Logan was pleased that Teagan had held back the tears as he drove everyone to her apartment. He knew her well enough that her quick smile was forced. Thankfully, the children never noticed her red, puffy eyes.
An hour later, Teagan was planted in the middle of her couch with Brann on one side and Anora on the other, a huge bowl of over-buttered, salty-as-hell popcorn held in her lap. An animated movie seized the attention of the children.
“I’m just going to run over and get you two some pajamas,” Logan announced on his way toward the door. No one looked at him.
As though capturing the scene with a mental camera, he inwardly smiled. That was exactly what he had always wanted, except in his dreams, he would be tucked into a corner of the couch, content to hold any one of three. Of course, the woman and children would be his. Finding the right wife had eluded him for far too long. Just another regret of choosing a military career over a normal, civilian life.
Starting a family at forty-four was a ridiculous idea. Although he knew a few men his age expecting children, they were all part of the second family and a much younger wife. Logan didn’t want an immature twentysomething girl, or a jaded woman in her thirties. He’d tried both with little satisfaction.
Teagan looked up at him and mouthed ‘Go.’ She tilted her head toward Anora whose heavy eyelids were nearly closed.
With a single nod, he left her small, two-bedroom apartment and drove to Marsha’s suburban home. From the end of the tree-lined street, three blocks away, Logan could see the blue and white flashes of light from the local police department cars in front of Marsha’s house. Two other cars, one black and one white, were obviously unmarked police vehicles.
Logan wondered if every law enforcement officer on the staff had shown up.
He pulled his rental vehicle to the curb at the end of the long line. As he approached Marsha’s house, he was stopped by a uniformed policeman who looked fresh out of training.
“This is a crime scene, sir. I’ll need you to cross the street and move along quickly, please.” He was asking as much as ordering. Logan put the young man in his very early twenties. He instantly compared him to a Marine private first class, a year out of boot camp. There were so many differences, though. By the time a Marine earned his eagle, globe, and anchor, he was lethal in so many ways. He also had an air of confidence that this young man lacked.
Quickly analyzing the multiple ways he could handle the situation, he chose the most direct. “I am Marine Lieutenant Colonel Logan Jackson. That’s Marsha Davis’s home. I’m here to collect clothes for her children.”
The uniformed officer peered around Logan toward the SUV he’d rented. “Are the kids in the car with you?” He almost sounded afraid.
“No. The children are with my friend.” At the pinched look on the law enforcement officers face, Logan quickly added, “They’re with their godmother. We haven’t told them anything about the…” He wanted to call it murder but knew if he did, he’d be questioned for hours. In an investigation of this magnitude, he could only deal in facts. According to Matthew, Marsha was dead.
“Incident,” the young policeman filled in for him.
“Yes. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get the children’s pajamas and something for them to wear tomorrow.” Logan started to step around the much younger man.
“Hold it right there,” he said brusquely, snapping his palm up in a stop position. “Let me call this in.” He reached for the microphone on the shoulder and briefly relayed Logan’s request. Within a minute, a man in his early thirties wearing khakis, a white button-down shirt, and a blue blazer walked toward him. He was joined by a woman in her mid-twenties in a dark blue pant suit.
“Officer Strator, what’s going on?” The man casually dropped his right hand to his hip, close to his holstered weapon. Up close, he was considerably shorter than Logan’s six feet one inch. If the man reached five feet ten inches, he’d be surprised.
“Uhm, this is…”
Obviously intimidated by the new arrivals, Logan jumped in before the young man stumbled over himself. “I’m Marine Lieutenant Colonel Logan Jackson, godfather to the Davis children who are currently with their godmother. We have not yet informed them about the loss of their mother. I’m not sure if you are aware that their father’s funeral was yesterday.”
“We know,” the woman said.
Logan continued, tired of repeating himself. “Look, I’m just here to pick up some pajamas for them to sleep in tonight and a change of clothes for tomorrow morning. May I proceed?”
“I’m Melissa Cook from Fairfax County Department of Family Services. Exactly where are the Davis children?” For such a young little thing, she was rather demanding.
If there was one thing Logan Jackson despised, it was repeating himself. “Brann and Anora Davis are curled up on their godmother’s couch on the north east side of Falls Church.”
“Why were the children not with their mother?” Her question was quick and crisp.
Okay, where to start? Before he answered, he needed to find out who the man was. “Who are you?” Logan asked bluntly. He purposely looked at the man’s weapon. “Are things that bad around here that social services personnel carry G30s?” He said referring to the Glock subcompact .45 auto pistol in the man’s holster.
The corner of the man’s mouth kicked up. “You know your guns.”
Logan raised one eyebrow. “United States Marine Lieutenant Colonel. Guns are the difference between life and death in my business. I’ll only ask you this one more time, who the fuck are you?” If the pompous little shit didn’t answer him this time, he would simply walk past them into the house.
The cocky little bastard seemed to roll the question around in his brain before he finally answered. “I’m Detective Connor Russo, Major Crimes Investigation Division. This is my crime scene.”
Logan wanted to roll his eyes. If this guy was in charge, he was going to write it off as a suicide.
“Now, U.S. Marine Corps Lieutenant Colonel Logan Jackson, answer Ms. Cook’s question,” the little prick demanded.
Answer only the question asked and tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, as clearly and concisely as possible, Logan counseled himself. “At approximately 1400 hours, that’s to two o’clock in the afternoon civilian time,” he sarcastically added for Detective Russo, “Teagan Williams and I took the children to the national zoo so Marsha could remove all of their father’s clothing from the house.”
When Russo started to ask a question, Logan pushed on. “On our way to return the children here,” he tilted his head toward the house completely lit up inside and out as darkness approached, “Matthew Saint Clare telephoned me asking me not to bring the children home. He said he had found their mother’s body with a gunshot wound to the head. We took the children to a park approximately eight blocks from here so Teagan and I could discuss the situation alone in the car. We decided the best course of action would be to take them to her apartment, feed them and allow them to sleep there overnight.”
He purposely focused his attention on Miss Cook. “As their godmother, they have spent several nights at her place.”
The young woman seemed to be appeased by his answers. “I will allow them to spend the night with her tonight. You mentioned you had not yet told the children about the death of their mother. If you would like, I can be there tomorrow morning and break the news to them.” She lifted her gaze to Logan’s. “I’m trained on handling this exact situation, and to reassure you, this isn’t my first, or my tenth.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” he instantly agreed.
Miss Cook giving the children the bad news could work out perfectly. They would never have to know that he and Teagan knew of their mother’s death the evening before. He was sure Teagan would also appreciate someone else delivering that heartbreaking news.
“I will accompany you to the children’s rooms.” She turned on her low, sensible heels and headed toward the house.
Logan started to follow when Detective Russo reached out and grabbed Logan’s elbow. He froze. He forced himself not to react. This man was a police officer. Breaking his hand, arm, or dislocating his shoulder would be a very bad idea.
Staring at the man’s hand on his arm, Logan warned, “Are you that damn dumb? Don’t you know any better than to touch an active duty military man, or woman? Do you have any idea how many ways I could…hurt you?” Thank Christ he caught himself before he said the word kill. “You have no idea who I am, so let me tell you. I command a battalion of the Marine Corps’ most highly trained special operators. Our version of the Army Green Berets, Navy SEALs, but better. We start with the Marines. And I can guarantee you I got this job by being the best of the best. If you know what’s good for you, remove your hand. Now.”
Logan knew he didn’t get through to the idiot when the younger man squared his shoulders and squeezed Logan’s elbow, ever so slightly but he felt it, before he let go. “After you get the kids’ clothes, I want to talk to you.”
“I’ll bet you do.” Logan caught up to Miss Cook, who had turned and waited for him.
“His case of little-man syndrome got so much worse when he got promoted to detective three months ago,” Ms. Cook said in a quiet voice. “He has no respect for the military. He’s just a bitter little man because he didn’t get into West Point, or the Naval Academy, or the Air Force Academy.” She gave him a fake grin. “But he got into the police academy. Aren’t we lucky?”
Logan grinned as she led the way into the house and up the stairs to Brann’s bedroom. Knowing they were far away from Detective Russo, he asked, “You seem to know a lot about him.”
She started opening drawers, but halted and turned to face him. “Every woman affiliated with the Fairfax County Police Department knows about the ‘Con’ man. He considers himself quite a lady’s man. He chased me for weeks when I first started working in this area of the county. Then he found out that I was a Navy brat, and that I had been married to a SEAL, his advances stopped cold. Trust me, I was ecstatic.”
Logan glanced at her left hand. He was well aware of the divorce rate in special operations. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with your SEAL.”
Her lips went into a straight line. “I loved Erik. And always will. We had three great years together.” Her voice broke as she looked down at her feet. “Firefight in northern Africa. Two other men were lost at the same time.” Her eyes met his. “I’m not supposed to know that, but Daddy knew, and he told me.”
“Is that why you moved to Fairfax County? To get away from the military?” Logan snagged a pair of jeans, a couple pair of underpants, and two T-shirts. That should last Brann several days.
“No. Kind of. Maybe.” It was as though she was trying to decide for herself as she spoke. “Daddy got transferred to the Pentagon and I just wanted to live closer to him and Mom. I had what they call a mortality check and realized my parents weren’t always going to be there.” She snickered. “They’re not always going to be here either. He’s decided to retire. Now, he just has to figure out what slice of oceanside beach he wants to live on.”
They moved across the hall to Anora’s room. Logan wasn’t sure he’d ever been in there. Llamas. There were fucking llamas everywhere. Llamas on the pillows, sheets, bedspread, curtains, walls. A stuffed llama stood in a chair. And pink. He hadn’t known there were so many shades of pink. The drawers of her dresser started light pink and were nearly red by the bottom drawer.
Ms. Cook was laughing. “You’re not used to little girls, are you?”
“It’s that obvious?”
She had already selected several little outfits, some long pants, a couple of shorts, tops with guess what…llamas, all shades of pink and purple. The social services woman grabbed a small pink suitcase from the corner, decorated with Disney princesses.
“Do you want to throw the boy’s clothes in here too?” She offered.
“Sure, what the hell.” He handed her the clothes and she laid them neatly into the suitcase.
As she stood, she looked at the picture on the dresser. “Is this her mother?”
Logan moved closer. “Yes. And her Aunt Ashley.”
Ms. Cook whipped around to look at him. “Are you directly related to the children?”
Logan shook his head. “No, I’m not a blood relative, and neither is Teagan. We are the children’s godparents. Marsha and Teagan were roommates back in flight school. They both flew Navy Seahawks and roomed together for years. Teagan introduced Marsha to Gabriel, her husband.”
She studied him for moment. “Are you and Teagan married?”
“No.” Fuck. Logan could see where this was going.
“Is Teagan married? Or are you?” She pressed.
“No.” He wouldn’t lie about this. Ever.
Ms. Cook picked up the picture. “Does Marsha have any other siblings?”
“No. There’s only Ashley.” Before Logan let this get out of hand, he quickly added, “She’s currently in rehab. Again.” He shrugged. “I’m not even sure which one, or for what, this time.”
Disappointment crossed the social services agent’s pretty face. Holding his gaze, Ms. Cook asked, “What about Mrs. Davis’s parents?”
The last thing Logan wanted to do was to turn those beautiful children over to Marsha’s parents. Neither seemed interested in their grandchildren. “They’re at an RV rally somewhere over on the Eastern Shore. They planned to drive north to Maine, taking the entire summer to get there.”
“They may be a possibility, but we prefer siblings.” she said as much to herself as to him. “Are you familiar with Mr. Davis’s family?”
“I know his father died from cancer several years ago and I think his mother passed before that. Gabe never mentioned any close relatives,” Logan admitted. He thought about it for a few minutes and couldn’t remember a single conversation involving brothers or sisters. Reflecting back, that wasn’t unusual. Logan rarely spoke of his family. “Perhaps Matt, that’s Matthew Saint Clare, downstairs, maybe he can answer that question. He worked with Gabe for over a decade.”
“I’ll ask him.” Her smile was sweet. “In the meantime, I’m satisfied leaving the children with you and…”
“Teagan,” he filled in. “Teagan Williams. Their godmother,” he added for reinforcement of their position.
Small pink suitcase in hand, Logan started down the hall. He peered into the open door of the master bedroom. Several cardboard boxes with folded tops sat next to the door, ready to be taken away. A stack of men’s suits was carelessly tossed onto the bed as though Marsha had been interrupted in her task.
Had someone rung the bell? Or broken in and forced her to the office downstairs? He needed to talk with Matthew. And to see the office.