Read Online An Unlawful Order (The Chase Anderson Series) by Carver Greene - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carver Greene
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moment.
Finally, Chase handed over the tongs. “I could use a glass of water for this fire,” he said. “You should have let the coals die down more before you started cooking.”
“Are you always this impertinent?” And then realizing she had just insulted a senior officer, quickly added “sir?”
He pushed the chicken from the hot center of the grill to the edge. “Are you always so sensitive, Skipper?” His face softened into a look of sympathy, the one thing she couldn’t tolerate from anyone. Sympathy cracked her open and calved her from a glacier of icy resolve. She didn’t want to think of herself as a woman who wore her feelings too close to the surface. Any outpouring of sympathy over her currentsituation— why couldn’t she just say it, Stone’s death , for crying out loud—caused her grief to surface and spillover.
“I should check on my daughter,” she said, sliding open the door to the kitchen.
“A glass of wine would be nice,” Figueredo called out.
Could the man be anymore impudent? she thought, drawing the sliding door behind her.
Molly was curled up in Stone’s old recliner, her lifeless dolls strewn like dead bodies on the floor. Chase poured a tall glass of water. Out the window above the sink, she watched Figueredo. He’d left the grill long enough to drag over one of her teak chairs, and that was where he’d settled by the time she was tapping at the sliding door with afoot, in her hands the water and two glasses of wine. He jumped to his feet to help.
“Thanks,” she said, as he relieved her of the water and a wine glass.
He walked back to the grill and moved the chicken back to the hot center. “I saw you talking with that reporter from the Current at White’s memorial— ”
“Yes, sir. That was Paul Shapiro.”
“Look, Chase, you don’t have to stand on such formality with me, okay? Call me Fig.”
“Formality? You’re a colonel. I’m a captain. I’m just—”
“I know, but relax, will you?” He set the glass of water on the table. “I think the coals are perfect right now.” After settling back against the chair, he raised his wine glasstoward her in a half-mockery of a toast and drank.
“Colonel,” she said, still standing and now leaning against one edge of the table, preferring the advantage of a little height, “just why are you here? If you’re looking for Colonel Abercrombie or Colonel Harold, they live over there.” She pointed in the two directions of her neighbors’ homes.
“I know that.”
“Then why—”
“Actually, I wanted to warn you about Shapiro. Hickman’s got a burr up his ass for the man.” Tell her something she didn’t know. “Hickman saw the two of you together after White’s memorial service, talking, away from the others, and he went a little crazy. Just thought you should know what position that reporter’s putting you in.”
“My job is to talk to reporters,” she said. “What would you, or the general for that matter, have me do? I can’t ignore my job. I especially can’t ignore reporters like Shapiro. Better to find ways to placate reporters like him.”
“Placate? In what way?” A flame shot up from the grill, and so did Figueredo from the chair, dousing the flame with water.
“Well, for example,” she said, wondering just how far she should trust him, and then deciding that since he was the base’s intel officer— “this afternoon, Shapiro actually insinuated that Major White’s crash wasn’t an accident.”
Figueredo didn’t look up from the grill, but even under the fading light she detected the rise of his eyebrows. “Really? What’s he basing that on?”
“He seems to think the maintenance records at 464 are being forged to protect the 81 from being grounded. My husband was once the S-3 at 464 and would have known if anything like that had been going on.” Her voice trailed off. For some reason, she actually felt a little guilty for bringing Stone into the conversation.
Finally, Chase handed over the tongs. “I could use a glass of water for this fire,” he said. “You should have let the coals die down more before you started cooking.”
“Are you always this impertinent?” And then realizing she had just insulted a senior officer, quickly added “sir?”
He pushed the chicken from the hot center of the grill to the edge. “Are you always so sensitive, Skipper?” His face softened into a look of sympathy, the one thing she couldn’t tolerate from anyone. Sympathy cracked her open and calved her from a glacier of icy resolve. She didn’t want to think of herself as a woman who wore her feelings too close to the surface. Any outpouring of sympathy over her currentsituation— why couldn’t she just say it, Stone’s death , for crying out loud—caused her grief to surface and spillover.
“I should check on my daughter,” she said, sliding open the door to the kitchen.
“A glass of wine would be nice,” Figueredo called out.
Could the man be anymore impudent? she thought, drawing the sliding door behind her.
Molly was curled up in Stone’s old recliner, her lifeless dolls strewn like dead bodies on the floor. Chase poured a tall glass of water. Out the window above the sink, she watched Figueredo. He’d left the grill long enough to drag over one of her teak chairs, and that was where he’d settled by the time she was tapping at the sliding door with afoot, in her hands the water and two glasses of wine. He jumped to his feet to help.
“Thanks,” she said, as he relieved her of the water and a wine glass.
He walked back to the grill and moved the chicken back to the hot center. “I saw you talking with that reporter from the Current at White’s memorial— ”
“Yes, sir. That was Paul Shapiro.”
“Look, Chase, you don’t have to stand on such formality with me, okay? Call me Fig.”
“Formality? You’re a colonel. I’m a captain. I’m just—”
“I know, but relax, will you?” He set the glass of water on the table. “I think the coals are perfect right now.” After settling back against the chair, he raised his wine glasstoward her in a half-mockery of a toast and drank.
“Colonel,” she said, still standing and now leaning against one edge of the table, preferring the advantage of a little height, “just why are you here? If you’re looking for Colonel Abercrombie or Colonel Harold, they live over there.” She pointed in the two directions of her neighbors’ homes.
“I know that.”
“Then why—”
“Actually, I wanted to warn you about Shapiro. Hickman’s got a burr up his ass for the man.” Tell her something she didn’t know. “Hickman saw the two of you together after White’s memorial service, talking, away from the others, and he went a little crazy. Just thought you should know what position that reporter’s putting you in.”
“My job is to talk to reporters,” she said. “What would you, or the general for that matter, have me do? I can’t ignore my job. I especially can’t ignore reporters like Shapiro. Better to find ways to placate reporters like him.”
“Placate? In what way?” A flame shot up from the grill, and so did Figueredo from the chair, dousing the flame with water.
“Well, for example,” she said, wondering just how far she should trust him, and then deciding that since he was the base’s intel officer— “this afternoon, Shapiro actually insinuated that Major White’s crash wasn’t an accident.”
Figueredo didn’t look up from the grill, but even under the fading light she detected the rise of his eyebrows. “Really? What’s he basing that on?”
“He seems to think the maintenance records at 464 are being forged to protect the 81 from being grounded. My husband was once the S-3 at 464 and would have known if anything like that had been going on.” Her voice trailed off. For some reason, she actually felt a little guilty for bringing Stone into the conversation.
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