Yellow Ribbons (7 page)

“What if Captain Hollister is wrong? What if he’s only with his new girlfriend and lost track of time?”

Greg wanted to ask him where the hell he’d been the last several months. Hadn’t he smelled the booze on Major Kenyon? But it wasn’t fair to shove blame Cornwall’s way. They were all at fault.

“He’s not at work, and his drinking’s escalated. We can’t reach him and have no choice. If he’s sober and doing his woman, fine. But it won’t excuse the fact he has a drinking problem and needs help.”

“What if he’s violent and out of control? What if he’s pissed and takes it out on us? I can’t afford to jeopardize my career for…”

Greg resisted the urge to whip his truck to the shoulder and let the man have it. Verbally, of course. He focused on the road and reminded himself he was dealing with a wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant.

“Marines take care of our own, Lieutenant Cornwall. In battle and at home. If you expect your marines to follow you during wartime, they have to know they can depend on you in peacetime too. You have to show them you have what it takes to lead, to do what’s tough, to make the right choice for everyone. Being a marine isn’t about a career. It’s about being the best, doing the best. We’re the go-to guys. Those who work with you need to know they can go to you, no matter what.”

“God, you really believe all that.” Was that awe or disgust in Cornwall’s voice? Greg didn’t care enough to dissect it.

“I do believe it. I wouldn’t be a marine otherwise. And if you don’t believe it, maybe you shouldn’t be a marine anymore, sir.” It was damn hard to add that sign of respect military required enlisted give to officers.

“I…”

Greg glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Cornwall fiddled with the bandage on his forearm. His gaze was locked forward. Greg wasn’t sure but thought he saw a trickle of sweat make its way down the side of his face.

“What happened to your arm?”

Cornwall jerked his hand from the bandage. “Cut it on my car. Flat tire. Jack slipped.”

Greg heard him swallow, caught a glimpse of his Adam’s apple plunging down and then up.

“You…” Cornwall pulled in a shaky breath. “I hear talk in the office.” Greg could barely hear him. “That no matter what’s going on, the troops can come to you. That you won’t judge. That you find solutions.”

Greg tried to be that type of man in all that he did. “Life has its hurdles, and I’ve had my share. Someone was there for me at a dark moment; I like to return that consideration.”

“How dark a moment?”

“Very. If it weren’t for that help, I wouldn’t be a marine today.”

Greg waited for him to ask what it was and debated his response. It wasn’t his proudest moment. He’d been young, stupid, volatile. No, Cornwall didn’t need to know the specifics.

“Are you…gay?”

Fuck, didn’t see that one coming
. Since Cornwall asked, Greg suspected he was looking for a sympathetic ear. That, he could have. “No, I’m not.” He replied without judgment or rancor, his voice inviting open conversation if Cornwall wanted it. In fact… “And I don’t have a problem if you are. In my opinion, it’s no one’s fucking business.”

Tension drained from the man. He slumped into the seat and gave a sigh that spelled relief. “I wanted to serve my country. Wanted to be a marine more than anything. Told myself I could manage being gay and being a marine. I didn’t expect it to be so difficult. I hear people trash talk gays, threaten them. Relaxed tolerance doesn’t mean shit.”

It was the first time Greg had ever heard the man curse. He was human after all.

“I’m so afraid of being outed. So afraid of losing the thing I wanted most. So afraid someone’s going to notice a hard-on and make something out of it that isn’t.”

“We’re guys, Lieutenant. Erections are a way of life, and our penises have minds of their own.”

“It’s Bob. My name. Please, call me Bob. Not that I’m hitting on you or anything. I need to have a little normal in my life right now,” he added in a rush.

“I wouldn’t take offense if you were, nor would I beat the shit out of you or report you. For me, it’s no different than having a woman hit on me.” Greg meant it.

“I wish everyone felt that way.” He flicked away the bead of sweat from his forehead.

“Oh for the perfect world.”

“Then there’d be no need for marines,” Cornwall added.

“There’s
always
a place for marines.”

Cornwall laughed lightly. “God, I hope so. Hope I can continue to fly under the radar. Honestly, if I could only find a safe outlet. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had sex. I swear I’m going to go insane.”

Those words alone made all the ones before feel like a lie, a trap. It smacked of a hidden agenda. That
sneaky
others called Cornwall. The sudden outpouring of personal information, taking Greg into his confidence, an invitation to share. It was a little too coincidental for Greg.

“I know how you feel.”

“For the first time in years, I actually feel human again.”

It was time to steer this conversation elsewhere. Give Cornwall something else to think about besides whatever track he was on.

Greg glanced his way. “And ready to face a possibly irate major?”

Cornwall sucked a breath through his teeth. “I think I can face the major better than I could the CG. I don’t envy Captain Hollister at all right now.”

“She’s a strong marine. The woman can definitely hold her own.” Pride filled his chest, and his nerve endings zapped electricity throughout his body at the thought of being plugged into her hot body. Talk about inconvenient erections.

“Tell me about the murder scene last night,” Cornwall asked.

It was the perfect distraction and kept them occupied until Greg pulled into Major Kenyon’s driveway. The neighborhood was the picture of desert suburbia, not dissimilar to what one might find in Palm Springs or Las Vegas. Greg didn’t care for it. The houses were packed too tight together and cut off the view of the area. It made him feel a little claustrophobic. Sand was raked to feng shui perfection around the Washingtonia palms and purple sage in each front yard. Basketball hoops hovered over every other garage. Redwood fencing obscured the backyards, most likely hiding pools. One thing set the Kenyon home apart from the others—there was a yellow ribbon tacked to the front door.

“The neighbors had to have known Mrs. Kenyon and the kids were gone,” Cornwall said.

“God only knows what excuse he might have given them.” Greg looked around but could find no evidence of anyone out and about. “Living in a neighborhood doesn’t necessarily make for good neighbors. They might keep to their own castles. Ready?”

“Yeah, I think I can face just about anything right now.”

Greg led the way along the cobblestoned pavers to the front door. The smell hit him before they reached it.

“Oh my God.” Cornwall scrubbed his finger under his nose. “Is that—”

“Yeah.” Greg pulled out his cell phone and dialed .

On the street in the civilian world, Brigadier General H. G. Drake would be thought of as a teddy bear. He was big and burly—within regulation, of course. But there was nothing cuddly about him, at least not from his subordinates’ perspective. Grizzlies were tamer. He was reasonable and agreeable on good days. This wasn’t one of them.

Lani stood front and center before his desk along with Lieutenant Colonel Seaberg, Jordan Beck, and Chief of Staff Colonel Jerry Reynolds. They’d been ordered to sit the hell down. Lani knew why—the general wanted to pace and hover over them, intimidate. He was doing a damn fine job of it. This, after having them cool their heels in the waiting room for the last thirty minutes.

“Where the hell is Major Kenyon?” he yelled.

She didn’t flinch, despite his mounting rage. “Missing and unaccounted for, sir. Master Gunnery Sergeant Landess and Lieutenant Cornwall are on their way to his house.”

“There’s a possibility of alcohol abuse problems, sir,” Lieutenant Colonel Seaberg added.

Thank God she’d briefed him.

“Why is this only coming to light now?”

“Sir, we all dropped the ball on this one, myself included.” This came from the Chief of Staff. It relieved Lani’s guilt considerably. “I suspected, but since there were no problems—”

“No problems? The major hasn’t shown up for work! I’d be willing to bet this isn’t the first time, is it, Captain?”

Back ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap, Lani met his glare with calm. “No, sir, it isn’t.” Her cell phone vibrated against her thigh.

He stared down his nose at her. “Trust me, Captain Hollister, that’s going to reflect in your record, and anyone else’s who was complicit in this cover-up.”

Lani doubted that would happen, since that included Colonel Reynolds and Lieutenant Colonel Seaberg. But shit rolled downhill, and she was at the bottom. Well, she and Greg.

Another vibration buzzed her.

General Drake targeted Jordan. “You look like you’ve been sleeping in a drawer. Do you not own a razor, Special Agent Beck? Clean clothes? Deodorant?”

“With all due respect, sir. I’ve been at a murder scene all night long and had just left when your call came in. Knowing how concerned you’d be over the incident, I thought it more important to get here rather than detour home to pretty up.”

That sarcasm was going to cost him. Lani bet he’d be transferred elsewhere very soon.

“Yes, tell me about these murders.” The general parked his hands at his back. “Explain to me how one of PMO’s CID staff sergeants could be fucking a captain’s wife and now they’re both dead! It seems there’s more being covered up at your shop than Major Kenyon’s drinking, Captain Hollister.”

“Sir, I was unaware—”

“You were unaware of a hell of a lot, Captain! What else have you missed, turned a blind eye to, ignored?”

Yes, the shit ball was headed right for her. The insistent buzz from her cell phone didn’t help matters either.

“Answer that goddamn phone!”

She fished the cell from her trouser pocket. Caller ID showed it was Greg. She punched the Talk button and pressed the phone to her ear.

“Yes, Master Gunnery Sergeant,” she said.

“We found Major Kenyon dead. Sheriff deputies are on scene.”

“Who the fuck is it?” General Drake yelled.

“Master Gunnery Sergeant Landess, sir. Major Kenyon is dead.”

“Give me the fucking phone.” He snapped his hand out.

Lani had no choice.

“How?” he demanded when he put the phone to his ear.

Greg’s voice carried to them. Either he was speaking extra loud so she’d overhear, or she had the volume cranked up. Something she’d have to correct later. For now, it was a blessing.

“Preliminary check suggests a combination of alcohol and sleeping pills, sir.”

“Fuck!” Drake slung the phone at Lani.

She caught it in midair. A smidge of respect gleamed through the fury in his eyes. She was glad she hadn’t flinched, hadn’t shown weakness. General Drake’s admiration didn’t last long.

“This is on you, Captain Hollister.”

“No, sir.” Colonel Reynolds stood. “This is on all of us.”

The general pulled in a breath, then gave a nod. “I want a full update by close of business today. All parties present. Dismissed.”

Jordan beat them all out the door, dialing his cell as he went. From what little she caught of his conversation, he was on his way to Kenyon’s house.

Lani trailed the other two men. Alone in the waiting room, she put the still-active phone to her ear. “I presume you heard that last.”

“I did.” A weary sigh filtered her way. “There’s more. Deputies found blood-splattered clothes in the laundry room.”

Fuck
. “Coincidence?”

“I doubt it.”

So did Lani.

Pattison arrived before the coroner, looking as beat down as Greg felt. Weariness grayed his face and reddened his eyes. Greg guessed he’d barely left the other scene. He exchanged a few words with the deputy, then headed their way. Greg and Cornwall exited Greg’s truck at the same time and met Pattison at the rear.

“Twice in less than twenty-four hours,” Pattison said. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

Sucks
didn’t begin to describe how Greg felt. Kenyon was his boss, a man he’d known for many years, worked with side by side. His death hit damn hard, especially on the heels of hearing about everything else he’d been hiding. Drinking problem, yes. Failed marriage, yes. New girlfriend, yes. But murder? No. Greg refused to believe it.

“No way I can let you walk the scene on this one, Master Gunnery Sergeant.”

“That goes without saying.” Greg didn’t want to either, didn’t want to see Mick Kenyon lying in a pool of his own waste. The glimpse he’d caught when the deputy opened the door was hard enough.

“I was hoping this was a coincidence,” Cornwall told him.

“Highly unlikely. Two murder victims from PMO in the same night? One of them with bloodied clothes in his house?”

Cornwall’s eyes widened. “You think this was murder? The deputies said it looked like it was an overdose. Sleeping pills and alcohol. They found the pills dumped out on the table next to him.”

Pattison rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m dead tired and not thinking straight. It doesn’t help having an inept partner. Jordan’s on his way, though he’s as beat as I am.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, blinked, and looked up. “You’re quiet, Master Gunnery Sergeant. What’s your take on all this?”

Greg briefed him on the drinking, divorce, and possible affair. “But I refuse to believe this was suicide. Accidental, yes.”

“And the bloody clothes?” Pattison matched his stance, arms crossed, legs astride.

“I don’t have a clue, and I don’t want to speculate.”
Couldn’t
speculate, because “murderer” didn’t mesh with the man he knew.

“We’ll know soon enough.” Pattison looked around, squinting in the bright morning light. “I’ll have the deputies canvass the neighborhood. Once we were focused on homicide last night, we turned up a person of interest. One of the neighbors saw a strange car around the time of the murders and remembered a portion of the license plate.”

The coroner pulled to a stop in front of the house. Shilling again. Greg couldn’t stay here another second, couldn’t risk overhearing Shilling verbally dissect Kenyon’s body.