Three Days to Forever (A Mac Faraday Mystery Book 9) Read online

  When David shook her hand in a firm grip, he noticed that she was almost as tall as he was, six feet two inches, in her high heels. While she was not dressed in a military uniform, the way she stood with her shoulders back and her back straight indicated that she certainly had a military officer’s training.

  “Commandant Amos asked that I escort you to your hotel where you can rest after your long flight.”

  The color drained from Colonel Frost’s face, starting at the top of his bald head. “General James Amos? Commandant of the Marine Corps? Joint Chief of Staff?”

  “Yes, sir.” With a gesture of her hand, the limousine driver hurried forward to take David’s duffle bag. “I hope your flight was pleasant. You will have a day to rest before boarding the private jet tomorrow morning to take you on to Washington for a debriefing before the Joint Chiefs of Staff. They are all very anxious to meet you. By close of business tomorrow, the rest of your special ops team will arrive for the ceremony and reception on Friday.”

  “Friday?” David asked.

  The driver had taken both of their duffel bags and placed them in the trunk. He then opened the rear door of the limousine and waited for them to climb in.

  “I know,” she said with a crooked grin. “Usually these type of things take forever—red tape and blah-blah-blah. But the commandant was so impressed by the report that General Affleck filed with his recommendation that he has personally rushed it through.”

  Feeling his stomach lurch, David hoped he could keep from throwing up on her black stilettos.

  “Of course, considering the sensitive nature of the operation, we can’t publicize the award and why you and your team are getting it. If the terrorist network ever got the names of those who executed Jassem al-Baghdadi, they wouldn’t hesitate to come over here to the states to administer payback.”

  Even though her dark glasses blocked his view of her eyes, David could feel her gaze directed at him. Not only am I going to be court-martialed, but now I’m on the terrorists’ hit list.

  “Still,” she went on, “we can’t deny your friends and family from sharing in this honor with you. You are more than welcome to invite them to the awards ceremony and the reception afterwards. Many of the military’s highest ranking officials will be there.”

  Colonel Frost’s question came out as a squawk. “Honor? Award? Reception?”

  “Why, of course,” she replied with complete innocence while she climbed into the back of the limousine.

  David followed the colonel. Not forward enough to sit next to the woman who had chosen to sit with her back to the driver, they took the seat facing the front. Still, in the dim light of the limousine, she continued to conceal her eyes with the dark glasses. David didn’t care. He was more focused on the long pair of bare legs beckoning for his touch.

  She waited for David and Colonel Frost to get comfortable before continuing. “General Affleck recommended that you and each member of your team be award the Bronze Star for taking out Jassem al-Baghdadi.” She cocked her head at them. “What did you think all this was about?”

  His grin encompassing even his white mustache, Colonel Frost nudged David in a sign to be silent. “We’re just surprised by all of the fuss. After all, Major O’Callaghan and his team were only doing what they had been trained to do to defend our country.”

  “Exactly. They had the courage that, unfortunately, others have lacked.”

  After the limousine had started to move away from the airfield, David asked, “What did General Affleck say in his recommendation?”

  “I’ll be sure to give you both copies of it,” she said. “You may be interested in knowing that General Affleck’s recommendation on your behalf was his last official act before his death.”

  “General Affleck is dead?” Colonel Frost asked. “When? How?”

  “His body was found yesterday morning,” she replied in a tone devoid of emotion. “I guess you were traveling at the time—”

  “How did he die?” David asked.

  Ensuring that the window between the back and the driver was closed, she whispered, “It’s embarrassing for the current administration, but … it was auto-erotic asphyxiation.”

  “Are you serious?” David had never met the general, but he knew that he was a man of strict discipline who expected the same of everyone around him.

  She was nodding her head. “Yesterday morning, a cleaning woman found him hanging in the closet at the Ritz across from the Pentagon. All he was wearing was his white skull cap—”

  “White skull cap? He was Muslim?” Colonel Frost asked. “I’ve known the man for years and I never knew he was Muslim.”

  “Yes,” she answered with a nod of her head. “The clerk at the hotel desk remembers him checking in with a very ugly transvestite who is known to be a prostitute. NCIS is looking for him, but the ME has already placed the cause of death as accidental. It’s very embarrassing for a lot of people, from his wife and family to the president—especially because Affleck was appointed to that position by the secretary of state. Everyone in Washington has been flailing since extensive evidence was found on his computer proving that he has had a long history of leaking government secrets to Islamic terrorist branches throughout the Middle East.”

  “Leaking secrets to Islamic terrorists?” Colonel Frost practically jumped out of his his seat. “No wonder Affleck repeatedly ordered special ops to stand-down when we’d get prime terrorist targets in our crosshairs.”

  “Like I said, it’s embarrassing,” she said. “The Joint Chiefs of Staff and Congress are already ordering a full investigation of what General Affleck knew and where that information went.”

  Unable to read her face due to the dark glasses, David studied her body language in an attempt to read how much she truly knew beyond what she was saying. She gave him nothing. “If General Affleck was working for Islam instead of for us,” he said, “why would he give the order for us to terminate the target, and then put our team in for the Bronze Star?”

  “Guess we’ll never know for sure,” she replied.

  “I know one thing,” Colonel Frost said, “dirty traitor got what he had coming. Feeding information to our enemies and ordering us to sit by and twiddle our thumbs while they were out there killing us and our people. Now everyone is going to know General Affleck for what he really was—a twisted perverted traitor to his own country.”

  David still had his blue eyes locked on her. “I’m sorry,” he said, “it’s been a long last few days. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “That’s because I didn’t give it,” she replied.

  Part One: Three Days to Forever

  Thursday, December 29

  Chapter One

  Spencer Manor, Deep Creek Lake, resort area in Western Maryland

  In the heart of Maryland, a cedar-and-stone home rested at the end of the most expensive piece of real estate on Deep Creek Lake. The peninsula housed a half-dozen lake houses that grew in size and grandeur along the stretch of Spencer Court. The road ended at the stone pillars marking the multi-million dollar estate that had been the birthplace and home of the late Robin Spencer, one of the world’s most famous authors.

  Cautious of the boiling hot coffee, Robin Spencer’s son, Mac Faraday, took a sip from the mug and cringed. Not only was it too hot, but it was also too strong. Screwing up his nose, he set the mug on the bed stand and turned to glare at the deep brown eyes peering up at him from the pillow on the other side of the bed. “Why don’t you start earning your keep and learn to brew a decent pot of coffee?”

  The German shepherd’s ears stood up. As if to inspect what had caused his master’s displeasure, he lifted his head and looked across Mac’s bare chest in the direction of the bed stand.

  “I may have to make an emergency stop up at the Inn just to get a cup of coffee.” Mac sighed. “Archie’s been gone only four days and I
already miss her.”

  With a whine, Gnarly dropped back down onto her pillow and buried his snout in an effort to take in her scent.

  Mac stroked the top of Gnarly’s head. “Yeah, I can see you miss her, too.”

  Knocking Mac’s hand out of the way, Gnarly sprung from the bed with a series of loud barks. The eruption caused Mac to almost knock over his coffee cup. The action would have normally sent Mac reaching for the gun he kept in the night table, except for the fact that he heard the familiar roar of the delivery van’s engine over the barks.

  Yet another delivery of wedding presents.

  Climbing out of bed, Mac threw on his bathrobe and slippers before following Gnarly, who kept running back to urge him to hurry, down the stairs to Spencer Manor’s two-story foyer. By the time he arrived, the driver was waiting on the other side of the cut-glass door. Tightening the belt of his robe and closing it across his chest to block out the freezing morning wind whipping off the snow, Mac yanked open the door. Gnarly rushed outside to give the delivery man a nasal pat-down, which concluded with sniffing the oversized box he was delivering.

  After handing the German shepherd a dog biscuit, the delivery man greeted Mac. “Good morning, Mr. Faraday. Are you ready for the big day? Saturday, isn’t it?” He handed Mac the tablet to sign for the box.

  “I’ve been ready.” Mac signed the tablet and handed it back to him. “All I have to do is show up at the church. Archie’s the one doing all the work.”

  He took the box and read the return address.

  Celeste Danford.

  He recognized the name as that of an elderly actor who, twenty-five years earlier, had starred in a movie based on one of Mac’s birth mother’s books. She had won a couple of Academy Awards. Like many of the famous folks sending wedding presents, Mac had never met her.

  After thanking the driver, Mac put his hand on the door to close it, but first he paused to call Gnarly back inside.

  “It looks like someone left you something else, Mr. Faraday.” The driver knelt to retrieve an envelope that Gnarly was sniffing next to the door. It was anchored down with a rock to prevent it from blowing away in the wintry wind. “Maybe it’s a card.” Holding it up to keep Gnarly from snatching it out of his hand, the delivery man handed it to Mac.

  After thanking him, Mac closed the door and carried the package and envelope into the drop-down dining room to add them to the massive collection of wedding presents that were growing on a daily basis. Curious, Gnarly pranced at his side.

  After setting down the package, Mac studied the address on the oversized brown envelope left at the front door. It was too lightweight to be a card. The only writing on the front of it was “Lieutenant Mac Faraday.” That had been his rank when he had left the police department in Washington, DC. The only other writing was a stamped return address in the upper left corner:

  Beaver Dam Motel

  Route 340

  Accident, Maryland

  His blue eyes narrowing with suspicion, Mac slipped his finger under the seal, tore the envelope open, and slid the contents out to view. It contained one color picture with a yellow note stuck to the front. The picture was of Mac’s bride-to-be, Archie Monday, standing at a bar holding up a margarita glass. She was beaming with joy and surrounded by her friends and sisters-in-laws, most of whom were her bridesmaids for their upcoming wedding.

  A single man was among the group. A flabby middle-aged man wearing thick glasses and slightly worn clothes beamed at the camera. His arm was slipped around Archie’s waist.

  Mac’s blood ran cold as recognition set in.

  Russell Dooley.

  Mac recalled the note mailed to his home shortly after Thanksgiving. It was a “thinking of you” greeting card. Inside was a newspaper clipping announcing the prison suicide of Leigh Ann Dooley, the convicted murderer of Harris Tyler. The homicide detective who had broken the case? Mac Faraday.

  The greeting card contained two sentences:

  “You took my happiness away. Now, I’m going to take away yours.”

  The yellow note stuck to the picture was written in the same handwriting.

  “I got this close.”

  Spencer Inn

  Mac Faraday’s ancestors had founded Spencer back in the 1800s. By the 1920s the electric company had put in the dam and built Deep Creek Lake, and they became millionaires. After that, Spencer, Maryland, became a resort town.

  One of the most luxurious resort hotels in the country was the Spencer Inn, another part of Mac’s inheritance from his birth mother. Mac’s grandfather had built the resort and passed it down to his daughter, who preferred writing murder mysteries to hotel management.

  The front of the Inn offered a view of the lake below and the mountains off in the distance. A wrap-around porch furnished with cane rocking chairs provided outside areas for guests to enjoy the mountain breeze while taking in a magnificent view in any direction. If there wasn’t a foot and a half of snow on the ground like there usually was during ski season, guests could enjoy a light meal or refreshment at the outdoor café on a multi-leveled deck that looked out across tennis courts, a golf course, and a ski lift with trails down the mountain. During the summer season, the Inn also offered guests meals and refreshments at tables or in gazeboes lost among the flora of an elaborate maze.

  Joshua Thornton was enjoying his third cup of coffee and the last of his Eggs Benedict in the restaurant. The view of the Spencer Inn’s ski trails leading down to Deep Creek Lake at the bottom of the mountain was so spectacular that he hardly noticed how delicious his breakfast tasted.

  He wished the view was not quite so spectacular. He found it difficult to concentrate on his target, Abdul Kochar, a best-selling novelist who had originated from Afghanistan.

  Clad in a brown tweed jacket, a red sweater, and slacks, the heavy-set author had just completed his breakfast of steak and eggs. While sipping his coffee, he stared across the restaurant at the roaring fire in the stone fireplace behind Joshua. Occasionally, his dark eyes would flick over to the hard-cover book resting next to Joshua’s plate, and then to Joshua. Then, the author would turn his head to look out the window at the falling snow. He scratched his thick beard while glancing around.

  Be cool, Abdul, Joshua tried to tell him telepathically.

  The server arrived at Abdul’s table with the check.

  Joshua’s phone buzzed on top of the book. A picture of the pretty woman with auburn hair and brown-green eyes popped up across the screen. The ID read “Cameron.”

  Not now. Joshua glanced across the restaurant to where Abdul was signing the check for his breakfast. Fighting to keep from looking in Joshua’s direction, he picked up his tablet and phone.

  Damn. Joshua fingered the button on his phone to reject the call. Picking up the book, he slid out of his seat and hurried across the restaurant to catch up to the author just as he went into the lobby.

  “Mr. Kochar …” Joshua called out to him. “Abdul Kochar?”

  A muscle-bound African-American threw out his arm to block Joshua’s access to the novelist. The bodyguard’s demeanor dared Joshua to move so much as a step closer to Abdul Kochar.

  The novelist stopped and turned to face Joshua.

  Joshua Thornton may have been approaching middle-age, but he still had the slender athletic build of a former military officer. His auburn ultra-short jawline beard and mustache were in contrast with the wavy silver hair that touched the top of the collar of his sweater.

  Holding up the back of the book for the author to see, Joshua compared the man standing before him to the author’s image on the back of the book.

  “I thought that was you,” Joshua said with a sheepish grin. “Excuse me. You must have seen me staring at you while you were eating. I’ve been reading your novel.” He showed him the book. “My wife gave it to me for Christmas and I have to admit, I haven�
��t been able to put it down.” He thrust the book at the author. “Would you mind autographing it for me?”

  Abdul Kochar stared wide-eyed at him long enough for Joshua to worry that the author would lose his nerve and bolt.

  “Just your name and the date will do,” Joshua urged him.

  “It is okay, Frederick,” the novelist ordered the bodyguard to allow Joshua through.

  Patting the pockets in his own jacket, Joshua stepped forward. “I’m afraid I don’t have a pen on me. Do you?”

  With a stiff movement, Abdul reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and took out a blue and gold pen. After opening the book to the first page, Joshua handed it to him. Abdul quickly scribbled his name before handing the book back to him. In the process, the author dropped the pen to the floor. “I am so sorry. Clumsy of me.”

  “No problem,” Joshua said. “Let me.” Book in hand, he knelt down to the floor, swept the pen into the book, and snapped it shut. At the same time, and with a quick jerk of his right arm, a pen identical to the one that the author had used to sign the novel slipped into his palm. The transfer took only a matter of seconds. Then, Joshua stood up and handed the duplicate pen to the author. “Thank you so much, Mr. Kochar. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “You are most welcome, sir.” Quickly, the novelist turned on his heels. With his bodyguard by his side, he hurried across the lobby toward the elevators.

  Clutching the book shut to prevent losing his prize, Joshua returned to the restaurant to find that his empty plate was gone. The check rested next to the cell phone and tablet he had left behind in his hurry to catch up to the author.

  After glancing around to ensure he was not being watched, he slipped the pen into the inside breast pocket of his jacket.

  “What’s up?”

  Joshua jumped when he heard the voice behind him, which was followed by a firm clasp on his shoulder. After realizing that it was only his seventeen-year-old son, Donny, he let out his breath. “Why do you have to always sneak up on me?”