Fleet Hospital. Anne Duquette Marie

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      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?”

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