As she plumped her pillow and tried to get comfortable, Jessie vowed that for once she would take her brother’s very sound advice and keep her distance from Bran.
Unfortunately, now that they were working together, it would be nearly impossible to do.
Two hours later Jessie still lay awake. The sound of wind racing past the windows was usually comforting, but tonight it seemed ominous instead of relaxing, sending her thoughts back to the shooting and what she and Bran might face ahead.
Since she badly needed some sleep, she pulled on her short white terry cloth robe and padded down the hall toward the kitchen, hoping to find some chamomile tea or warm a cup of milk. The door to Bran’s study stood open, and she spotted him still sitting behind his computer.
He glanced up as she paused in the doorway. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked. His hair was mussed, and the shadow of a beard darkened his jaw.
Jessie shook her head. “You either, I guess.”
“No. Come on in.”
She walked over to the desk. “What are you working on?”
“I’ve been going over the file you gave me.” He tapped the thin manila folder. “I was hoping to find more in it.”
“I wish I had more. The truth is, I waited too long to start digging. My dad’s death hit me hard, especially after losing Mom and Danny. I couldn’t seem to pull myself together. Once I did, I got angry. I knew in my heart Dad wasn’t guilty. That’s when I went to work.”
Bran rose from his chair, file in hand. “Since we’re both still awake, we might as well get started.”
Jessie followed him over to a sleek dark walnut meeting table in the corner surrounded by four matching chairs. A fire flickered in the gas fireplace built into one wall. They each pulled out a chair and sat down.
Bran opened the file. “I read the initial report of the investigation—brief as it is.”
“It’s brief because the CID asked for an extension to delve more deeply into the charges.” CID stood for Criminal Investigation Division Command, like the FBI of the military. “Because of the seriousness of the crime and the threat it posed to national security, my dad was confined to the military stockade while the balance of the investigation was completed.”
“It says here, a civilian employee who works for Weidner, guy named Charles Frazier, discovered the missing munitions. The details have been redacted in the copy of the report you received.”
“It’s classified. As I said, being an outsider, it’s hard to get information. They don’t want anyone to know the quantity of chemical weapons that were stolen.”
“According to this, Frazier was a computer specialist working in the division of Weidner in charge of inventory. He discovered a discrepancy and reported it to Colonel Kegan as commander of the depot.” Bran glanced up from the page. “It says Colonel Kegan waited instead of reporting it. Frazier got worried. On the morning of the third day, he went directly to your father’s superior, Brigadier General Samuel Holloway, at CMA.”
She nodded. “That’s right. Holloway is the director of Chemical Materials Activity. He oversees both the Alamo Depot and the Blue Grass Depot in Kentucky.”
“According to your father’s comments, he waited to report the missing weapons because he wanted to be sure the discrepancy wasn’t just a clerical error, an accounting mistake of some kind. Which is what he believed, at least at first. He also stated he wanted to be sure he had all the facts. Once he was satisfied the theft was real, he planned to move forward, to find whoever was responsible and bring them to justice, which was why he began an internal investigation.”
“That sounds reasonable to me,” Jessie said.
“It does. Until you add the fact that Charles Frazier decided it was too dangerous to ignore the theft—which he believed the colonel was doing—and went straight to Holloway with the information. A few days later your father was apprehended—”
“Military jargon for arrested.”
“And confined to the stockade at Fort Carson.” Bran set the file on the table. “Apparently, CID investigators discovered an offshore account in your father’s name. They also found deposits totaling a hundred thousand dollars.”
Jessie felt a jolt of indignation for her father. “Someone set him up. I spoke to Charles Frazier. Since the number of missing munitions was classified, he couldn’t tell me the quantity, but he said on the black market, they would be worth a great deal of money. I got the impression it was a lot more than just a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Frazier tell you anything else?”
“He said it was a fluke that he discovered the theft at all. Some glitch in the system that turned up a discrepancy that most people would have missed. He followed up, and that’s when he realized the weapons were no longer in storage. If he hadn’t discovered it, the perpetrators would have gotten away clean.”
“Why do you think Frazier went over your father’s head directly to the CMA?”
“I don’t know. Frazier wouldn’t say, and no one I talked to was very helpful.”
Bran tapped the file. “After reading this report, I have a hunch the reason they aren’t being helpful is the same reason the quantity of missing weapons is redacted. The theft was a lot bigger than they want anyone to know.”
Jessie felt a chill. Exactly what she was afraid of.
FOUR
Thin rays of sunlight washed over the flat Texas landscape the following morning. Bran sat at the controls of the sleek white twin-engine Beechcraft Baron G58 parked in front of its hangar at the Dallas Executive Airport, south and a little west of downtown.
He had learned to fly after he’d left the military. Barely recovered from the bullet wounds that had forced him to leave the army—one in his thigh, one in his abdomen, and another that had taken out part of his spleen—he’d been bored and unhappy to have lost the job he was trained for.
He’d been trying to figure out what to do with his life when Chase suggested he take flying lessons. Once he’d started, he’d liked it so much he’d considered getting a plane of his own, maybe something like the single-engine Cessna that Hawk Maddox flew.
Chase had come up with the idea that Bran and Reese should share the one he owned, since it didn’t get used that often. It was a beautiful plane so Bran had eagerly agreed. Once he discovered private security work was the answer to his career dilemma, the plane had come in handy.
“You belted in?” he asked Jessie.
She nodded. “All set.” She settled back in the fawn-colored leather copilot’s seat and glanced around the interior. “This is really nice.” Besides the two people in the cockpit, the plane was equipped to carry four passengers in comfortable club seating.