LITMIR.BIZ

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Texas, honey. That’s a long way from here. Besides, I’ll be there.” His presence felt insufficient.

      “Who’s going to help me put on my makeup?”

      “You’re wearing makeup?”

      The girls exchanged a glance and rolled their eyes. “Everybody wears makeup for performance,” Jennifer informed him.

      “I’ll take care of it,” Paul said as he merged back onto the road and drove the last couple of miles to the new indoor ice-skating rink. He waited until the girls had scampered inside. After skating practice, they were scheduled for an all-day play date with a friend, another little ice-skating princess.

      Paul had to work today. And, apparently, he also had to figure out a way to get lipstick and mascara on his girls. He shuddered at the thought.

      Wheeling around in the parking lot, he headed back toward home. There was just enough time to grab a shower, change into his uniform and report for duty. After he checked in, his first order of business would be filling out reports on the five people he’d interviewed at Julia’s place—a waste of time. All five came from the Washington, D.C., area, but none of them recognized John Maser’s name.

      Though Paul had suspicions about these people, he’d have to wait for more evidence before pursuing this investigation further. John Maser’s accident could have been just that—an unfortunate vehicular accident.

      Still, that single dying word kept repeating in Paul’s brain. Murder.

      As he pulled up in front of his house, his cell phone rang, and he picked up. Immediately, he recognized Julia’s rich, alto voice. She sounded agitated.

      “Paul, I need for you to come here. Right away.”

      “What’s wrong?”

      “I can’t explain. Just come. Please.”

      If she’d been anybody else, he would have insisted on more details. But he liked that she’d called him. He wanted to be the knight in shining armor who could solve all her problems. “I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes.”

      JULIA HAD NEVER BEEN in such a complicated situation. The general was dead. He was in his locked bedroom, all alone with the gun in his hand. He’d left a suicide note.

      Yet, she knew in her heart that his death was murder.

      Her duty as a federal agent was to encourage an investigation. But if the local law enforcement got involved, her safehouse would be exposed. She’d have no choice but to recommend closing down the entire operation, and she didn’t want that to happen. She was proud of her work here and loved the mountains. The safehouse felt more like home than anywhere she’d ever lived, and she’d do anything to protect it. Even if it meant misleading Paul.

      When she opened the front door for him, she forced herself to look him in the eye. Inside her rib cage her heart was jumping like a jackrabbit, but she kept her voice steady, “Thank you for coming.”

      “No problem.” As he stepped across the threshold, his gaze flicked around the room, taking in every detail. “What’s up?”

      “Come with me.”

      She led the way up the staircase to the second-floor bedrooms. Their boot heels echoed on the hard-wood floor. She and Paul were almost alone in the house. Her so-called guests—the Homeland Security experts—were horseback riding as a team-building exercise. Julia had suggested that everybody lay low while the police were here.

      Using her key, she opened the door to General Harrison Naylor’s bedroom. The death scene was carefully arranged. Wearing his Marine dress blues, the general lay stretched out on the bed. In his right hand, he gripped his silver Colt Double Eagle pistol with sound suppressor attached. The fatal bullet had gone through the back of his skull, leaving his face unmarked. His eyes were closed. His lifeblood stained the pillows and the linens.

      On a small desk, his laptop was open but not turned on. A note rested beside it.

      As Paul stepped gingerly into the scene, Julia told her first lie. “I found him like this.”

      When she first discovered the body, she had closed and relocked the bedroom door behind her. Standing over the body of the general, her FBI training kicked into high gear. Her brain cleared. Her priorities sorted. Much to her shame, her first thoughts centered on the security of the safehouse.

      She forced herself to focus. A man was dead. A heroic military man. A man who led other brave Marines, like her brother, into battle. There were procedures to be followed.

      Her trained gaze had gone to the rows of medals on this fallen soldier’s chest. At that moment, she realized that the general had not committed suicide. The medals were not in proper order.

      A Marine would never be so careless. When her brother was laid out in his coffin, she had studied the Marine Corps Manual to make sure his ribbons and medals were in correct alignment. The general would never make such a mistake. Therefore, she could assume that someone else had pinned those medals to his chest. This wasn’t a suicide.

      However, if the general was murdered, it meant a prolonged investigation by local authorities. A simple suicide would be an open-and-shut case. She could carefully escort the local lawmen through their duties without revealing the real business of the safehouse.

      And so, she had decided to change the medals, putting them in proper order. As if this tampering with the crime scene wasn’t bad enough, she’d done more.

      Under the sink in the general’s bathroom, she found a pair of latex gloves, slipped them on and returned to the body.

      The general’s shoes had been scuffed. A true Marine would never consider himself to be fully in uniform with dirty shoes. She’d removed the shoes from the general’s feet, polished them and put them back on.

      Guilt coursed through her veins like poison. How could she have done such a thing? Her life was dedicated to fighting crime, and she was no better than any other criminal, hiding evidence. How could she allow the general’s family to believe that he’d killed himself?

      She watched as Paul prowled around the bedroom, being careful not to touch anything. He leaned over the general’s body for a closer look. “This is strange.”

      “What?” She halfway hoped that he’d see through her tampering and confront her. “What’s strange?”

      “He’s wearing his hearing aid,” Paul said. “If I was going to shoot myself in the head, that would be the first thing to go.”

      Her lips pinched together, holding back an urge to confess to him. Not only was she guilty of rearrang-ing a crime scene but she was also betraying Paul, deliberately misleading him.

      He asked, “Was his bedroom door locked?”

      “Yes.” That much was true. “And we have a security camera in the hallway. I’ve already checked the tape. There was no one who came into or out of his room.”

      “A security camera?” He turned toward her. “Why?”

      “Security,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Julia knew that most people in nearby Redding didn’t even bother locking their doors. “There was already a lot of security equipment when I moved here.”

      “And you still keep it running?” he said. “Have you been bothered by theft? Vandalism?”

      There wasn’t much likelihood of anyone sneaking up on the safehouse. If they came within a hundred feet of the property, they’d be met by armed agents.

      “I’ve never had any problems,” she said, trying to shrug off his questioning gaze. “The camera came in handy this time, right?”

      Paul circled the bed, went to the window and glanced out at the eaves. Julia knew it was possible for the murderer to have come across the roof and entered the general’s room through this window. Such an action would require the expert skill

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