Breakpoint Page 24

  “Call in the ensign,” she instructed, returning to investigator mode. “We’re not being paid for you to flirt.”

  He sighed and pushed himself up from the wooden chair. “More’s the pity.”

  42

  The blue-shirted pastor the ensign returned with was tall and scarecrow thin, reminding Julianne a bit of Ichabod Crane, if Washington Irving’s hapless character had been stationed aboard an aircraft carrier instead of teaching school in Sleepy Hollow. And if he’d sported a comb-over.

  His arms were long, his hands bony and pale, and his handshake was as limp and cold as a dead snake. His eyes were narrow and set a bit too close together.

  Even as his thin lips curled in a smile, Julianne didn’t trust him.

  “I’m a huge admirer of your father,” he told her once they’d done the introduction deal. “I enjoyed the interview with him in last month’s All Hands magazine. You must have led a fascinating life growing up in his household.”

  “He was the one leading the fascinating life,” she said. “Mine was pretty normal. For a Navy family, anyway.”

  “Still, he must have been a good role model for his children. Given how well you and your brothers turned out.”

  “My mother was a dandy role model herself.”

  “I’ve no doubt.” His feigned smile was smarmy and made her flesh crawl. No way could Julianne imagine a naval aviator jumping into bed with this guy.

  From the faint edge in his tone, she had the feeling that he was one of those males who believed a woman’s place was not only in the home—preferably the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant—but definitely behind her husband. Not wanting to sidetrack her questioning by getting into an argument with a witness, she decided to avoid that topic.

  “I suppose you know why we’ve asked you here,” she said instead.

  “I’m assuming it’s about Lieutenant Murphy’s suicide.”

  “It’s about her death. Which wasn’t a suicide.”

  He blanched at that. His left eyelid twitched. Which could be from shock.

  Or guilt.

  “Are you certain?”

  “The doctor’s calling it a murder,” Dallas said.

  Those already squinty eyes narrowed even further. “How would the doctor know that? Without doing an autopsy?”

  “There are tests that don’t require an autopsy,” Julianne said. “But how would you know he hasn’t done one?”

  “In the first place, he’s not a coroner,” Ichabod said. “In the second, there’s no way her husband would allow her body to be defiled. It’s against our religious beliefs.”

  “If a crime was involved, it’s not for him to say,” she pointed out. “So you were pastor to both of them?”

  “I’m not a pastor. Nor an ordained preacher. Merely a teacher of God’s law. I met the lieutenant through her husband. Who, as you undoubtedly know, is currently deployed in Iraq.”

  “Yes. But we were told he’s going to be meeting the ship in San Diego to claim her body.”

  And now that she’d found a link between the supposedly soon-to-be-divorced husband and someone on board, someone who had access to the aviator, Julianne was definitely looking forward to questioning him.

  “Where did you meet them?”

  “We were all stationed in Guam at the same time. I was leading a prayer group. Matthew—that would be her husband—joined. When he started dating Lieutenant Murphy, he brought her to our weekly meetings.”

  “Have you kept in touch?”

  “Some. As you know, deployment isn’t exactly a picnic in Iraq, so Matthew doesn’t have a lot of time to correspond, but I get the occasional e-mail from him. And I counsel him, although it’s more difficult long-distance than it is in person. When the spirit’s present.”

  Julianne glanced over at Dallas, who responded with a slight nod. Oh, yeah. They were definitely going to have to get their hands on those e-mails.

  “I imagine life aboard ship can get lonely,” Dallas said casually. “Especially for married people who can’t exactly go hooking up on shore leave.”

  His nose actually twitched. As if he were a skinny rabbit, seeking the trap.

  “Loneliness and boredom are part of shipboard life,” he allowed.

  “Seems to me it’d be good to have someone to talk with,” Julianne suggested. “Someone close to you. Someone you could trust not to pass on your problems. You said you occasionally still counsel her husband. Were you, along with being the lieutenant’s teacher, her spiritual counselor, as well?”

  “I try, whenever any member of our congregation is experiencing problems, to lead them to the right path. The good book, after all, holds the answer for any problem we might ever face. All we have to do is look for it.”

  “And the LT was having problems?”

  He paused. Rubbed his forehead, disarranging the long strands of sandy hair. “Her brother was killed by insurgents in Iraq. It was a difficult time for her.”

  “I can imagine.” Julianne leaned forward. Put her hand on the table next to his, close enough to show empathy, but, not wanting to give him the idea she might be coming on to him, she didn’t touch him. “I’d be devastated if I’d lost one of my brothers.”

  “The answers were there,” he insisted. “I even flagged the pages for her.”

  “I’m sure you did your best,” Julianne soothed.

  “I’ve heard there were problems in the marriage,” Dallas said. “Did either of them talk to you about that?”

  He paused—just for a heartbeat, but long enough to give Julianne the idea that he was searching for the most facile response.

  “Matthew was worried about her ambition, which seemed to be her driving force. She didn’t share details, but I could sense her discomfort whenever I brought his name up. Which isn’t surprising.”

  “Because of the alleged physical abuse?” Dallas’s drawl was back, but, having come to know him well, Julianne could hear the tinge of anger and disgust.

  This time the busy nose sniffed. “If you’re referring to those complaints she made against him, it’s my opinion that the military, in an apparent effort to appear politically correct, has gone overboard on what it considers improper behavior.

  “Discipline is not abuse. If it were, the Navy would be guilty of abuse every time it held a captain’s mast aboard ship. If a husband fails to take his proper role as leader and head of the family, disorder can fracture the marriage.”

  “I’m a single guy, so I’m not real experienced in marital relationships, but are you saying that a guy knocking the little woman around doesn’t fracture a marriage?”

  “Of course I’m not saying men should beat women,” the other man said huffily. “But just as command is necessary to keep a ship like this running smoothly, it’s equally important in a marriage.

  “Corinthians eleven:three states that the head of every man is Christ, and the head of the woman is man. And Genesis three:sixteen tells us that Adam’s role is to be Eve’s master when it states that ‘thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.’ ”

  “Doesn’t sound like a very even partnership,” Dallas observed.

  “Unlike what so many people choose to believe these days, religion is not some cafeteria or mess hall, where you’re allowed to pick what you like and ignore the rest. God has given us rules to live by. If we choose to ignore them, we suffer the consequences.”

  “Like death?”

  His jaw, which up until now had been weak, firmed. “It’s not for me to judge. But as for the roles in marriage, this is the significance of Eve’s origin. She was not made from Adam’s skull, because she was not meant to be above him. She was not made from his feet, because, despite what you’re implying”—he shot Dallas an impatient look—“she was not meant to be beneath him.

  “Eve was made from his rib, which is by his side, protecting his heart, and, in turn, kept safe under his arm.”

  “It seems it would be difficult to keep the little
woman safe when you’re deployed in the sandbox and she’s flying F-18s off a carrier.”

  “True. But I’m sure you’ve already been told that the lieutenant could be extremely headstrong. From what I’ve observed, whenever a wife tries to be leader of the family instead of submitting to her husband, as God intended, there will be disharmony.”

  “Yet not everyone believes in that viewpoint,” Julianne pointed out.

  “Not everyone is going to get into paradise,” he countered, looking smugly pious.

  “Lieutenant Murphy served her country honorably.”

  “Some might see it that way.”

  “How did you see it?” Dallas asked.

  When he folded his arms, Julianne had the feeling he was struggling to pull the so-called spiritual adviser out of the chair and throw him headfirst against the steel bulkhead.

  “For the most part Lieutenant Murphy served Lieutenant Murphy. Not always honorably, in my opinion. Or according to scripture. She was always her own first priority.”

  Which went back to what her ripped roommate had said.

  “I don’t agree with Catholics on very many issues,” he said, still apparently trying to defend his outdated, misogynist religious viewpoint.

  Although Julianne was becoming more annoyed by the moment, she let him talk, because sometimes a witness might get on a roll and tell you more than they’d planned. Maybe even confess to whatever crime you were investigating.

  “In Roman Catholic tradition, the Virgin is held up as a role model for women.”

  “Which, if the idea really had caught on, would sort of contradict that ‘Go forth and multiply’ edict,” Dallas said. “And the Catholics would’ve ended up like the Shakers—flat out of members within a generation.”

  The man’s eyes flashed with anger. His face flushed and, for the first time since he’d entered the room, Julianne could envision him killing someone who’d bucked his command.

  “I was referring to the female virtues the Virgin Mary symbolizes. Obedience. Submission. Chastity. Silence. In many Catholic countries, women are not only encouraged to emulate her; the more they submit and efface themselves, the more they are seen, as stated in Proverbs thirty-one:ten through thirty-one, as having a price worth more than rubies.”

  “Not that selling women is legal,” Dallas said.

  Yes, that was definitely an edge to his tone. And the stony face and flinty eyes, so different from the way he’d looked when he’d been flirting with her, was hard-core Spec Ops.

  “It’s a metaphor.” He sniffed. “Surely you’ve heard of the concept.”

  Deciding to cut this off before things got physical, Julianne said, “Getting back to Lieutenant Murphy’s possible depression regarding her brother’s death—did you know about the message she wrote on the ordnance?”

  “Of course. It was the talk of the ship.”

  “I imagine there were those in the Muslim community who might be angry at the slur, which could be perceived as debasing their religion while they were here serving their country on the same side as the lieutenant.” Now she was the one leading the witness.

  He shrugged. “Lieutenant Murphy and I had our differences. But we both saw no reason why we should care what heathens think about our actions. We are, after all, in a holy war.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” Dallas mused, rubbing his jaw. “Oh, yeah. I remember.” He snapped his fingers. “It’s the same excuse the whacked-out jihadists use for killing innocent women and children.”

  The man dropped any pretense of cooperation. Practically shaking with anger, he glared at Dallas. “I don’t like your attitude.”

  “Finally, something we can agree on. Because I’m not real fond of yours, either,” the former CCT shot back.

  Julianne wondered why it was that he’d remained so easygoing with the drunk Marines in the bar and the NCIS guys who were less than respectful, but was definitely struggling to keep his temper with this guy.

  Sure, the bigot might be the murderer they were seeking, but he wasn’t the first person they’d interviewed who’d fit into that suspect category. Dallas hadn’t seemed to have any problem with the others.

  “You said you had your differences,” she said, determined to maintain control of the situation. “Given your . . . shall we say, rather rigid view of the Bible—”

  “It’s the correct view.”

  “In your opinion. My question is, how did you feel when the LT decided to attend that pagan moot?”

  He squared his bony shoulders. Stiffened his scrawny neck. “As I told her at the time, Exodus twenty-two: eighteen states, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ Whatever happened to her, she brought her death upon herself by turning to the satanists. Probably even sleeping with them, since everyone knows they use sex in their rituals. Which means that, as we speak, her soul is burning in hell.”

  Not trusting herself to respond to that, and knowing that a lecture about tolerance would do absolutely no good and only waste precious time, Julianne decided to be equally blunt with her next question.

  “Did you sleep with Lieutenant Murphy?”

  His face flushed scarlet. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”

  “She wants to know if you did the nasty with the witch,” Dallas said.

  “I resent that question.” He stood up, his long fingers balled into fists at his sides. “Unlike some aboard ship, I am not a fornicator.”

  Then, apparently deciding that God’s jurisdiction superseded theirs, or even that of the president and commander in chief, he swiveled on a heel and marched the short distance to the hatch.

  “One more thing,” Dallas called out.

  He paused. Seemed ambivalent, then shot a look over his shoulder. “What?”

  “What’s your job?” Dallas asked. “When you’re not teaching? Or counseling?”

  “I have laundry duty.”

  “That must be hot, hard work.”

  “Someone has to do it. It’s also repetitive enough that I have time to pray as I work. I supervise the irons,” he volunteered. “We only press the khakis, but it’s important that our officers look squared away. It brings respect to the ship.”

  With that, he left the quarters.

  “Well,” Julianne said. “That was interesting.”

  “Other than finding out that the guy’s a creep and a religious bigot who likes well-pressed khakis, he didn’t tell us all that much we didn’t already know. Except, of course, that connection he had with Murphy’s husband.”

  “Which we’re going to have to check out. There’s also the fact that working in the laundry is, according to the shrink, the only job on the boat that isn’t a seven-day-a-week job. If he was off duty the the night the LT was killed, he’d have both motive and opportunity. . . .

  “But I was talking about your reaction. I spent three days with you in an interrogation room smaller than these quarters, O’Halloran. Throwing a lot tougher questions at you than I did at that guy. And I never saw you even break a sweat, let alone nearly lose your cool the way you were on the brink of doing here.”

  “Damned intolerant bastard yanked some chains I didn’t realize I still had,” Dallas muttered, flexing his own hands, which had also been balled.

  “A leftover from one of your foster homes?”

  She saw the tension leave his body. He blew out a long breath.

  “You’re good. I knew that back when you were interrogating me. And what I’ve seen the past couple of days only proves it. Like I said, beauty and brains are one helluva sexy combination. And yeah, I spent eleven months with a religious fanatic who’d really bought into the concept of sparing the rod and spoiling the child.

  “Personally, although I was only five at the time and had never even seen an actual Bible, being smarter than the average kid, by the end of the first day I’d figured out the perv just got off on beating up on people, especially kids who couldn’t fight back. And, hey, better yet—at least for him—the
state of Texas was paying him to have fun.”

  Just as she’d never blushed, Julianne could count the number of times in her life she’d cried on one hand. But that didn’t stop the tears from burning behind her lids.

  “That’s abominable.” And unfortunately, she suspected, not all that uncommon.

  “It’s life. Which, like I said, took a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn when the O’Hallorans rescued me from the foster-kid pound.”

  “You’re no pound mutt.” She had to push the words past the lump in her throat.

  “Yeah.” He took hold of her arms. “I am. But since it made me the guy I am, which eventually put me here, in this place, with you, there is no way in hell I’m going to regret a thing.”

  Reading the invitation in his softened gaze, Julianne stood up.

  “There’s one thing you need to know,” she said.

  “What’s that?” He’d lowered his head, bringing his lips so close their breath mingled.

  She went up on her toes. Twined her arms around his neck. “This isn’t a pity kiss.”

  “Thank God.”

  43

  Despite the fact that they were on a noisy carrier, surrounded by thousands of sailors tramping up and down the ladders and through the impossibly narrow maze of hallways, at this suspended moment in time they could have been the only two people on earth.

  The only man.

  The only woman.

  And as he saw in her eyes a reflection of his raw yearnings, something in the far reaches of Dallas’s mind whispered that Lieutenant Julianne Decatur might, indeed, be the only woman he’d ever want again.

  He knew he’d have to think about that amazing thought. But not now. Not when the blazing chemistry between them was threatening to set this flattop on fire.

  He knew how Juls felt about rules and regs. The fact that she was not only willing to toss them aside now, even making the first move, along with the way he could feel her heart pounding in the same wild jungle-beat rhythm as his own, was his undoing.

  As his mouth claimed hers—and, demonstrating that she believed in full equality, hers his—the slow ache that had been growing inside Dallas broke free.