered. “We haven’t gone far with our investigation yet. I’ve provided the guards with real ammunition and ordered an armed lockdown of the hospital compound. The other patients in this area are outside being questioned. And I’ve instructed the press woman here—what’s your name?”

“Jo Marche. With an ‘e,’” Jo answered.

Puripong whipped out her clipboard and located her name on the roster. “Yes. I ordered Ms. Marche here from the Associated Press to act as our medical photographer. The crime scene integrity must be preserved, sir. As I said, all other Expectant patients are outside being questioned by the guards. Once they’re finished interviewing witnesses, I’ve ordered the guards to dust the area for prints. They’ll be here soon, but they told me not to expect anything in this heat. As the deceased is your family, you shouldn’t be in charge of the investigation, sir, but the XO is out of town. Would you like me to head this up in your place?”

The four of them stood in silence, Jo and Daniel still supporting Michael. Finally he straightened, stood alone and took his gaze off Selena to focus on the others.

“Puripong, isn’t it?” Michael asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m in charge of the investigation. You will take command of inquiries inside the compound—and report directly to me. No one, including yourself, is to leave the compound until a suspect or suspects are apprehended. You, Chaplain, will assist. You, Ms. Marche, will document.”

“Yes, sir,” Puripong said briskly. “An autopsy will be required. We’ll need the permission of the next of kin. May I prepare the paperwork for your signature, sir?”

Michael nodded, his face a chalky white.

“Chaplain, he’s all yours,” Puripong ordered.

Daniel reached awkwardly for Michael’s shoulder. “Would you like to pray with me and then say goodbye?” he asked, using words from his counseling textbooks.

“Since she’s dead, that would be pointless, now wouldn’t it?”

Daniel winced at the harshness in the other man’s voice.

“You should still see her,” Jo said quietly, putting her hand on Michael’s shoulder. He didn’t brush it off the way he had Daniel’s, and Jo continued. “She didn’t suffer. You might want to spend a few minutes with your cousin so you can reassure the rest of her family later. She didn’t, you know. She died instantly. And from the peaceful look on her face, she never knew it was coming. Her loved ones will want to hear that from someone they trust—you.”

Damn! Why didn’t I think to say that? Daniel wondered. He felt like hell. Not only had he thought the woman a shallow sexual tease—obviously she wasn’t—but she did a better job of ministering than he did. Jealousy and guilt mingled with admiration and relief.

Jo put an arm around Michael’s waist. “Why don’t you let me remove her effects for you? Then you can tell your family you were present for that, too. Just stay here, and I’ll get them. Preacher, you’re my witness. Write down the inventory.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” He’d forgotten about that job, too—his job—yet this civilian hadn’t.

“Okay. One chain with two dog tags,” Jo said, gently reaching around the dead woman’s neck.

“No, just take one to turn in. The other stays with—” Daniel had been about to say, “the body.”

“Selena,” Michael finished for him. “Selena Mellow.”

“What a pretty name.” Jo unfastened the silver beads of the chain, removed one tag, handed it to Daniel and refastened the chain around Selena’s neck. Next she carefully removed the woman’s hair clip, wristwatch and diamond engagement ring.

“She was getting married next month,” Michael said. “I was to be best man.”

“I’ll bet she was happy about that. Lovely engagement ring. And such an exquisite face,” Jo said. “She would’ve made a beautiful bride. I’ll bet she had a gorgeous gown picked out.”

Michael nodded. Daniel winced.

Damn! Why couldn’t I have thought to say that, either? I’m supposed to be removing the effects, not some photographer. But she’s doing a great job, and there’s nothing rehearsed about it. This is who she is—compassionate, not frightened at all, despite the blood. Despite being in the presence of death. While I’m scared stiff.

Jo finger-combed the woman’s hair and straightened her bangs, then placed the remaining dog tag back inside the shirt.

“Okay, I guess that’s it. I’ll sign, the preacher will sign, then you sign. I can stay with your cousin until the autopsy docs show up. You’ll need to notify family, I guess. I can help with that, too, if you want, okay?”

Both Michael and Daniel nodded this time and signed the paperwork. Daniel kept the items to file later, as was his duty.

“Sure you don’t want to kiss her goodbye?” Jo asked. “I mean, I know it’s not a real goodbye. But just so you can tell your family you did it for them?”

Daniel noticed Michael focus on Jo as herself, no longer simply part of the surroundings. “Perhaps you’re right,” the CO said slowly.

He sat down on the bed. Puripong started to say something, then bit her lip. Michael lightly pressed his lips to Selena’s still-warm cheek as Daniel opened his prayer book and read aloud the Twenty-third Psalm. Not very original, but I don’t know what else to do. How could I? This is my first death since I became a minister. My first “official” death…

As Daniel finished reading the words, Michael straightened, his dress uniform still spotless. Jo reached for his arm and walked him over to Daniel.

“You take it from here, Preacher,” she said.

But both Daniel and Jo accompanied Michael to the guard shack, the whole compound silent and staring. Daniel started through the gate with Michael until the guard stopped him with crossed rifles. Only McLowery and Jo, the lone civilian, were allowed to pass through.

“Sorry, Chaplain. Everyone’s being detained inside the hospital compound until further notice.”

“But, Mac, you need me! I can’t leave you alone!”

Daniel’s use of the nickname just slipped out—although it was against military protocol. McLowery spun around, the use of his childhood name, spoken in such a familiar tone, catching him by surprise. Surprise changed to shock…and then hatred. Even before Daniel saw him mouth the words “Dennis Klemko,” he knew.

Michael remembers. How could I ever hope he’d forget?

Naval Fleet Hospital Operations Training Command

Admin Building, McLowery’s Office

1400 hours

MICHAEL SAT IN HIS CHAIR, barely hearing the two women in his office. The uniformed Mia Gibson, who had a phone to her ear, was a jarring contrast to Jo Marche, the jeans-clad civilian on the second line. She was talking to the military photo lab—Mia had provided the number—making arrangements to get her photos developed ASAP for the investigation. Mia had Paul, Selena’s fiancé, on the phone, just as Sunshine called in to ask if Michael had been delayed.

Michael took both calls himself. He had no choice but to tell Paul by telephone. However, he decided he would inform his mother in person. He briskly told Sunshine he’d been tied up, but would talk to her later back at the house. For the first time since coming to California, Michael felt icy cold, inside and out. He hadn’t felt this chilled since Anna and his mother had died.

And what’s Dennis Klemko doing here? In uniform? In a chaplain’s uniform? What’s with the new name? Did he have anything to do with Selena’s death? My God, I have to work with that man?

One hand tightened into a fist while the other reached for Mia Gibson’s radio. The young woman blinked as he took it.

“Puripong,” he said.

“Puripong here, sir.”

“I want a list of everyone in the Expectant room. When you get their personnel files, start your investigation with them—and put Daniel Preston on the top of that list.”

“The chaplain, sir?”

“You have a hearing problem, Commander?”

“No, sir. Anything else, sir?”

“Not at present.”

Michael saw Mia wince at the violence with which he set down her radio. The photojournalist, to her credit, didn’t wince, but her face was unnaturally still. He felt a sudden softening toward her, remembering her kindness to him, just as Chief Bouchard walked in carrying Michael’s cammies and a clipboard with paperwork acknowledging a death. Only the CO could fill it out.

I never did make it to the funeral. And I can’t leave the compound now—not until this is solved.

“Thanks, Chief. Why don’t you take Ms. Marche and get her a drink? She looks a bit shaken. I’ll catch up to you after I change.”

“Aye, sir. Captain, what the hell happened?”

Michael noted the unmilitary “hell” in the other man’s speech. Even the Chief’s shaken. I’m in this alone.

OUTSIDE THE COMPOUND was the staff’s “break area,” a net-covered space on the tarmac where sodas and snacks were available, and those sailors addicted to nicotine could pause for a smoke. Jo took the soda Chief Bouchard handed her, wishing it was a scotch and soda, and pretended a calm she was far from feeling.

So much for my plan. Mr. Smart-and-Sexy and his training hospital were supposed to be my ticket out of here. How long before he realizes he has no accurate information on me? And I’m tossed in jail for forgery, trespassing on government property and fraud? Could they charge me with treason? It’s still punishable by death—and fake IDs often mean spies or terrorists.

The marines at the rifle ranges over the hills opened fire. Jo jumped and nearly dropped her soda. One of two sailors smoking cigarettes nearby grinned.

“Hey, you’ll get used to it. You’ll be hearing the heavier artillery later on. Nothin’ to worry about.”

“The hell it isn’t,” she muttered. “There’s a body in the compound with a bullet hole through it, so don’t tell me not to worry.”

The two sailors stared at her, then at each other.

“Haven’t you heard?” Jo asked. Incredulously she glanced at her watch and saw that only about twenty minutes had passed since the discovery of Selena’s death. From the way the men reacted, they obviously hadn’t heard.

I’d better keep my big mouth shut, Jo thought as the two reached for their radios and hustled off toward the Admin building. Time for East St. Louis rules now, not civilized rules.

What am I going to do? If I hightail it outta here, they’ll bring me back. I have nothing to run toward, anyway. But if I can help with this investigation, help catch whoever killed McLowery’s cousin, then maybe the man will go easy on me. He’s a nice guy—I like him better than the preacher. In fact, I like him more than any man I’ve met in a long time. Just my luck to meet McLowery at the scene of a family tragedy.

Jo longingly eyed the half-smoked butt still burning in the sand-filled mini oil drum that served as an ashtray. She’d quit years ago, after a three-year high-school addiction, back in the days when she’d copped a tough teen attitude, along with a nagging smoker’s cough, like most of the kids at her eastside high school.

I shouldn’t. But if I’m going to jail, does it really matter? She picked up the butt, then suddenly, firmly, snuffed it out. I need to focus on two things: helping Captain McLowery find his cousin’s killer—and staying out of jail. The first should take care of the second. But if it doesn’t…

She didn’t dare think any further than that.

Naval Fleet Hospital—Morgue

Day 1, night

OUTSIDE THE CANVAS HOSPITAL, the sound of the gas generators filled the air, drowning out most quiet conversation. Inside the hospital, the silence seemed deafening to Michael. The autopsy was in progress and being photographed by Jo Marche. He’d waited outside with Puripong and rat fink Klemko.

Preston, he reminded himself, aghast at his slip into the past and the childhood vocabulary of insults. Chaplain Preston. Puripong said the name had checked out. Preston, formerly Klemko, was legit. Michael sent Puripong back to her tasks, leaving him alone with the chaplain. No one save Jo and himself were allowed out of the compound, the murder scene.

“You’re free to leave, as well, Klem—that is, Chaplain. Return to your training duties.”

“But, sir, perhaps you and I should sit…talk…”

“I neither want nor need your services,” Michael said sharply.

“I understand, Captain. However, that young woman in there is not a combat photographer. She may need my support. Sir.”

Michael felt grudging admiration for the man he would always think of as Klemko. “She handles herself well in difficult circumstances,” he said.

Daniel nodded. “She’s also not all she appears to be, sir. Her clothes look rather worn and her camera equipment is dated. The gear is all pawn shop specials, judging by the numbers scratched onto the sides. And she’s not afraid of death. By her reaction to…the events of today, I’d say she’s been in war zones herself.”

“Quite observant, Chaplain.”

“I may not be much of a minister, sir. But I do have a brain—and I do know that Ms. Marche won’t have a personnel file like the rest of us. She and I were the first people on the scene. I know I didn’t kill your cousin,” Daniel said bluntly. “But I don’t know if she did or not. That worries me more than our sudden…”

“Reunion?” Michael finished.

“I didn’t plan this, sir. I’m probably the last person in the world you want to see right now. However, I know my duty. To you, to your cousin and to this command. That woman and I are probably the only two people in this compound who dare override or disobey your orders—damn dangerous for two suspects. As I said before, I’m not worried about myself. But a woman who claims to be an AP journalist but can’t afford more than threadbare clothes, let alone a decent camera, bears watching.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“I searched her backpack, sir, while she was photographing your cousin. I may not be your favorite person, but I’m not taking the rap for this. I’m no murderer.”

Michael actually managed a smile—a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—a silent gesture that loudly contradicted Daniel’s words.

“Your sister’s death was an accident I set in motion,” Daniel admitted. “I can’t do anything about it. But I can help you get through this, if you’ll let me.”

“Not in this lifetime, sailor. Or the next.”

Michael’s gaze slid over to Jo, who emerged from the surgery section of the canvas hospital.

“They’re finishing up the autopsy,” she answered their silent question, “but they’re done with me. I thought I’d hand-deliver the film to Puripong.”

“No. I’ll deliver it myself,” Michael said. He stood, forcing Daniel to stand, as well. “See the body to the morgue section when they’re done, Chaplain. Have the surgeon contact Puripong with the results when she’s done. Ms. Marche, you’re with me.”

Jo easily kept pace with him, only occasionally watching her step, Michael observed. He knew the placement of all the canvas seams and taped-down running cables; she didn’t but seemed graceful nonetheless. Alert and calm.

Not like a murderer at all. She couldn’t be, the way she acted around Selena, Michael instinctively felt. As always, he trusted his instincts. Few men with bad instincts lasted long in the military.

“Is Jo Marche your real name?” he asked.

The woman at his side shook her head. “It’s my pseudonym. I don’t write under my own name—which is Lori Sepanik, by the way. Too ethnic for the white-bread world of media.”

Klemko was right. One point for him. “Do you always use pawned camera equipment on the job, Ms. Sepanik? And how long have you worked for the Associated Press?”

“Call me Jo, please. Or Ms. Marche, if you want to be formal. Though under the circumstances…I think we’re past polite introductions.”

She swayed on her feet, and Michael caught her arm. “You okay?”

“No,” she murmured as he half-walked, half-supported her to a chair inside the manned Ops room.

There were curious looks from sailors.

“Carry on,” he said. “Someone get her some water.”

Michael sat her down and pushed her head between her knees. “Breathe deeply.”

She breathed. Someone approached with bottled water, the lid already removed. Michael shoved it into Jo’s hand.

“Here, drink this,” he ordered. Michael waited until she’d finished the water, and the color was back in her face. “Feeling better? I imagine you’re not used to taking the kind of photos we’ve requested from you.” Unless the fainting is an act to avoid answering my questions.

“It’s not that. Being cross-examined in this heat’s what did it. I hate the heat.”

“Really?” Surprise distracted him from suspicion. “Everyone loves sunny California.”

“Not me. All I do is sweat. Plus…today…well, never mind about today. This whole place is one oven, isn’t it? How can you stand it?”

“I don’t care for the sunbelt myself.”

“That makes two of us.” Jo sat up and pushed her hair away from her face. “To answer your questions—yes, I’m feeling better. Yes, my equipment is from a pawnshop. No, I’ve never worked for AP before. And even though you haven’t asked me yet, no, I did not kill your cousin. Though I’d like to get my hands on whoever did.”

Michael gestured for another bottle of water and again handed it to Jo, pleased that she’d answered his questions, after all. “You understand you’re a suspect in this murder?”

“I know.” She met his gaze straight on, again confirming Michael’s gut instinct that she wasn’t a killer. “What can I do to prove I’m innocent?”

“I’ll take you to Puripong. Give her your film, then answer her questions.”

“Sure.” Jo started to stand, but Michael shook his head. “Sit down. Not just yet. Are you okay with all this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone here is a trained member of the Navy, and most are in the medical profession. They know how to take care of themselves in extreme conditions.”

“Oh.” A smile brightened her face. “You mean you’re worried about me? Even though I’m a suspect?” Her hand reached out and covered his—an action that shocked him because he found it comforting.

“I’m a survivor. I grew up in the old housing projects of East St. Louis with drug dealers, pimps, hookers and gangs. I didn’t like it, but I dealt with it until I got out of there. Same with this. I don’t go to pieces—ever—until it’s safe to do so. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

Her hand remained on his. Michael let it stay there only a few seconds more before he remembered he was in uniform, and in command, no less. Shows of affection were not allowed in uniform. He withdrew his hand.

“This has to be hard for you,” she said.

He nodded. “It’ll be worse if we don’t find her killer.”

“Why don’t you let the chaplain help?”

“No.”

Jo’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t like him? Yet you listened to him when he told you about my pawned equipment—I overheard your conversation. Who is he?”

She’s got brains. And a streetwise toughness I might need. Not to mention a very nice body… It was the first time he’d really noticed.

“Our parents were stationed together in Pearl once. We never got along.”

“No, it’s more than that. You’re enemies—or, at least, he’s your enemy. Why?” she asked bluntly.