Free The General's Daughter by Nelson DeMille Page B

gotten the drop on a soldier who was alert, bright, armed, and ready to shoot.”
    She nodded, then said as if to herself, “I have considered what you are suggesting. It’s not uncommon for a female officer
     to lead two lives—public rectitude and private… whatever. But I’ve also seen women, rape victims, married and single, who
     led exemplary private lives and who wound up as victims by pure chance. I’ve also seen women who lived on the jagged edge,
     but whose rape had not a thing to do with their promiscuity or the crazies they hung out with. Again, it was pure chance.”
    “That’s a possibility, and I don’t discount it.”
    “And don’t be judgmental, Paul.”
    “I’m not. I’m no saint. How about you?”
    “You know better than to ask.” She walked over to where I was standing and put her hand on my shoulder, which sort of took
     me by surprise. She said, “Can we do this? I mean together? Are we going to screw this up?”
    “No. We’re going to solve it.”
    Cynthia poked her finger in my stomach, sort of like I needed a punctuation mark for that sentence. She turned and walked
     back to Ann Campbell’s desk.
    I turned my attention back to the wall and noticed now a framed commendation from the American Red Cross in appreciation for
     her work on a blood donor drive, another commendation from a local hospital thanking her for her work with seriously ill children,
     and a teaching certificate from a literacy volunteer organization. Where did this woman find the time to do all that, plus
     her regular job, plus volunteering for extra duty, plus the mandatory social side of Army life, plus have a private life?
     Could it be, I wondered, that this extraordinarily beautiful woman
had
no private life? Could I be so far off base that I wasn’t even in the ballpark?
    Cynthia announced, “Here’s her address book.”
    “That reminds me. Did you get my Christmas card? Where are you living these days?”
    “Look, Paul, I’m sure your buddies at headquarters have snooped through my file for you and told you everything about me in
     the past year.”
    “I wouldn’t do that, Cynthia. It’s not ethical or professional.”
    She glanced at me. “Sorry.” She put the address book in her handbag, went over to the telephone answering machine, and pushed
     the play button.
    A voice said, “Ann, this is Colonel Fowler. You were supposed to stop by the general’s house this morning after you got off
     duty.” The colonel sounded brusque. He continued, “Mrs. Campbell prepared breakfast for you. Well, you’re probably sleeping
     now. Please call the general when you get up, or call Mrs. Campbell.” He hung up.
    I said, “Maybe she killed herself. I would.”
    Cynthia commented, “It certainly couldn’t be easy being a general’s daughter. Who is Colonel Fowler?”
    “I think he’s the post adjutant.” I asked Cynthia, “How did that message sound to you?”
    “Official. The tone suggested some familiarity, but no particular warmth. As if he was just doing his duty by calling his
     boss’s forgetful daughter, whom he outranks, but who is nevertheless the boss’s daughter. How did it sound to you?”
    I thought a moment and replied, “It sounded made up.”
    “Oh… like a cover call?”
    I pushed the play button again, and we listened. I said, “Maybe I’m starting to imagine things.”
    “Maybe not.”
    I picked up the phone and dialed the provost marshal’s office. Colonel Kent was in and I got him on the line. “We are still
     at the deceased’s house,” I informed him. “Have you spoken to the general yet?”
    “No… I haven’t… I’m waiting for the chaplain…”
    “Bill, this thing will be all over post in a matter of hours. Inform the deceased’s family. And no form letters or telegrams.”
    “Look, Paul, I’m up to my ass in alligators with this thing, and I called the post chaplain and he’s on his way here—”
    “Fine. Did you get her office