Kill Shot

by Susan Sleeman

  Max gave a firm shake of his head. “Not from us. Not with a deadly shooter running free. We don’t have time to babysit. I’ll try to get a local to take on her detail.”

  “What are the odds of that with the way city budgets are cut to the bare minimums?” Shane asked.

  “I have an idea about that, but everyone will have to agree,” Rick said, not believing what he planned to say.

  “We’re listening,” Max said.

  “My parents’ house is about as secure as Fort Knox, and I thought she could stay there.”

  Max shrugged. “Go ahead and arrange that if you want, but I don’t see why we all need to weigh in.”

  Uncertainty plagued Rick, something foreign to him. “If we all stay there, too, we can take turns keeping an eye out for her safety. And at the same time, we can watch for signs that she’s connected to the shooter.”

  Max eyed him. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for all of us to be cramped in a house for the duration. We need some alone time, too.”

  “We won’t be cramped. The house is twelve thousand square feet with eight bedrooms.”

  “Seriously?” Shane’s tone rose. “Your parents must be loaded.”

  Rick didn’t respond, as it went without saying. “There’s a pool, tennis courts. Theater. An excellent cook. So staying there won’t be a hardship.” For anyone but me.

  Kaci grinned. “As long as they have Wi-Fi, you can count me in.”

  “With those amenities, I’d be a fool to say no,” Shane said. “Though the Wi-Fi is optional.”

  “Then it sounds like a plan,” Max said.

  Rick nodded. “I’ll check with Brynn, then call my mother to make arrangements and text everyone the address.”

  “You think your mom will agree to a bunch of people hanging out at her place?” Shane asked.

  “She’ll agree.” No question about that. She’d do just about anything to see him for the first time since he’d taken off on his eighteenth birthday.

  Chapter 12

  Olivia looked up to see Agent Cannon approaching the outside stairway where she waited for instructions on her next move. His steps were quick and decisive, and he soon stopped in front of her. She couldn’t miss his narrowed eyes and his pressed-together lips. Great. He had more bad news to share. Didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that.

  He squatted down, closer than she’d like when she was all teary-eyed and emotional and might reach out to him. She expected an intense locking of gazes, but he stared over her shoulder. Right. The news was so bad he couldn’t look at her.

  Could she take any more?

  She lowered her head to her knees and practiced the deep breathing exercises she taught her clients to use when life overwhelmed them.

  He sucked in a sharp breath and settled on the step next to her. His leg touched hers, the heat warming her as much as warning her that he sat far too close for her comfort.

  “How are you coping?” His soft and gentle tone was as warm as the touch of his leg and totally out of character for the man she’d seen this far.

  Not good. She scooted away. She felt him watching her, but if she looked at him and saw his pity or concern she really would fall apart. “I’ve been better.”

  “Like I said before, you’re far stronger than you’re giving yourself credit for, Doc. You’ll come out the other side of this just fine.”

  She twisted her hands together. “Are you sure you’re not the psychologist here?”

  “Me? A shrink? No way.”

  “Guess that would be a nightmare job for you.”

  “Besides the fact that it involves sitting inside all day, I wouldn’t have the patience for such a job. But this isn’t about me. I want to talk about your safety.”

  Safety? “You think the shooter will try again?”

  “Yes.”

  A single word, one that had the power to make her lose control of her emotions if she let it. Really lose it, as she had the night her father died alone in his car.

  “Might a disgruntled client be behind this?” he asked.

  She finally met his gaze and, thankfully, found a neutral expression. “Sounds like you don’t think the shooting is related to Ace’s death.”

  “The bullet that was just fired is a smaller caliber than the one that killed Ace. Could be a different shooter or the same shooter with a different weapon. We don’t know, so we’ll investigate all options.”

  “That does make you think, doesn’t it?” She sighed. “I’d have to be a very bad psychologist if I didn’t notice that one of my clients wanted to kill me.”

  “Still, it would be a good idea to review all of your cases.”

  “With the police and your team swarming the area, I’ll have to cancel my appointments anyway, so I can get started on that right away.” She not only wanted to help figure out if the shooting was related to her practice, she was also thankful for something to keep her mind occupied.

  He cleared his throat, and her defenses shot up in preparation for his next comment.

  “There could also be a connection to your identity theft.”

  “My theft?” She swiveled to face him. “But why? The hacker already has all my money. Why kill me?”

  “The hacker could be afraid you’re onto him, he’ll be arrested, and you’ll testify against him.”

  “But the police told me that most identity theft is perpetrated by faceless hackers in other countries.”

  “That’s true in many cases, but not all. It could be someone you know, and that’s the connection we need to focus on.”

  “No.” She shook her head hard. “I don’t believe it. It’s not someone I know. The people in my life wouldn’t steal my money. Let me help support them, yes. Steal my money, no. I told the police as much, and I know they checked it out because they talked to my family and friends.”

  “We’ll have to dig deeper, so be aware that an agent will be pursuing the theft, and that could mean interviewing them again.”

  She sighed. “I hate that more people have to suffer because of my personal issues.”

  “It can’t be helped.” He braced his legs on the step, the muscles in his thighs coiled and ready, as if he thought he’d need to spring to his feet. “What about Ace? Anyone in his life who might blame you for his death? Maybe think you had a part in it and want to get revenge?”

  “Like I said, he doesn’t have any friends that I know of. I imagine he has buddies from his military days, but he didn’t mention keeping in touch with anyone. Besides, they wouldn’t know about his death yet anyway, right? Unless his mother contacted them.”

  “Agent Erwin talked to her yesterday, and she mentioned letting extended family know.” He met her gaze. “In any event, until we can figure out who took the shot at you, I want to put you in protective custody.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. “What exactly would that entail?”

  “Usually it means a safe house and an officer or agent on duty 24/7, but in this case I think it would be best if you stayed at my parents’ house.”

  “Your parents?” She gaped at him. “Why on earth would you want me to stay there?”

  He held up a hand. “I’m not explaining very well. They have a large compound in Buckhead with state-of-the-art security that will ensure no one can get to you. My team will also stay there, so we can look out for you.”

  “Me? Stay with you? In the same house?” she asked and didn’t have the presence of mind to question the fact that his family lived in one of Atlanta’s wealthiest neighborhoods.

  He winced. “I’m sorry that’s so repulsive to you.”

  “No, wait,” she said quickly to cover up having reacted as a woman, not a witness. She didn’t want him to think she had any personal thoughts about him. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just shocked. It feels like a personal connection, and I assume that as a professional you have to keep your distance. Won’t my staying with your parents blur the line?”

  “Not
for me. I don’t have a strong connection to my family, and the house is almost as big as a hotel, so it’s like staying in one.”

  Interesting. The psychologist in her wanted to ask for details, but his tight look of resolve showed that her questions wouldn’t be welcome.

  “It’s in your best interest to do this.” He’d gentled his tone again.

  “I’d be happy to comply, but I can’t go into hiding and forget about my sister and her kids.”

  “I knew you’d say that. My parents have a guesthouse on the property. Perhaps your sister would be open to staying there.”

  His generosity continued to surprise her. “Are you sure your parents will be up for hosting all of us?”

  “If it means I spend time with them, I’m pretty sure my mother will host a marauding army.” He fisted his hands.

  “Sounds like there’s some bad blood between you.”

  He quirked a brow and stared at her. “I get that you want me to tell you all about it. To lie down on your couch, so to speak, and let it all out, but leave it alone, Doc. For both our sakes.”

  “Okay,” she said, but telling a psychologist not to try to help was like telling an alcoholic like her dad not to drink. Still, she’d do her best.

  “You can review your files,” he said. “And then we can stop by your place to pick up a few things.”

  “Thank you for your consideration, Agent Cannon.”

  “It’s Rick,” he said matter-of-factly as he stood.

  This second indication that he was lowering his professional barrier left her gaping at him again.

  “Don’t waste time analyzing it, Doc. There’s nothing there. We’ll be spending a lot of time together, and ‘Agent Cannon’ will get tiring for both of us. That’s all.”

  She nodded, but didn’t get the sense that he meant what he said. It didn’t matter, though. As he’d said, they’d be spending time together, and she’d like to dispense with the formality, too.

  “Then call me Olivia.” She started to rise, but her legs wobbled, and she had to grab on to the railing to stay upright.

  Agent Cannon—Rick—slid a hand under her elbow. A flurry of emotions fired at his touch. She wanted to free her arm. To be strong and not need him or anyone else. Be the psychologist she’d been a day ago, when she didn’t feel so lost inside. But she did need him. Just for now. For today. Once she recovered from the latest incident, she’d be herself again. She had to be, before she couldn’t find the resolve to work this out on her own and gave in to these feelings for a man who was oh so wrong for her.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Olivia sat on her suitcase to close it. Since coming home she’d explained the plan to Dianna, doing her best to convey the seriousness of the situation without making her sister too worried or scared. She told her she was helping the FBI as a witness, and that the agents were concerned for her safety and also wanted her nearby for the sake of the investigation. She left out the part about being shot at. Dianna was dealing with enough stress already. But Olivia did tell her that though there was no reason to think Dianna or the children were in danger, the FBI wanted Dianna to be careful until the killer was in custody.

  Olivia had then arranged for colleagues to handle her most pressing appointments and remain on call for her patients until the situation was resolved. With Rick waiting in the family room, she’d changed her torn pants for shorts and added a casual knit top that would be comfortable in her time off, then started packing. Thankfully, Dianna had finished packing and taken the kids to the doctor for a routine check-up, so her sister didn’t have to make small talk with a man who had proved chatting was a challenge for him. One of the other agents had agreed to escort Dianna and the children to the house later.

  Olivia swung the suitcase to the floor and dragged it out to the living room. Rick sat on the sofa, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles and his head resting on a cushion, his eyes closed.

  They suddenly opened, and he lurched forward before his gaze cleared, and he relaxed. “Ready to go?”

  She nodded and chose not to comment on his response that displayed the uneasiness he and many law enforcement professionals and soldiers lived with.

  He took her bag and carried it to the car in silence. He’d said very little since they’d left her office. Sure, he wasn’t a very talkative guy to begin with, but maybe he was silent because she’d disappointed him when she didn’t come up with even one client unstable enough to fire a shot at her. He’d kept after her, asking question after question until she was ready to scream. Finally he’d given in and asked her to provide Agent North with a list of her clients so the young agent could investigate them. He’d promised neither the clients nor their families would be approached without her knowing about it first, and she hoped North would follow through on that promise.

  “You never told me about the notes you highlighted on Ace’s file,” he said once they were cruising up the highway toward Buckhead. “Now would be a good time to do so.”

  She reached for the file in her briefcase and flipped to her first highlighted passage. “Most times when I circled back around to the tattoo, Ace said nothing. But one time he said, ‘The guys. We voted.’” She flipped a few pages. “Another time he said, ‘Tank deserves it.’ Both times, I asked him what he meant, but he wouldn’t elaborate. When I saw the entries again last night, I wondered if Tank was a nickname for someone Ace had served with. So I reread the file looking for any mention of a Tank and didn’t find one.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have a way of obtaining a list of the people he served with, much less one with nicknames.”

  “What about his military records?”

  “We’ve requested his service record book, which is basically his marine personnel file. It’ll include locations where he was stationed, his assignments, et cetera, but not the men he served with.”

  “And you can’t even begin to look for a guy with only his nickname to go on.” Frustrated, she stared out the window and watched the lushly manicured lawns, green from regular watering, and the stately houses pass by. When he swung the car into a gated driveway, her mouth dropped open at the sight of the impressive estate. “You said there was plenty of room, but this—”

  “Is completely over-the-top,” he finished. “House is twelve thousand square feet, if you can believe that.”

  The drive opened to a wide clearing and circled back again. The two-story Tudor with stone facade sprawled in the clearing, putting-green-smooth grass and perfectly manicured shrubs surrounding it. She’d grown up in small rental houses, and she felt like Cinderella arriving at the ball. Except she wasn’t dressed for the opulence. Her khaki shorts and knit shirt weren’t of the Neiman Marcus quality this house cried out for.

  Her usual confidence fled. “I can’t imagine growing up here.”

  “I didn’t. At least not in this house. In the late nineties, my dad had our house razed and built this one. I only lived in it for two years before I took off for the marines.” He parked the car in front of the double front door with wrought iron accents, climbed out, and grabbed the suitcases from the back.

  She hadn’t even set foot on the driveway pavers when the door swung inward and a woman came charging out of the house. She wore pointy-toed pumps and designer jeans that she’d paired with a fitted white blouse. She stopped shy of Rick and tucked a strand of chin-length blond hair behind an ear, revealing a pearl earring.

  “Son,” she said on an exhale. She took another step, then halted to look up at him.

  “Hi, Mom,” he replied, but he made no move toward her.

  She kept staring at him as if memorizing everything about him as tears dampened her eyes. She suddenly pressed a hand over her mouth and shook her head. “Where are my manners? Your guest will want to come in.”

  Rick turned to Olivia, and her heart ached over the pain and confusion she found in his eyes. She closed the car door and, hoping he’d give her a clue about the discomfort between
him and his mother, didn’t take her gaze off him as she moved forward.

  “Mom, this is Dr. Olivia Dobbs,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion, proving once again his ability to hide his feelings at a whim.

  His unease made Olivia forgot all about her own, and she offered her hand. “Please call me Olivia.”

  His mother smiled and firmly gripped Olivia’s hand. “And I’m Grace.” She stepped back and sent a nervous smile in Rick’s direction. “I had Yolanda prepare your favorite iced tea.”

  “I stopped drinking sugary tea years ago,” Rick replied.

  Grace’s smile fell, and Olivia wanted to sock him in the arm, then rush over and hug the woman who appeared desperate for her son’s affection.

  “I suppose if Yolanda already made it I’ll have a glass,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  Grace gave a tight nod as Rick often did before she turned and strode up to the house, her narrow heels clicking on the brick drive. She stood back at the door, allowing them to enter the foyer.

  Hoping to cut the tension, Olivia smiled at Grace, whose name fit her to a T. She was trim and elegant, but not in a showy way, and she moved with a self-assured glide.

  She closed the door behind them. “Let’s go to the drawing room for tea, and then I’ll have Upton take the bags to your rooms.”

  She stepped across the gleaming wood floor where Rick set down the suitcases, but Olivia couldn’t get her feet moving. She simply stared at a sparkling crystal chandelier hanging in the two-story foyer before letting her gaze follow the winding stairs and wrought iron banister leading to the open second floor.

  “I know it will be hard to feel comfortable in such a place, but think of it as a hotel,” Rick said. “That’s what I do. Then maybe you can accept that the money sunk into this house would feed thousands of starving children.” Rick followed his mother.

  So he didn’t enjoy the pretentious lifestyle. Was that his grievance with his parents? He might have a different philosophy of life, but was that enough to put a rift between him and his mother?