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  Allie stuck her lip out. “Queenie comes too?”

  Maisy looked down. A young beagle sat by her ankle. It looked up protectively at Allie in a way that told her that she wouldn’t be able to shake the dog, even if she wanted to. “Yes, of course. Queenie can come too.”

  “Queenie likes waffles.” Allie tucked her head against Maisy’s chest and she felt the young girl shudder in the safety of her arms.

  Chase met her eyes over Allie’s head again. “Thank you.”

  “No problem. We’ll see you later.”

  The pink-and-orange glow of a Texas dawn had deepened over the horizon. The first parents would be at the preschool ready to drop their kids off in a little over an hour. She started to turn away when she heard Justin calling her name. She looked back. The captain was striding toward them. Something glittered in his gloved hand. It was a sturdy gold cross, dangling on the end of a chain.

  He stretched the pendant toward her. “Before you go, one of our officers just found this buried under the floorboards in Chase’s house. I was wondering if you could identify it?”

  Her blood ran cold as suddenly as if she’d just plunged into ice. She nodded. Her mouth opened, but for a moment, no words came out. Justin Blackwood turned the cross over and the early morning light fell on the engraved words she’d so carefully chosen as a teenager years ago. I love you, Dad—Maisy.

  Her heart sank to a place that was worse than disappointment or even sadness. “Yes, that’s the cross I gave my father for Christmas when I was thirteen, a few months after my mother died. Despite our differences, he wore it under his uniform and never took it off. When the Red Rose Killer murdered him, somebody stole it from his body.”

  She could almost feel Chase’s gaze on her face, but she forced herself to turn away without meeting his eye. She didn’t even begin to know what to think. But the fact that it had now shown up in Chase McLear’s home made it a lot harder to hold on to the faint hope that the father of the little girl she now held in her arms wasn’t somehow linked to his murder.

  * * *

  “Stephen Butler, commissary cook!” Preston slapped the glossy photo of the corpse of one of the Red Rose Killer’s most recent victims down on the interrogation table in front of Chase. “Found dead behind a restaurant off base. Boyd Sullivan used his uniform and ID to sneak onto base after escaping prison. Did you lure him to the woods for Boyd? Are you responsible for this man’s murder?”

  “No, sir.” Chase’s jaw ached and his lower back twinged with the reminder that he hadn’t stood or stretched in hours. But he wasn’t about to let his bearing relax. They’d brought him in for questioning in the same track pants and T-shirt he’d been wearing when they’d arrested him. Being challenged by uniformed men while in his civvies made the humiliation he felt even worse. But he wasn’t about to give in to the temptation to slouch.

  An airman was an airman, even out of uniform.

  His eyes roamed over the glossy picture of the dead young man. The Red Rose Killer’s first set of victims before his arrest had been linked by a common thread—they were all people who’d treated him worse than he felt he’d deserved. A homecoming queen who’d broken his heart, a high school bully and a gas station attendant who’d fired him had been the first three people he had killed. A woman he’d once dated and her new boyfriend rounded out the five murders that he’d gone to prison for. But since breaking out of prison, his targets had been more mixed. Some seemed to be revenge killings, complete with a red rose and a note left on the body. Others, like poor Stephen Butler, seemed to have been killed for practical reasons, like gaining access to the base or the kennels. Preston had already covered the first set of victims and had now moved onto crimes committed since Boyd had broken out of prison.

  Captain Justin Blackwood stood stone-faced and impassive by the door, apparently content to watch as Preston conducted the questioning with the volume and aggression of an angry terrier that had cornered a rat. Chase wasn’t sure what that meant. Was the captain not as convinced of his guilt as the lieutenant was? He could only hope that the forensic team was taking the cut in Allie’s window screen, the torn picture and the footsteps in the dirt as seriously as Security Forces were taking their investigation into him.

  When Lieutenant Ethan Webb had met him in a coffee shop three and a half weeks ago and told him his name had shown up on Boyd Sullivan’s prison visitor list, Chase had been both shocked and indignant; his frustration at just how ludicrous the whole situation was had shown in both his tone of voice and his body language. He still kicked himself for that. Growing up, his grandfather, Senior Master Sergeant Donald McLear, had drilled into him that a man and a hero always kept his chin high and his emotions in check. But the idea that he’d do anything to help Boyd Sullivan had been both insulting and laughable. How could anyone think he’d want to spend one minute in the presence of that monster? He’d expected his name would be cleared immediately and that whoever had used his name to cover their tracks had picked him at random. Even the fact that his laptop had been stolen from his truck, along with his gym bag and toolbox, had seemed like a cruel coincidence.

  But any hope that he wasn’t being personally targeted, which had remained flickering in his heart, was completely snuffed out the second Captain Blackwood had held the late Chief Master Sergeant Clint Lockwood’s gold cross in Maisy’s startled face. The thought that it had been found under his living room floorboards chilled him to the bone. He’d been set up, no doubt about it, by someone who’d both been inside his home and had eyes on his truck. He didn’t know who and he didn’t know why. But one thing was certain—for the sake of his little girl, he had to clear his name.

  “Landon Martelli and Tamara Peterson,” Preston barked, as he slammed the pictures of two more of Sullivan’s victims down on the table. “Both were K-9 trainers and murdered by someone who opened the kennel doors, letting about two hundred dogs go free. You don’t have an alibi for the morning this happened, do you?”

  Chase fought the urge to cross his arms. “As I’ve stated before, I was on a video chat with a military contractor named Ajay Joseph, who I used to work with in Afghanistan, from four fifteen in the morning until my cell phone rang shortly after oh five hundred with an alert that Boyd Sullivan had escaped prison and let dogs loose on base. I paused the video call and went into the bedroom to answer my cell phone and spoke to Master Sergeant Westley James. When I returned to the living room, approximately eight minutes later, my daughter, Allie, was up and playing with Queenie and the video call had ended.”

  “But you have no way to corroborate that story,” Preston interjected.

  “That I was at home and on a video call when Sullivan broke onto base? No, I don’t. Because my laptop was stolen, along with my gym bag and toolbox, from my truck when I was off base and I haven’t been able to reach my contact.”

  Preston smirked. Yeah, Chase knew how weak his alibi sounded. It didn’t help that he hadn’t been able to reach Ajay since then. But he was an Afghan, an independent contractor and a coordinator between locals and the United States Air Force. Ajay wasn’t stationed on base, and off-base communication in his part of Afghanistan had been unstable.

  “Two dozen of the dogs Boyd let out of the kennels still haven’t been found, Airman,” Preston said. “Many of them had PTSD from serving their country and saving the lives of service members overseas. You recently transferred to the K-9 unit, didn’t you?”

  Was it his imagination or did Chase pick up a hint of resentment in the lieutenant’s voice. It was no secret that Preston had done basic K-9 training as well but had yet to be paired with a canine partner. Did he resent that Chase had been partnered first? He hadn’t thought so. He’d have expected a man like Preston to be focused on getting a fierce and dangerous animal, who specialized in something like suspect apprehension, rather than a sweet little search dog like Queenie.

  “Yes, sir, I
did request a transfer to the K-9 unit,” Chase said. “Though, as I’m sure you know, completion of my training with the team is currently on hold until this mix-up can be resolved. I have the utmost respect for what the dogs in the unit and their trainers do to serve our great country. I hope the missing dogs are found soon.”

  “I spoke to your old boss, Captain Reardon,” Preston said, “and she described you as a quiet man who kept to himself.”

  Chase didn’t answer. He hadn’t been asked a question and didn’t like Preston’s insinuation that being private and quiet was somehow a crime.

  “Why did you request a transfer?” Justin’s voice snapped his attention to the doorway. Chase blinked. He couldn’t remember the lead investigator asking any other questions since the interrogation had started. “Your previous career was security, correct? You guarded missiles, weapons transfers and installations in Afghanistan?”

  “And personnel, yes, sir,” Chase said. “I requested a transfer because as fulfilling as it was to be overseas, serving my country on the front line, I couldn’t neglect my duty to my own daughter. Seeing the difference we were making in the lives of Afghan children made me miss my own. I figured my daughter deserved better in life than a daddy who she knew only through a video-chat screen, sir.”

  Justin’s eyebrows rose. His mouth opened, like he was about to ask a follow-up question, and Chase suddenly remembered that Justin himself was the single father of a teenaged daughter.

  The sound of another picture smacking the table yanked Chase’s attention back to Preston. He looked down and his heart ached. It was Maisy’s father, Chief Master Sergeant Clint Lockwood, lying on the floor in a navy blue PT uniform. A red rose was tucked under his arm. A dark pool of blood stained his crisp white shirt.

  Maisy thinks I had something to do with this? Anger and sadness crashed over Chase like competing waves battling on the shore. The look of disbelief and doubt in her eyes when she’d looked at the gold cross was seared in his mind. It reminded him all too much of the look of defeat that had greeted him when he’d answered the overseas video call from his then pregnant wife, telling him that she’d given up on their marriage and fallen in love with another man who was “emotionally available” for her in a way Chase could never be. Liz had filed for divorce almost immediately. Thankfully a DNA test after Allie was born had proven she was Chase’s little girl. Even before Allie was born, Liz had decided to restart her life without them.

  “Chief Master Sergeant Lockwood was my basic training officer,” Chase said, quickly, snapping his errant mind back to attention and filling in the information before Preston could try to hit him with another question. “It’s well-known by everyone who trained under him how tough he could be. He didn’t give me a rougher time than anybody else, and I certainly didn’t hold a grudge.”

  Before Preston could speak, Justin asked another question. “What’s your relationship like with his daughter, Maisy Lockwood?”

  “Much the same as I imagine Lieutenant Flannigan’s is, sir,” Chase said. “Polite and courteous, but not personal. My daughter is in her preschool, as his son is.”

  Was it Chase’s imagination or did irritation flicker in Preston’s eyes?

  “Then why were you holding a picture of her when you were arrested?” Preston snapped.

  “I’ve already answered that question. There was a prowler outside my daughter’s window. I went outside to investigate and found the picture in the dirt. They cut the screen on Allie’s bedroom window, pulled the picture from her dresser and ripped my daughter’s face from the frame. My baby daughter’s picture is now in this person’s hands.”

  He fought the urge to drop his head into his hands. Instead, his eyes rose to the ceiling as he prayed. Did they believe he’d cut the screen and scuffed the ground himself to cover his tracks in case someone saw Boyd near his home and called the police? Didn’t they get how ridiculous that would be?

  “My name was used by someone visiting the Red Rose Killer in prison,” he added. “My truck was broken into. I was robbed. My home was invaded by someone who planted evidence under my floorboards. My daughter is in danger. I need to protect her. What you should be investigating is who is so intent on framing me.”

  A quick, curt knock sounded on the door, interrupting wherever Justin was going with his next question. Justin excused himself and slipped out into the hallway.

  “I don’t care what sack of lies you try to sell, I know you’re helping Boyd Sullivan,” Preston said. His lip curled. “A few scuffed footprints in the dirt and a hole in a window screen doesn’t prove anything. You’ve been sneaking him on and off base. You helped him kill these people and I will prove it.”

  Chase felt his jaw clench. How could anyone possibly think he’d allow a man like Boyd in his home or near his daughter? He held his tongue and stared straight ahead as if Preston was nothing but a window and he was looking through him. Still, he couldn’t miss the dangerous glint in the lieutenant’s eyes. A lifetime in the Security Forces had taught him to spot a hostile element.

  The door handle began to turn and Preston leaned forward so suddenly the table lurched.

  “You better stay far away from Maisy Lockwood,” he hissed. “Take your little brat out of her school and never bother her again. Or I will make sure you pay.”

  THREE

  The lead investigator walked back into the room, giving Chase barely a moment to process Preston’s words before rising to his feet and saluting. Preston rose as well.

  Justin’s eyes scanned their faces. “Everything all right, men?”

  “Yes, sir,” Preston said.

  Chase did his best to keep his face impassive. Preston’s determination to nail him was immaterial. Chase knew he was innocent.

  As if he read Chase’s thoughts, Justin turned to him. “You’re free to go.”

  So he wasn’t being charged? Did that mean they didn’t have enough evidence? Or did they think that if they let him go and trailed him, he’d eventually lead them to the Red Rose Killer?

  “You are not being charged with any crime at the moment,” Justin went on, his face so steady he might as well have been carved out of marble. “We may wish you to come in for future questioning and appreciate your continued voluntary cooperation with our investigation. JAG can inform you of your legal rights going forward, including your right to cease cooperation and retain legal counsel. Don’t leave base without letting my office know. I believe the team has finished processing your home as well. You can collect your cell phone later this afternoon.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Chase saluted sharply.

  The other man returned the salute, and Chase was escorted from the building. But it wasn’t until he stepped inside the front door of his own Canyon bungalow that he let his shoulders slump and his bearing relax. Twenty minutes later he was showered, shaved and dressed in his crisp dark blue uniform, with its pale blue shirt, navy tie and laces tight on the leather shoes that were so well shined he could almost see the mess of the house that surrounded him reflected in them. He’d need to have the front door replaced before Allie came home. It still opened and closed all right, but the visible dent and damaged hinges would upset her. His bedroom and the living room had both been tossed, but nothing seemed broken—he was thankful for that—and his daughter’s room would only take a minute to set back to rights. Even the window screen would be easy enough to replace. He’d change the locks on the doors as well. A bigger problem would be repairing the baseboards and floor tiles. He’d carefully peeled back half a dozen of each to create little hiding places for electronic SD cards and thumb drives, as part of Queenie’s training, and this had no doubt seemed suspicious enough for deeper investigation. Now, patches of his floor looked like a sloppy and haphazard contractor had quit partway through the job. He took another deep breath, let it out slowly and reminded himself that the investigators had only been doing the
ir job. They’d done it with the utmost of respect and professionalism too—for the most part. He ran his hand over the back of his neck.

  God, what do I do? Who’s out to get me? How do I find them?

  The red light on his answering machine was blinking. He pressed the button. The light and airy sound of Maisy’s voice filled his wrecked and damaged living room, as sweet and as comforting as a chilled glass of sweet iced tea.

  “Hey, Chase? It’s Maisy. Not sure when you’ll get this message, but Justin...uh, Captain Blackwood said you wouldn’t have your cell phone. Allie wanted to give you a call to let you know we were having a good morning...” There was the sound of whispering and the scuffle of the phone changing hands.

  Then he heard the voice of his daughter, Allie, sounding so tiny and little, and a sudden lump formed in his throat. “Hi, Daddy! Maisy let me have a special pink hair bow! And I had berries. And waffles. Queenie is here too. Say woof, Queenie! Queenie! Say woof, woof! Queenie doesn’t want to say hi. Bye!”

  There was the thump of the phone falling, another scuffling sound and a pause that lasted so long he wondered if they’d forgotten to hang up. Then he heard Maisy’s voice again. There was an unmistakable strain of worry pressing through her light and cheerful tone. “Allie ate a lot of breakfast. She’s good. Felicity gave me a scoop of dog food for Queenie. We’re just going to hang out here and have a fun day. Give me a shout when you—”

  The phone message cut off in a long beep. He sat down on the couch, feeling his heart beat hard against his rib cage. Then he played the message again, finding comfort in the sound of his daughter’s voice and Maisy’s reassurance. Did Maisy have any idea how much her act of kindness meant to him? His daughter had been screaming, his world had been falling apart and she’d been there for him, stepping into the chaos, reaching out her hands to his little girl, like a heroine plucking his daughter out of the rubble and into safety.