Okay, think. In addition to the crew sitting down for an after-flight meal, she'd seen Claire McDermott subbing for the bartender with her co-owner two sisters on hand waitressing. Hadn't one of them even dated Gary briefly? Which one?
She would call David Reis the minute she got home and tell him what little she could recall. Although he'd most certainly already interviewed everyone there that night, which made her feel exposed all over again, thinking of so many of her military friends knowing the details.
Damn it, she hadn't done anything wrong—that she knew of. She gave up recapturing the moment in the churning water and shifted her focus back to Carson, his face tipped upward to... Gauge the sail? The sun? Simply feel the wind?
She couldn't ignore the appeal of his strong features, the way his broad shoulders and lean h*ps turned her on and inside out all at once. What was it about him that called to her at a time when she shouldn't have been able to think about anything but the blind panic of clearing her name? He was good-looking, sure, in a preppy privileged kind of way that had never snagged her interest before she'd seen him for the first time and suddenly that had become her type for forever after, even if everyone else fell short.
As if sensing her stare, Carson looked down and over at her. His eyes narrowed. "What's with the frown, lady? Quit thinking so hard. Get back to your daydreaming."
She pulled a breezy salute. "Aye-aye, Major. Or would that be Captain since we're on your ship?"
"Either's fine as long as you smile."
Good advice, she knew. And wouldn't it be nice to settle into the circle of his arms, her back against his chest as they sailed the day away? Just the wind and sun and feel of his muscled chest.
Unbidden and unwelcome, a snippet from the memory flashed, of Gary's chest, that favored belt buckle of his biting into her spine....
Her mind hitched on the notion of Gary's belt, the one he'd been wearing the night he'd died. Or had he? She could swear there hadn't been a belt in his pants down around his ankles and she couldn't recall the security police having found one when they looked around the room while questioning her.
Blinking out of the fractured memory and into the streaming sunlight, she couldn't remember any more from that night. But she had one important question to answer.
Where was Gary's belt?
Chapter 8
Where was his head?
Sure as hell not in the job.
After a boring commander's lunch, Carson tossed his leather jacket over the brass anchor peg in his office on his last Monday as commander. The rest of the squadron was due back Friday and he could resume his regular job as the number two dude. He would be flying more again, but Nikki would have her dad back in town to check on her until Reis got his head out of his butt and figured out what happened to Owens.
And what would J.T. have to say about the time Carson had been spending with Nikki?
Their day sailing together had been good. Damn good, but he wanted to make sure he was a better man now so he didn't screw up his life again, or more importantly, didn't do anything to harm hers.
Tucking around his desk, he hooked a boot in the chair to roll it back while snagging a stack of performance reports off the top of his file cabinet. At least her memory was starting to trickle back. A missing belt wasn't much, yet remembering anything was a hopeful sign she might recall more. But if those memories revealed she'd killed Owens? Carson was certain she would have only done so in self-defense, which would put her in the clear legally.
All of which still didn't help him decide how to handle the next five days with Nikki.
He reached for the phone to check in with Reis about the security camera footage of the high school parking lot, only to be stopped short by a tap on the open office door. He glanced over to find Captain Nola Seabrook standing in the entryway. "What can I do for you?"
"Sir, I need to schedule a tactics class." The crisp blond officer stood at attention, even though Carson ran a more relaxed squadron than other commanders. "Is Wednesday at fourteen-hundred okay?"
"Wednesday?" He flipped though his day planner. "Uh... no. I've already scheduled confession for that time."
"Confession?"
"Flight safety meeting." He lapsed into his best Irish accent. "It's always better for the flyers to confess than have their sins pointed out by the bishop."
Laughing, she lost the starch in her spine. "Fair enough. How about we schedule the tactics meeting to follow when they're all softened up?"
"Roger." He nodded. "Spread the word."
Pivoting away, she ran smack into another person already waiting. Seabrook laughed. "Guess we need to take a number to talk with the major today."
"Apparently so," answered his surprise visitor—Vic Jansen.
What was he doing here? Was it family business since his sister was married to one of the deployed flyers? Or personal, since Vic belonged to A.A., too.