could respond, the house phone rang.
They both stared at where it sat on the kitchen counter.
“It’s her wedding anniversary.” Michele’s voice was no more than a whisper. “Her husband said he’d call.”
If Sergeant Rossi was on the line, Jamison would have to tell him about his wife. He glanced once again at Michele, her lips tight, her eyes wide.
Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, Jamison wrapped it around the receiver and raised the phone to his ear.
“I used a stun gun.” A muffled male voice. No hint of a Southern drawl.
Jamison needed to keep him talking. “How’d you get inside the house?”
“You’re smart enough to figure that out.”
“You attacked Yolanda and now Mrs. Rossi. Why?”
“I thought you were good at what you do.”
“You’ve got a grudge against the military.”
Laughter.
Jamison’s fisted his free hand, wanting to reach through the phone and yank the killer by the throat.
The laughter halted abruptly. “I love the military, but not everyone acts heroically.”
“Is killing an innocent woman heroic?”
A growl sounded in Jamison’s ear. “I defended my country. I went to war and came home, but—”
“But what?”
“It was too late.”
“Too late for what? Were you hurt?”
“I died.” The line disconnected.
“Wait—” Jamison tapped in the digits to retrieve the caller’s number.
Using his own cell, he phoned CID headquarters. Corporal Raynard Otis answered.
“The killer called the Rossi quarters.” He relayed the home phone digits and the incoming number. “See if you can find where the call originated.”
“I’m on it, sir.”
“What’d the killer say?” Michele asked when Jamison hung up.
“That he was a soldier who was redeployed home from the war too late.”
Sirens wailed toward the house. Jamison started toward the front door, but stopped when the phone rang again. Just as before, he used his handkerchief and raised the phone to his ear, expecting to hear the killer’s voice once more.
“Happy anniversary to the most beautiful woman in the whole world. I’m coming home, baby. Won’t be long and you’ll be in my arms.”
Jamison’s mouth went dry.
“Alice?”
“Sergeant Rossi, this is CID Special Agent Jamison Steele. I have bad news.”
* * *
Michele clutched Alice’s hand and watched Jamison’s face as he explained what had happened to her husband over the phone. All too vividly, Michele remembered the call from her parents when Lance’s chopper crashed.
The scream of sirens stopped out front, and the house filled with military police. EMTs hastened to help Alice. Michele moved away to give them room to work.
Jamison hung up with Sergeant Rossi as Dawson walked toward him. The two men lowered their voices. Jamison was a few inches taller than Dawson and leaner. His neck was taut, his gaze intense as they conversed.
They turned in unison and looked at Michele. Still overcome with fatigue, she stared back, unable to mask her fear. Another woman had been injured—almost killed—and the attacker had come after her.
Dawson approached her. “Jamison told me you saw the attacker.”
“Yes, but I can’t tell you what he looked like. He wore a ski mask and surgical gloves on his hands, like a doctor. His eyes were dark. Maybe brown, but I’m not sure.”
“Any other features you recall? Height? Build?”
“Everything was a blur.”
“Take your time,” Dawson said.
She glanced from the lead agent to Jamison. His jaw was set and his eyes were dark. Ten months ago, Jamison’s eyes sparkled, and his easy smile used to make her insides quiver. Right now the raw look on his face had her quivering again. Both of them knew she was lucky to be alive.
Michele and her mother never should have left the auditorium without Jamison. But then another thought struck Michele full force. If Jamison had escorted them, he would have confronted the killer. Knowing what could have happened to Jamison mixed with the
They both stared at where it sat on the kitchen counter.
“It’s her wedding anniversary.” Michele’s voice was no more than a whisper. “Her husband said he’d call.”
If Sergeant Rossi was on the line, Jamison would have to tell him about his wife. He glanced once again at Michele, her lips tight, her eyes wide.
Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, Jamison wrapped it around the receiver and raised the phone to his ear.
“I used a stun gun.” A muffled male voice. No hint of a Southern drawl.
Jamison needed to keep him talking. “How’d you get inside the house?”
“You’re smart enough to figure that out.”
“You attacked Yolanda and now Mrs. Rossi. Why?”
“I thought you were good at what you do.”
“You’ve got a grudge against the military.”
Laughter.
Jamison’s fisted his free hand, wanting to reach through the phone and yank the killer by the throat.
The laughter halted abruptly. “I love the military, but not everyone acts heroically.”
“Is killing an innocent woman heroic?”
A growl sounded in Jamison’s ear. “I defended my country. I went to war and came home, but—”
“But what?”
“It was too late.”
“Too late for what? Were you hurt?”
“I died.” The line disconnected.
“Wait—” Jamison tapped in the digits to retrieve the caller’s number.
Using his own cell, he phoned CID headquarters. Corporal Raynard Otis answered.
“The killer called the Rossi quarters.” He relayed the home phone digits and the incoming number. “See if you can find where the call originated.”
“I’m on it, sir.”
“What’d the killer say?” Michele asked when Jamison hung up.
“That he was a soldier who was redeployed home from the war too late.”
Sirens wailed toward the house. Jamison started toward the front door, but stopped when the phone rang again. Just as before, he used his handkerchief and raised the phone to his ear, expecting to hear the killer’s voice once more.
“Happy anniversary to the most beautiful woman in the whole world. I’m coming home, baby. Won’t be long and you’ll be in my arms.”
Jamison’s mouth went dry.
“Alice?”
“Sergeant Rossi, this is CID Special Agent Jamison Steele. I have bad news.”
* * *
Michele clutched Alice’s hand and watched Jamison’s face as he explained what had happened to her husband over the phone. All too vividly, Michele remembered the call from her parents when Lance’s chopper crashed.
The scream of sirens stopped out front, and the house filled with military police. EMTs hastened to help Alice. Michele moved away to give them room to work.
Jamison hung up with Sergeant Rossi as Dawson walked toward him. The two men lowered their voices. Jamison was a few inches taller than Dawson and leaner. His neck was taut, his gaze intense as they conversed.
They turned in unison and looked at Michele. Still overcome with fatigue, she stared back, unable to mask her fear. Another woman had been injured—almost killed—and the attacker had come after her.
Dawson approached her. “Jamison told me you saw the attacker.”
“Yes, but I can’t tell you what he looked like. He wore a ski mask and surgical gloves on his hands, like a doctor. His eyes were dark. Maybe brown, but I’m not sure.”
“Any other features you recall? Height? Build?”
“Everything was a blur.”
“Take your time,” Dawson said.
She glanced from the lead agent to Jamison. His jaw was set and his eyes were dark. Ten months ago, Jamison’s eyes sparkled, and his easy smile used to make her insides quiver. Right now the raw look on his face had her quivering again. Both of them knew she was lucky to be alive.
Michele and her mother never should have left the auditorium without Jamison. But then another thought struck Michele full force. If Jamison had escorted them, he would have confronted the killer. Knowing what could have happened to Jamison mixed with the
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