Always Faithful Page 9

  Rowan nodded and bit into her burger, but the misery choking her made it almost impossible to swallow.

  Chapter Eight

  Laura tensed beside Phillip as they walked into the coroner’s examining room. He was surprised she had risen to his taunt of coward and come along. If the paleness in her cheeks gave any indication, she regretted it now. He felt a twinge of guilt about baiting her. She could never resist a challenge and he could never resist throwing one in her path.

  “Oh, God.” She clutched a facemask to her mouth. “It’s a real, live dead body.”

  Jess Alderman chuckled but kept any teasing remarks he had to himself. Mike Connors simply placed his hand against Laura’s back to steady her, even though beads of sweat were forming on his pale brow.

  Jess and Mike… Phillip smiled. In the ninety-minute drive, all formalities had faded. Even though the words were never spoken because of Laura’s presence, they were embarking on a single mission—to save Rowan. That unity somehow managed to make them easy friends as they traded stories about past cases.

  “Why did I ever allow you to goad me into coming here?” Laura groaned.

  “You want the evidence firsthand, don’t you?” he said with a grin. “You don’t want to have to wait for the official report. That could take weeks.”

  “It’s freezing in here.” She dusted warmth into her arms then hugged them against her chest. “I fail to see… Oh, my God.”

  Her face took on a greenish tinge as the coroner faced them, one bloodied hand extended their way. As if in afterthought, he pulled it back.

  “Sorry. Reflex. Come in. We’re about to get started. Everyone gather around for a good look.”

  The men did so. Laura hovered in the background for a second or two then crept forward.

  “Homicide or suicide?” the coroner asked.

  “You tell us,” Laura mumbled from behind her mask.

  Phillip silently applauded. She was willing to be objective, no matter what circumstantial evidence she had seen so far.

  With a nod to his assistant, the coroner began. All his observations were recorded on tape. The microphone dangled from a cord centered above Kemp’s body. A forensic photographer snapped pictures.

  “The deceased appears to be a healthy male.”

  A little too healthy, in Phillip’s opinion. If it had been true that Rowan slept with the man, Phillip might have been tempted to pick up a scalpel and—

  “Height, six-foot-four. Weight, two hundred fifty pounds.”

  The man could have easily overpowered a fine-boned woman like Rowan. Phillip scribbled the annotation on his notepad. Yes, a bodybuilder and in superb health, Kemp had been in outstanding physical condition, even for the Marine Corps.

  “Two gunshot wounds are on the body. One on the upper right thigh, leaving no exit wound. The other is on the head, upper right temple, exit wound behind and below the left ear. Gunpowder marks are near the head wound.”

  That was the first piece of evidence that corroborated the report. Kemp had been shot at close range, not ten feet away where Rowan was found.

  “Numerous abrasions and contusions mark the body.”

  The coroner listed the locations while the photographer clicked away shot after shot. The more mundane aspects followed—measurements, skin discolorations. Phillip heard Laura mumble something about it not being so bad after all. Then the coroner opened the body.

  She gagged and dashed from the room. When the first organ was lifted out, Mike joined her.

  The photographer snickered. “Rookies.”

  The coroner worked on, ignoring the distraction, but Phillip swore he saw the man’s eyes crinkle with humor.

  Cold-hearted bas—

  Phillip stopped himself. Hadn’t his reaction been the same when Laura had first said she didn’t want to come here with them? This morning he had teased, cajoled then just about bullied her into going by citing professional responsibility. It was no one’s fault but his own if Laura’s heaving stomach drew smiles from the autopsy team.

  Very compassionate of you, Phillip.

  He’d make it up to her after this case was over. Maybe they’d go to dinner, even do a little something else later. That would certainly ease his constant ache for Rowan.

  Phillip cursed himself. Now, who’s the bastard? It was over between him and Laura and had been for some time now. She didn’t deserve to be used.

  Is that what you’ve become, Phillip Stuart? A user of people? Like Donald?

  Evaluating his life over the last several years, he found that it certainly seemed that way. True, he had friendships, but he wasn’t above stepping on people if it had furthered his goals. His initial relationship with Laura had served one purpose. He’d needed a woman and she’d been there. There had been no thought to her feelings in the matter, save the fulfillment of her physical needs. He’d cold-heartedly slept with her night after night, satisfying his need for physical release, then just as heartlessly had ended the affair.

  Rowan was right. He was his father—the very image of the man he most despised. The realization made him queasy. Then the coroner cut into Kemp’s stomach.

  A vile gas seeped into the room, engulfing them in its stench. Phillip gagged, clamped his hand over his mouth and dashed out, the photographer close behind him.

  Despite his roiling stomach, Phillip couldn’t help but throw out the jibe, “Rookie,” before he and the photographer slid onto the bench in the hallway. Laura and Mike were nowhere to be seen.

  The man dropped his head between his knees. Sucking in a breath of fresh air, Phillip closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall, willing himself not to lose his breakfast.

  After a second or two, the photographer gave a weak chuckle. “That’s what I get for being cocky.”

  “What the hell was in that guy’s stomach?” Phillip asked.

  Before the other man could answer, Phillip caught a whiff of cinnamon. He dared a peek and found Jess holding a toothpick out to him, blue eyes twinkling with unsuppressed amusement.

  “I usually switch to cinnamon when I come to these things.”

  Phillip accepted it with a nod of thanks, but his stomach was still too uneasy to do anything more. “Does it help?”

  Jess shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt.” He held one out to the photographer. “The examiner asked me to tell you that he wants you back in there or you’ll have to get yourself a replacement.”

  The man snatched the wood away and shoved it into his mouth then squared his shoulders and marched back in.

  “Braver man than me,” Phillip said.

  Jess gave him a light jab in the arm. “You came all this way to get the information firsthand. You’re not going to let a putrid smell stop you now?”

  “Guess not.” He poked the toothpick between his lips and forced himself to his feet.

  Metal clinking into metal greeted them when they walked in. The stench still lingered. Phillip swallowed the urge to puke and edged closer.

  “Welcome back, gentlemen.” The coroner pointed to a small metal bowl with his forceps. “Got a little present for you.”

  Phillip sidled up, wanting to look but afraid of what he would see. A bullet winked up at him.

  “I found that in his stomach,” the coroner said. “The bullet traveled up his thigh, bounced off the hip bone and through the intestines before stopping there.”

  “Is that why he smelled so bad when you opened him up?”

  “Partly, and the fact that he had a killer dinner of liver smothered with onions and garlic, all washed down with beer. Whoever shot this guy could probably smell him coming.”

  “Was he drunk?”

  The coroner snorted. “Definitely. Blood alcohol content shows he was well over the limit.”

  “Would have certainly affected his judgment,” Jess said. “Might even cause him to think his own cohort was the enemy and knock her out.”

  Phillip caught another whiff of the deceased and rolled the toothpick to
the other side of his mouth. “Maybe. I’d have a heck of a time proving that one. Seems a stretch.”

  Jess shoved a fresh toothpick between his teeth. “Won’t be harder than anything else.”

  If Kemp attacked Rowan, the question still remains—who shot Kemp? “Any chance the wounds were self-inflicted?”

  The coroner plopped Kemp’s liver on a scale and noted its weight into the recording microphone. “None. Nothing supports it. This guy definitely fought with someone before he died and gave a good account of himself. Just look at all the bruises he’s got.” He motioned to the arms and torso. “You can even see the imprint of the other guy’s knuckles.”

  “Guy? Not girl?” Phillip asked.

  The coroner laughed. “Not unless she has man hands. The average woman could never have taken this man on face-to-face and given him this type of pounding. Look at the size of him. He’s built like Herman Munster.” He spread his arms wide. “In addition, look at the size of the bruises left by the assailant’s knuckles. The hands that caused those marks were large, powerful. A man’s hands, in my opinion.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Phillip’s mouth.

  “Looking at the trajectory of the bullet, it’s likely that Kemp was knocked down first then shot.”

  Phillip nodded. Rowan could have shot Kemp with no problem, but she lacked the brute strength necessary to knock him to the ground before shooting him. In addition, her knuckles were unmarked, unbruised. The force she would have needed to pound those marks into Kemp would have left her knuckles bloody and raw.

  “So the angle of the bullet and the splatter of brain matter conclusively show that Kemp was on the ground when he was shot?” Jess’ voice demanded absolutes. “He wasn’t shot from a distance?”

  The coroner nodded. “Powder burns are on his temple,” he said simply. “I’d say Kemp was struggling with someone who had a gun. He was knocked to the ground and shot point-blank, simple as that.”

  Jess pointed to Kemp’s leg. “What about that? Before or after death.”

  “Definitely after. There’s no swelling or bleeding. Why do you suppose someone would want to shoot a man who was quite obviously already dead?”

  “I can think of one good reason.” Phillip tossed the gnawed toothpick into the nearest trashcan then left the room and its grisly contents.

  * * * *

  The ride back to Twentynine Palms was quiet. In the back seat, Phillip and Jess stared out of their respective windows. Still battling queasiness, Mike drove while Laura sat beside him, ramrod straight.

  “There’s a rest stop,” she suddenly said. “I need you to pull over.”

  Mike careened into the exit. Before he could come to a complete stop, she was out of the car and running for the ladies’ room.

  Mike twisted around to look at them. “What did you find out?”

  Taking turns tag-teaming the information, Phillip and Jess talked as quickly as possible.

  Mike massaged the back of his neck. “So, nothing conclusive either way. She might have shot him, but it’s unlikely she beat him up beforehand. Now what?”

  “When did you arrange to have Rowan examined?” Phillip asked.

  “Couldn’t get her in for an appointment at the base hospital until tomorrow morning.”

  Phillip muttered a curse. Are we ever going to get a break? Why is everything so damned difficult?

  “They’re booked, Phillip. No way to get her in earlier.” Mike gripped the steering wheel. “Malcolm should have had her examined more fully the night of the murder.”

  There were a lot of things Malcolm should have done. “If you ask me, Collins should be fired.” He waited for Jess to come to his colleague’s defense. Silence echoed from the other side of the seat.

  “If we have to wait until morning then we have to wait. It’s not like I don’t have enough to occupy my time until then.”

  Like the Lava investigation reports regarding the equipment thefts. The ones that had piqued Rowan’s concern in the first place. An enormous pile of those memos, bulletins and reports waited for him in his room.

  “Sounds like an all-nighter to me.” At the sight of Laura making her way back to the car, Mike paused and pushed open the door for her. “If you bring your work down to the office, I’ll help.”

  Not a bad idea. Just as quickly, Phillip dismissed it. He needed to concentrate. Just knowing Rowan was in the same building would be too much of a distraction. He would want to be with her, to keep an eye out for her safety, protect her at all times.

  Phillip realized he was jealous. He wanted to watch and see who she shared her smile with, to question any look another man gave her. He wanted to pound his fist into the face of any Marine who got close enough to smell the sweet, tempting fragrance of her perfume. Staying in the same building would not be a good idea.

  “No, thanks, Mike. At least one of us should get some sleep.”

  * * * *

  “A common thread. A hint. A clue. Something!”

  The urge to hurl the reports against the wall was too great. Phillip could understand Rowan’s frustration, the reason she’d become involved. Unless that sector of the base had suddenly become the desert’s version of the Bermuda Triangle, something highly illegal was going on in the Lava training area.

  In the last month, a fighter jet had crashed there—the apparent cause an errant bullet from the ongoing military training exercise. The trouble with the theory was that the jet had been in a no-fire zone. Fortunately, the pilot had ejected.

  Not so fortunate had been the helicopter crew flying over that same area a few days later. That time, the investigators had determined the cause to be a ruptured fuel line. Two men had lost their lives in the crash and the military exercises had screeched to a halt for three days while the investigation had taken place.

  But that hadn’t stopped the rash of bad luck at Lava. Recovery teams and their parent units had all begun reporting losses of equipment—a computer here, tools there, the pistol that had wound up in Rowan’s hands. Once the training exercises had started up again, there had been two reports of skittish pilots firing on the employees of a mining company adjacent to the base.

  Phillip dissected the reports, searching for something—anything—to help him break the case. There had to be something somewhere in the reports that explained the death of Charlie Kemp, to explain why Rowan was being set up to take the blame for his murder. He found one common element—the general location of the incidents. Hoping a fresh approach in the morning would net him some results, Phillip set everything aside and returned to his room for a few hours’ sleep.

  He felt Rowan’s absence the second he walked inside. Common sense told him housekeeping had changed the linens and tidied up, erasing any scent she might have left behind. His heart and body said otherwise. A hard, unrelenting ache tightened his gut and swelled his cock to the breaking point. Phillip stripped his clothes off in his haste to reach the shower, not caring where they landed. He gripped his erection with one hand and reached for the faucet with the other. The sudden blast of cold water aggravated him rather than calmed things down. He braced himself in the corner, jerking off while he waited for the shower to warm. Orgasm tore through him, bringing Phillip to his ass. Hard breaths shuddered through him as emptiness replaced his lust.

  After fumbling for the soap, he washed, forcing Rowan’s case to the forefront of his mind and keeping it there. Other memories refused to be denied his attention. Phillip eventually crawled into bed, praying sleep would take him. When it did, dreams took over. He gave up a little before sunrise and returned to his search for answers.

  By the time noon approached, he was no further along than he’d been the day before and he was grouchy on top of it.

  “By the look on your face, I’d say you had a rough night.”

  Phillip glanced up at the sound of Jess’ voice. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You could say that. I don’t understand what could be so important th
at someone would take the risk of causing all these accidents rather than be discovered.”

  “UFOs?”

  He would have laughed if he had been more awake. Instead, Phillip flashed Jess a look from one eye that said, Spare me, please.

  Chuckling, Jess slid to the sofa. “Where have all the incidents occurred?”

  Phillip flipped the base map around and pointed. The intense expression on Jess’ face jolted him. “What? What is it?”

  The answer was slow in coming. Finally, Jess frowned and pushed the map back to him. “That’s the same damn area where those target devices are always being stolen.”

  It was too simple. “Someone wants to protect their livelihood as a scrap dealer enough to kill?”

  “Maybe not that so much as their identity.” Jess narrowed his eyes.

  “You mean someone who has a lot to lose.”

  Jess nodded. “Someone who has access to the Lava area. Someone in the military. Maybe someone with enough rank that they would want to protect themselves and their career at any cost.”

  Mike ducked into the room, shutting the door behind him, his normally serious face alight with excitement. “I got a call from the doctor. Other than a bruise on her hip, shoulder from when she fell and the mark on her face from where she was struck once, there isn’t any other mark on Staff Sergeant McKinley to indicate she was in a fight. Plus, there’s no way her fists ever came into contact with Kemp hard enough to make those bruises the coroner showed us.”

  Phillip tossed his pen to the desk. “That takes care of that. Gentlemen, I’d say we have enough to get the charges dropped.”

  Jess leaned forward. “Don’t be too hasty.”

  Is the man crazy? “It’s circumstantial. All of it. Sloppy circumstantial evidence at that. No judge would put Rowan away with this much reasonable doubt.”

  “And no one knows that but the three of us,” Jess replied. “Look. We have a dangerous situation here, a dangerous person. Kemp lost his life trying to uncover this. Staff Sergeant McKinley put her reputation and career on the line, as well. Are you going to let that go to waste?”