Deadly Aim

by Patricia H. Rushford

  “I’d rather not wait.” Angel clasped her hands. She didn’t appreciate the way he switched topics and kept her on edge.

  “He’s afraid you’ll come after him next. You and your henchmen.”

  “Henchmen?” Angel almost choked on her coffee.

  “That’s the word he used. He told me that he and Dixon were talking strategy. They’d had dinner and drinks, and he left around 10:30. They were concerned about pushing ahead on the civil suit they were filing against you and were worried about repercussions from you. He said he was afraid something like this would happen. He’s worried you’ll come after him next.”

  “He’s afraid of me? If this wasn’t so scary, it would be funny.”

  “It isn’t just you he’s afraid of, Angel. It’s that white supremacist group you’re so buddy-buddy with.”

  Angel groaned. “You can’t be serious. He actually said that?”

  “He did.” The corner of Callen’s mouth twitched slightly. Apparently he wasn’t taking the comments too seriously.

  Their breakfasts came. Angel busied herself with smashing her eggs into her hash browns and sprinkling on salt and pepper. “Broadman is covering his bases, isn’t he?” She set her fork down without taking a bite.

  “I don’t trust him.” Callen spoke between bites. “He’s an opportunist, but I doubt he killed Dixon. The reverend was helping Billy’s family raise money for legal expenses.”

  Angel pushed her plate to the side. With the way her stomach was feeling at the moment, eating eggs would not be a good idea.

  “I hate to break it to you, Angel, but Broadman had no reason to want Dixon dead.” He paused to take a drink of coffee, then leveled his green gaze on her.

  “Joe seems to think I have motive. Do you think so too?”

  “What I think doesn’t matter. Truth is, I can’t rule anyone out at this point. The crime lab hasn’t sorted through all the evidence yet.”

  Angel felt herself pale under his scrutiny. She had seriously underestimated Callen Riley. He wasn’t only someone to be reckoned with, he was just plain dangerous. She twisted the napkin still lying on her lap. How far would the authorities go to find the real killer? Maybe not far enough. She made a good scapegoat and was getting a reputation for being a renegade cop with an attitude, one whose courage was being touted by white supremacists. As if she didn’t have enough trouble already with the shooting incident.

  Callen was under the same pressure as Joe to settle things quickly. The detective had encouraged her, said he believed her—but could she trust him?

  Callen set down his coffee. “Angel, relax.” His gaze softened as he spoke. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, and I have no doubt your name will be cleared on all fronts.”

  Angel wished she could believe him.

  She turned when she heard a familiar voice behind her. “Look who’s here!” Tim patted her shoulder and kissed her cheek.

  “Morning, Angel.” Rachael scooted into the seat next to her. “I thought you might need me.” Glancing at Callen she added, “You haven’t been telling this guy anything that might be incriminating, have you?” She grinned at him, dimples sinking deeper than usual.

  “I take it you two know each other,” Angel said, trying to ignore a twinge of jealousy.

  “Unfortunately,” they answered in unison.

  Rachael laughed again. “Tim, this is Callen Riley with the Oregon State Police. Tim is Angel’s brother.”

  The two men shook hands. Tim settled into one of the empty chairs.

  “Callen and I met a few months ago in court,” Rachael said. “So, Riley, what brings you to Sunset Cove?”

  “I just moved here.”

  “Really?” Rachael beamed at him.

  “Yep.”

  “Hmm.” Rachael nodded. “And did you sell your house in Portland?”

  Callen went quiet, and Angel thought she saw a flash of pain in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry.” Rachael pinched her lips together. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No—I’m being overly sensitive.” Looking at Angel and then Tim, he said, “My wife died a couple years ago, and selling the house has been hard.”

  “I’m sorry.” Angel could almost feel the depth of his grief. More than anything she wanted to offer comfort, but didn’t.

  “Yeah.” His lips formed a thin line. “Me too.”

  Rachael must have felt their discomfort; she changed the subject. “Are they keeping you busy down here?” she asked.

  “Are you kidding? Besides all the stuff going on in Sunset Cove, I’ve been working the Kelsey case.”

  Angel stared at him. “I didn’t know that.”

  He shrugged. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Angel.”

  She almost expected him to say something about remedying that, but he didn’t.

  Peter and Paul came in then and pulled up chairs. Before sitting down, Paul asked, “Anyone want anything?”

  “Yeah,” Angel said. “A ticket to South America.”

  “I could probably arrange that.” Paul glanced at Callen and added, “But under the circumstances, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Callen chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know. If you left the country, Angel, I’d just have to follow you.” His grin told her he wouldn’t mind that at all.

  Paul caught a waitress who took the newcomers’ orders and brought coffees.

  “What’s going on?” Angel asked. “Have you all decided to do an intervention and put me out of my misery?”

  Peter chuckled. “In a sense. We decided you needed some support. We’re here to do that.”

  “We know you’re innocent,” Tim said. “According to the autopsy report, Dixon was probably cut by someone as tall as he was, and because of the pressure and depth of the cut, they figure it was a guy.”

  “So I heard.” Callen had said the same thing earlier.

  Callen sighed. “And you have access to the autopsy report because...?”

  “Friends.” Tim grinned. “Don’t worry, we won’t say anything outside this group.”

  “It’s a small town,” Rachael reminded him. “Almost impossible to keep a secret.”

  Callen shook his head.

  “I don’t know.” Rachael picked up her coffee and took a sip. “The DA might argue that Angel could’ve dropped the guy then cut his throat.”

  “Gee, thanks. I thought you were on my side.” Angel set her lukewarm coffee aside.

  “I am. Just being practical.” Rachael turned to look at her. “You’re a police officer and you’re in great shape. I bet you’ve taken down more than one guy.”

  Angel shrugged, her gaze darting to Callen’s again. He was looking at something outside, obviously deep in thought. He glanced at his watch and shoved his chair back. “Much as I’d like to stay and chat, I have a commitment in Portland this afternoon.”

  Angel watched him go, not quite sure what to think. Her reverie was interrupted a moment later when the waitress came and set the new orders on the table.

  “What’s wrong, Angel?” Rachael slathered Marionberry jam on her toast.

  “Nothing, it’s just that I don’t know how to read that guy.”

  “Callen?” Rachael tipped her head. “Why?”

  “He says he thinks I’m innocent, then he says he can’t rule out anyone. He confuses me.”

  “You haven’t said anything that might be incriminating, have you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Rachael took hold of Angel’s arm. “There is something you should know about Callen.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, I’m not saying he isn’t a nice guy, but you need to watch what you say around him. He can be very charming, and he’s good at getting people to talk to him, which makes him a very good cop.”

  “Did you ever go out with him?” Angel drew a circle in the condensation on the side of her glass.

  “No, we’re just friends.” Rachael took another s
ip of coffee. “He’s still grieving over his wife. He told me he wasn’t interested in getting involved with anyone.” She chewed on her lip for a moment. “I talked to the medical examiner this morning about Billy’s autopsy.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. I told him what you’d said about firing only one of the shots. And I asked him about the possibility of a second shooter.”

  Angel leaned forward. “And...?”

  “He agreed that might be possible because of the trajectory of the bullets. One shot went into Billy’s right shoulder.” She held her arm up and crooked her elbow, making a gun out of her thumb and forefinger. “And it came from this angle.” She pointed down.

  “That’s right.” Angel moved her hand slightly. “I was four, maybe five steps above him—six feet away at the most.”

  “Another shot went into his stomach. And a third into his chest. That’s the bullet that actually killed him. The shots to his chest and stomach were fired from more than ten feet away and went in at a different angle.”

  “Are they sure?”

  “That’s what I was told.”

  Angel watched the waitress fill their coffees. Relief washed through her. “I was right, then?”

  “It looks that way.” But Rachael didn’t look as thrilled as she should have.

  “That’s good news, isn’t it?” Tim asked.

  “Well, maybe,” Rachael hedged. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t prove she didn’t fire all three shots. She could have fired as she came down the steps toward him.”

  “But I didn’t.” She felt her hope sink. Without any concrete evidence, there would be no proof of her story.

  Rachael nodded. “The medical examiner says it’s possible that Billy was shot by two different people, but without the actual bullets and Angel’s duty gun and magazine, there’s no way of knowing for sure.”

  “Say there was another shooter,” Tim said. “It stands to reason that whoever it was would want to get rid of any evidence that implicated him.”

  “Yes, but who?” Angel asked. “Billy and I were the only ones in the building until the other officers got there.” Once again the image of her father emerged, and again she shook off the thought.

  “Maybe you weren’t. It’s a big place. Suppose someone was there, like one of the gang members?” Tim pressed back in his chair to let the waitress take his empty plate. Before it disappeared, Angel snagged a slice of toast.

  “You may have something there, big brother.” She felt the fog lifting for the first time in days. The possibility of Billy being shot by a gang member seemed plausible. “Maybe when he saw that Billy had been caught, he killed him to keep him from talking.”

  “Wouldn’t you have known if someone was there?” Rachael patted her lips with the napkin.

  “I don’t know. I was too intent on Billy. I remember being so shocked. I mean... his eyes and all the blood. I was too focused on him to notice anything else.” Angel spread the toast with jam and took a bite.

  Rachael studied the notepad she’d been writing on. “If Billy was shot by one of his buddies, wouldn’t someone close to the gang know about it?”

  “They probably do, but getting them to narc on a buddy is not going to happen.” Angel rubbed her neck to ease some of the stiffness. “I’ll mention that to Detective Riley. Also, Mike Rawlings has been working with some of the kids down at the youth center. He might have some contacts there.”

  Angel polished off the piece of toast, suddenly feeling ravenous. She was beginning to think that maybe there might be hope after all. She had been right all along about firing only once. Angel knew for certain she had been looking down at Billy and hadn’t moved until he went down—until all three shots had been fired. If someone had fired at him from more than ten feet, it hadn’t been her.

  Angel hadn’t fired the bullet that killed Billy. Someone else had—someone she needed to find in order to prove her innocence.

  Angel hitched a ride with Rachael to the hospital, where she had left Brandon’s car. From there she drove home and put in a call to Janet. She got an answering machine and realized the office was probably closed for the weekend. Disappointed, she hung up without leaving a message. Janet had told her to call anytime, but Angel didn’t want to bother her on her days off. Besides, this wasn’t exactly an emergency.

  Still, Angel wanted to undergo hypnosis again and let the memories come without restraint. Maybe she would remember the details more clearly. Had she heard someone in the warehouse? Had she sensed someone lurking in the shadows? Janet had told her that there was no guarantee she’d ever remember exactly what had taken place, but if there was a chance, she wanted to take it.

  She paced around her apartment for a while, feeling anxious. Maybe a run on the beach would help her relax. She always felt more at peace there than anywhere. Determined to do just that, she dressed in water-resistant sweats, went down the back steps of her apartment, and hurried along the path leading to the beach. The fog had lifted some, revealing thick, soppy clouds that leaked a steady mist. Her hair was already forming into damp ringlets.

  She ran her usual route and paused briefly to admire one of the houses that was being remodeled. She had enjoyed watching the restoration process of the aging beach house, glad someone had chosen to salvage it rather than tear it down. The house wasn’t elegant but looked homey and inviting. The exterior was a weathered gray, and the trim a spectacular shade of blue. The owner had good taste.

  Angel hoped to buy a house on the beach one day. She frowned, realizing she could have that and more with Brandon. But she wasn’t ready for a commitment now and wasn’t sure she ever would be.

  She sat down on a large piece of driftwood near the remodeled house. The beach was quiet here. No public access, and the misty fog kept tourists inside visiting galleries and gift shops. Letting her arms support her, she tipped her head back, shaking out the excess moisture in her hair.

  Dropping to the sand, she used the driftwood as a backrest, then closed her eyes and listened to the waves. “God, please help me to remember what really happened.” She focused on her breathing, like Janet had taught her, letting her mind drift to where it wanted.

  Images of the pharmacy came into focus—the quiet street, then the shattered window. She and Eric calling for backup and going inside, finding Mr. Bergman lying in a pool of blood. Spotting Billy, ordering him to drop his gun. Billy looking frightened and pretending like he was going to give up. He put his gun down. Two gang members rushed out and fired, pinning her down.

  Even in her relaxed state, Angel could feel the terror of those awful moments seep back into her bones. She wanted to stop.

  Go on.

  She took several deep breaths.

  You can do this, Angel. Keep going.

  She focused on relaxing the muscles in her neck and shoulders and breathing away the tightness in her chest. The three of them had escaped through the back of the pharmacy. Several minutes later Billy had ducked into the abandoned warehouse. She followed him and called out, looking around for the other gang members. The rear of the building was in shadows. She heard footsteps on the second floor and started up the steps. Billy barreled down them as though he were being chased. Had he seen something or someone who’d frightened him? Billy’s family had insisted he hadn’t been a gang member. Had the thieves found him in the pharmacy and forced him to go along with them? Had they been on the second floor waiting for her?

  Angel had yelled for him to stop, and he did, but then he raised his gun. She remembered hesitating. “I didn’t want to shoot,” she murmured. “But I had to.” She fired once, hitting him in the shoulder. “I was lowering my arm when the second two shots went off.”

  I lowered the gun. If she had fired those last two shots, wouldn’t they have been lower—to his legs?

  Angel opened her eyes. She hadn’t killed Billy, but who had? She stood and dusted off her backside, then started running back toward the apartment.

  Both times she�
�d confronted Billy, he’d acted frightened. She had assumed he was afraid of her—of being caught. But maybe that wasn’t it at all. Billy must’ve seen something or someone who had frightened him more than she had. Someone else must’ve been in that building, someone who had shot Billy and stolen the evidence to keep anyone from finding out.

  Angel paused at the base of the back stairs leading to her apartment and placed her hands on her knees to catch her breath. What did you see, Billy? What frightened you? Did the gang recruit you or just use you as a decoy?

  Angel pondered those questions while she showered, dried her hair, and got dressed. Sitting down with a cup of tea, she tried to assimilate the information she’d gotten from Rachael and from her own memories. Who had been in that building? Why would that person shoot Billy? She grabbed a pen and pad and began making notes.

  Why shoot Billy?

  Because he could ID the gang members, and they were afraid he’d talk.

  Angel frowned, remembering the body Callen had found behind the warehouse. J.J. Monroe had been shot at around 3:00 A.M., but his body hadn’t been found until later, after the incident with Billy. The body was still on the dock when Angel shot at Billy. Was there a connection?

  Had the gang members shot Billy and escaped through a rear entrance? As much as she wanted to believe that scenario, she didn’t think it likely. Angel doubted any of the gang members had access to the evidence locker keys—which left one of her coworkers as the suspect. Her father?

  “No way.” She tossed her pen and pad on the table. Maybe she could clarify matters by talking to Billy’s mother. She’d been wanting to offer her condolences, and this was as good a time as any.

  Fifteen minutes later she arrived at Mavis Hartwell’s home, an older two-story badly in need of paint. The yard, however, had been nicely maintained. Impatiens lined both sides of the walk that led from the sidewalk to the porch. Two huge rhododendrons flanked the front steps, and buds were already opening to reveal deep red blossoms. A small boy who’d been sitting on the top step jumped up and ran into the house.

  Mavis Hartwell came to the door, eyeing Angel warily.