Deadly Target (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 6)

by Renee Pawlish

  Deadly Target

  Detective Sarah Spillman Mysteries Book 6

  Renée Pawlish

  Contents

  A Note from the author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Renée’s Bookshelf

  A Sarah Spillman Mystery

  First Digital Edition published by Creative Cat Press

  copyright 2021 by Renée Pawlish

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people.

  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your personal use only, then you should return this copy to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  A Note from the author

  I have exercised some creative license in bending settings and law-enforcement agencies to the whims of the story. This is, after all, a work of fiction. Any similarities between characters in this novel and real persons is strictly coincidental.

  Chapter One

  He crouched in the back seat, peered through the tinted glass, and watched the people across Severn Place. A man in shorts and a gray hoodie walked north with a long stride, sunglasses on even though it was already dusk. Farther down the street, a woman in jeans and a red coat held a phone to her ear as she talked. He studied her through the scope. The coat seemed a bit much, even though it was mid-March and cool. He carefully shifted. The car was hot and stuffy, with that new-car smell. He wiped sweat from his brow. Another woman in a dark jacket strolled south down the sidewalk, a contented look on her face.

  He glanced to the windshield and assured himself no one else was around, no one watching the rented car. He was down low, and he was certain no one could see him, and certainly not his rifle. He turned to the street again. A few blocks down, the traffic light turned green. Several cars passed by as he watched.

  The woman in the dark jacket approached the man in the hoodie. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, but they didn’t acknowledge one another. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but the woman looked calm, just as calm as he was in the back seat of the car. He glanced over the scope to the other woman. She’d quit talking on her phone, and had put it back in her pocket. But no sooner had she done that than she pulled it out again, swiped the screen, and began talking again. The man was now at the corner, and he paused as a car turned in front of him and disappeared. The man with the rifle waited, too. Severn Place was clear, no cars. The two women passed by each other without a word. The woman in the dark jacket slowed down.

  It was time. He had more to do. His heart kept a slow, steady beat as he reached out and hit a button on the car door. His window slid silently down. He looked out through all the other tinted windows and the windshield, verified again that no one else was around. He could hear sounds of traffic, but no cars were in his line of sight. He squinted into the scope and found his target, his finger on the trigger. He drew in a breath, held it, and gently pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Two

  I could finally breathe.

  As I walked down Grape Street, near my house, I thought about the last week or so. I’d been busy with the DA, working to build a case against a man who’d assassinated three judges, and I’d also just wrapped up a difficult investigation where a cheating philanderer, Pete Olinger, had murdered a woman he’d been seeing behind his wife’s back. It had been a convoluted case that had taken a month before we’d figured out Olinger was the killer. However, in a bit of a twist, his wife had been angry that we’d caught him, seemingly not at all upset that he’d cheated on her, nor that he’d killed the other woman. The wife had viewed her as an inconvenience, and when she was out of the way, the wife had been pleased. She had her husband back, and that’s all she wanted. Olinger was now in jail, awaiting trial.

  I shook my head as I turned onto Severn Place. At the end of the block, I saw a man in a hoodie approaching with his head down. Behind him was a woman in a red coat. I barely paid them any attention. My mind was still on Olinger. He had been so arrogant, so sure of himself. From the moment I’d first talked to him, he’d bothered me, his answers not quite right. But at the time I still hadn’t seen him as a killer. He was just an acquaintance of the victim. The case had gone cold. Then my partners, Ernie Moore and Roland “Spats” Youngfield, and I had caught a break, and we’d circled back to Pete. Then his lies had unraveled, and he’d finally confessed to killing the woman. I smiled subtly at that. Even the perfect criminals sometimes tripped themselves up.

  I took in a cool breath of air. I’d had a few days off rotation, time to catch up on some sleep. I felt the phone in my pocket. I was on call now, and it was just a matter of time before the phone would ring and a new investigation would begin. Until then, I was enjoying the dusk, the beautiful spring evening.

  Several cars roared by on Severn. I passed by the man with the hoodie and shorts. He looked away, and I kept walking as I bundled my jacket around me. A little too cool for shorts, I thought. I scrunched my neck down into my coat and walked on. My mind went to Harry, my fiancé. That brought a small smile, and warmed my heart. A contented feeling flowed through me. Harry and I had been together for over ten years, and I’d finally gotten over my marriage phobia. Last December, after I’d wrapped up the investigation of the three murdered judges, Harry and I had almost simultaneously proposed to each other. It had been an amusing evening, because a few weeks earlier, I had inadvertently blown his attempt at a proposal, and I had been making up for that faux paus with a proposal of my own. That was me, a take-charge kind of woman. I felt the ring on my finger. It was weird to think of him as my fiancé after so many years of us just being a couple. But I absolutely loved it. We were both more than ready.

  The woman in the heavy coat approached and I stepped to the side. She was talking loudly on her phone. But my mind was on Harry, and I barely noticed her side of the conversation. He and I were planning a June wedding, a small affair with just his family and mine, with a small reception in our back yard. We have some work to do, I thought. Our yard, although beautiful with flowers and tall trees that would provide shade, would need some work. We would probably have to hire a gardener, as my work as a homicide detective, and his as the president of a tech company, kept us both very busy.

 
; It suddenly seemed quiet, no traffic. I no longer heard the woman talking on her phone. I picked up my pace. Harry would be home soon, and I’d promised I’d have dinner ready. Then my phone rang. Would it be him, telling me he’d gotten home, or would it be that call from the station, dreaded but expected, with another murder to investigate? I did not want to get called away from dinner. I slowed and put my hand in my pocket, where my phone vibrated against my thigh. I was about to pull it from my pocket when something struck me with such force, it took my breath away. I gasped for air and sank to the ground. I had a fleeting thought about Harry, and then everything went dark.

  Chapter Three

  Detective Ernie Moore emerged from Charlie’s, a little restaurant tucked between a laundromat and a secondhand furniture store on Sixth Avenue, a little east of downtown Denver. The evening was cool, with a hint of spring. He frowned as he looked up and down the street. The traffic passed by in spurts, and a few cars slowed as they saw the unusual activity on the sidewalk.

  “Why the hell isn’t she answering?” he muttered as he hitched up his slacks.

  Then he glanced at his watch. Six o’clock. He had called his lead investigator, Detective Sarah Spillman, over a half-hour ago, and she still hadn’t returned his call. Ernie ran a hand over his face and looked toward the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Between a couple of nondescript screens put up to block prying eyes, his other partner, Spats, was bent down, studying the body of a man lying on the ground. A small pool of blood spread out on the sidewalk. Spats was talking to Jack Jamison, the Denver County Medical Examiner. Both were nodding their heads as they studied the body.

  Ernie put his hands on his hips and stared at a few people gawking at one end of the block. A woman craned her head to see, but was held back by a uniformed officer who had been called to the scene. More officers were inside the restaurant, interviewing the restaurant workers and those who had been dining when the shooting had occurred. Ernie gnawed his lip and checked his phone again. Still nothing from Sarah. He looked back toward the body. Spats stood up, brushed off a tiny bit of dirt from his pristine slacks, and walked over to Ernie.

  “I’ve called Sarah three times now, and she hasn’t picked up,” Ernie said. “She knows she’s on rotation, and she’s always good about answering.”

  Spats twisted up his mouth and subconsciously adjusted his tie. He needn’t have done it. As usual, his dark suit was immaculate. Ernie had long since given up being self-conscious about his own attire when he was around Spats. At one time, Ernie had felt underdressed alongside his partner, but he’d never been one to spend a lot on clothes. And with a wife and two teenage daughters, the money always seemed to be needed elsewhere. His brown standby suit was just fine.

  “Maybe she got sidetracked with something. I’m sure she’ll call.” Spats tipped his head at the restaurant entrance. “What have you got?”

  Ernie drew in a breath. “Some officers are still working on interviews, but so far nobody in the restaurant saw anything. It’s a Monday night, not that crowded. I talked to the manager. She’s pretty shook up. The victim’s Cody Sheen. He’s twenty-one, works as a part-time waiter and attends Metro State University. Cody had come out for a quick smoke, and when he didn’t return, the manager came to look for him.” He pointed at the body. “She found that. She checked for a pulse, even though she thought he was dead. Then she called 911, and she kept people away from the body.”

  “Nobody driving by thought to stop?”

  “No.” Ernie shook his head. “Everyone’s too busy.” He pointed toward the entrance. “There’s a camera near the door. We’ll check the video to see if we can spot the shooter.”

  Spats wiped imaginary dirt from his hands. “Looks like the victim died of a single gunshot wound to the chest. A nice, clean shot. Quick. That’s what Jamison said.”

  “Caliber?”

  “Maybe a .22. Hard to say for sure.”

  Ernie reached into his coat pocket for a cigar that wasn’t there. He was trying to quit, so he didn’t have any with him. He swore softly.

  “Need a cigar?” Spats asked drolly.

  “Shut up. They help me think,” Ernie shot back.

  Spats showed his palms. “Whoa, I was kidding.”

  “Eh … I know, I know,” Ernie said.

  “Why are you so extra irritable this evening?”

  Ernie glanced at his phone. “I still haven’t heard from Sarah.”

  “She must’ve gotten held up somewhere,” Spats said.

  “I don’t know. It’s just not like her.” Ernie frowned. “So the killer used a rifle?”

  Spats nodded. “It looks like it.”

  They walked over to Jamison, who was still kneeling down near the body. He glanced up at them.

  “Not much to see.” Jamison’s voice was calm and direct. “The bullet entered the front, left of center, and exited through his back.” He pointed toward the restaurant wall. “The bullet probably hit back there somewhere and ricocheted. Who knows where it might be.”

  “Anything else?” Ernie asked.

  Jamison shrugged. “I’ll know more when I get him on the slab.”

  Ernie rubbed a hand across his chin. That was typical Jamison. He wouldn’t make any conclusions; he’d just give them the facts, both now and at the autopsy. Ernie and Spats watched a crime-scene tech for a moment as he collected and labeled anything he found on the ground near the body.

  “We took Cody’s cell phone,” Spats said. “The techs will take it to the station, and once we can get into it, we’ll see what all he had on his phone. Of course, I’ll get a warrant for his phone records as well.”

  Ernie nodded, then turned to face the street. He narrowed his eyes and thought for a moment. He almost reached for the nonexistent cigar, but caught himself. “Based on the way the body is lying, the kid was probably standing about like this.” He took a stance, feet spread apart. “If the bullet enters here,” he put a finger to his chest, then looked to the street, “where was the shooter?”

  Spats looked toward a slew of cars that rushed by. “A drive-by shooting? Someone in the passenger seat, takes a shot at a man standing on the sidewalk?”

  Ernie chewed on that for a second as he scanned up and down Sixth Avenue. He studied the buildings across the street: a liquor store and a used clothing store. Two doors down from them was an abandoned café in a tiny red-brick building, with boarded-up windows. Ernie narrowed his eyes.

  Spats answered his own question. “I can’t see someone taking a shot with a rifle from a moving car. What do you think?”

  “That’s a good question,” Ernie muttered as he continued to stare at the abandoned café. “Hold on a minute.”

  Jamison called to Spats, who went over to talk to him. Ernie waited for cars to pass by on Sixth, then he hurried across the street. He walked down the sidewalk to the empty brick building. A “For Rent” sign hung in a large window next to the entrance. He tried the front door, but it was locked. He stared at the knob, then cupped his hands and peered in the window. An old Formica table sat in a big open room, a metal chair nearby. A long counter stretched across the back of the old café. Ernie moved to the left of the door and looked in another window. Then he stopped. The sliding window was cracked open. Ernie spun around and stared back to Charlie’s. Even with a car parked on the street near the restaurant, a shooter would have had a clear view of the entrance from here. An ambulance pulled up and parked near the corner, its engine rumbling. Two EMTs got out and rolled a gurney toward the body. Spats was still talking to Jamison as the EMTs placed the body on the gurney. Ernie watched until they loaded the gurney into the ambulance, then he hurried past the café and around the side of the building to the alley. The traffic noise from Sixth Avenue was an almost constant hum. His senses were alert as he walked cautiously down the alley until he reached the back of the empty café. He sidled up to the door. A padlock on the door had been broken, the screws pulled from the wooden door. The padlock hung usel
essly from a metal hasp. He squinted at the doorknob. Was he seeing scratches on it? He took latex gloves from his pocket, donned them, then carefully tried the knob.

  The door opened.

  He pushed the door open a foot. Nothing happened. He pulled his gun from his holster, held it up, and listened. Blood pumped, a thumping in his ears. No noise came from inside the café, so he poked his head inside and glanced around. A small kitchen was dimly lit. A sink was in the corner, an old stove against one wall. The place was deserted.

  He let his eyes adjust to the gloom before stepping into the room. The street sounds faded. A musty, stale smell hit him. He crossed to an open doorway and peeked into the main room. He looked, but didn’t see anyone crouched behind the counter or anywhere near the lone table. He holstered his gun, took out his phone, and used its flashlight to light up the room. A thin layer of dust covered the linoleum floor. He bent down with the flashlight. Some of the dust had been recently disturbed. He moved quietly around the counter and shined the light down. He couldn’t make out any clear footprints, so he walked over to the window and looked across the street to Charlie’s.