Closer Than You Think

by Karen Rose

  He tossed the golf bag into the van and drove away slowly, like the rapidly approaching sirens weren’t making his heart beat out of his chest.

  The hotel had cameras in the parking lot. He’d worn the ball cap, so they hadn’t caught his face, but his vehicle would be the subject of a BOLO within minutes. He needed to ditch the van. Needed to change vehicles before they locked the city down and caught him.

  Hands shaking, he gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ached. ‘Stop this,’ he hissed aloud. ‘They will not catch you.’ Because he was careful. You planned for an outcome just like this, remember?

  He’d already scoped out the perfect place to swap the van, because he’d known about the cameras. He’d even made a secondary plan to buy time to get there.

  Calming himself, he pulled into an alley, jumped out of the van and quickly changed the Tennessee plates for an Ohio set he’d stolen long ago. For once he was grateful for the gloves he wore, he thought as he screwed on the new license plate. It was cold outside.

  It took him thirty seconds more to place magnetic signs bearing the logo of a local roadside assistance company on both sides of the van, the back doors, and the hood. He’d had the signs made with night-time getaways in mind. Roadside assistance vehicles might be called out at any time of the day or night, so no one would question his being out at three A.M.

  With his van disguised, he drove to the closest suburb, thinking through what had just happened. The white-haired bastard was a cop. Who was he? Where would he take her?

  I have to find her. I have to shut her up before it’s too late. That the white-haired man had worn the look of a frustrated lovesick puppy was the key. He wouldn’t be able to stay away from Faith. So I’ll find him. I’ll follow him. And when he goes to her, I’ll kill them both.

  He felt much better now. By the time he passed the all-night grocery he’d scoped out earlier, he was breathing almost normally again. He drove a lap around the parking lot, biding his time. Within minutes a woman came out pushing an overloaded cart. She looked tired.

  A tired woman was exactly what he needed tonight. She hit a button on her key fob and the hatch of a silver Nissan minivan in the third row began to rise.

  Nothing like a good heads-up. He parked in the slot next to her vehicle seconds before she arrived with her unwieldy cart, piled too high for her to see over or around. She left the cart by the open hatch and came around to the driver’s side to put her purse on her seat.

  He moved then, staying between the vehicles, out of any camera’s range. Covering her mouth with one hand, he pressed his pistol to her head with the other. She surprised him, exploding into motion. He’d thought she’d be too exhausted to put up such a fight.

  Yes, he thought as her adrenaline rushed to fire his own. He’d thought he’d needed a tired woman who’d give him no trouble, but he’d needed exactly this. A woman’s fear had a potency like nothing else. His heart raced, his thoughts cleared, and his strength was renewed.

  He yanked her against his chest, shoving the gun against her temple harder in case she’d missed it the first time. ‘Don’t fight and I won’t hurt you. I want your minivan. Drop your keys.’

  She stopped struggling, Her keys landed on the asphalt at her feet. ‘On your knees.’

  She dropped to her knees, drawing a huge breath through her nose as she did so, intending to scream as soon as he released her. They always did that. Normally he used that breath to his own advantage, covering their faces with a sedative-laced rag.

  But he hadn’t come prepared for that, so he put the barrel of the gun at the base of her skull, pulling his hand from her mouth a split second before he pulled the trigger.

  The silencer emitted a pop, but nothing loud enough to draw attention. She slumped to the ground and he kicked her under the white van, then loaded her groceries into the back so that no one would be alerted by the full cart. By the time she was discovered, he’d be long gone.

  Cincinnati, Ohio, Tuesday 4 November, 3.15 A.M.

  Deacon found Bishop briefing the SWAT team when he arrived in the lobby of the hotel across the street, still breathing hard from his sprint. And from having Faith Corcoran nearly ripping his shirt off. Good God. His skin still felt supercharged.

  During those moments when they’d crawled backwards, her curvy body pressed tight against his . . . he’d thought he would literally combust.

  But seeing the bullet hole in the bellman’s chest had more than taken care of deflating the very visible evidence of his desire. It could have been Faith lying on the ground in a pool of blood. It had been too damn close, and now an innocent man’s life hung by a thread.

  Bishop gave him a fast up-and-down look. ‘You and the doc okay?’

  ‘Yeah. But the bellman might not make it.’ The medics had arrived on the scene as Deacon was running across the street. The hotel had brought them in a back way to minimize their exposure to additional gunfire, although it appeared their gunman had ceased firing.

  ‘He was standing next to her?’ she asked.

  ‘No. I was standing next to her. The bellman was several feet away.’

  The cop on Bishop’s right nodded, grimly satisfied. ‘He’s not much of a shot then, if he missed by that much. Good to know. I’m Sergeant Rayburn, team leader.’

  ‘Special Agent Novak, but you misunderstand me. The first shot he took was aimed at Dr Corcoran. If she hadn’t turned to talk to me at the last moment, she would have been hit instead of the glass door. The bellman wasn’t shot until after we were on the floor inside the lobby.’

  Rayburn frowned. ‘Then the bellman was deliberately shot.’

  ‘Bait,’ Bishop said with disgust. ‘Combs wanted to draw the doc out so he could try again.’ She turned her attention to the older man hurrying toward them, his face pinched and drawn. ‘That’s the hotel manager,’ she said to Deacon. ‘Did you get the key, sir?’

  ‘I did. The room is registered to Anthony Brown. He checked in Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘We need all hotel guests to stay in their rooms,’ Deacon said to the manager. ‘Nobody goes in or out until we give the all-clear. We may evacuate, but for now, everyone stays put.’

  ‘This can’t be happening,’ the manager said, his face graying visibly.

  ‘I also need the last eight hours of footage for the hallways on the second floor, the elevators, the roof, and all exits,’ Bishop said. ‘Can you pull that together?’ She waved an officer over, glancing at his badge. ‘Doyle, stay with him. I want to know who went in or out of that room.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Doyle said.

  ‘If you’re ready, gentlemen,’ Bishop said. ‘Let’s go.’

  The SWAT team split up, taking different stairwells up to the second floor. Deacon followed one half, Bishop the other. Everything was quiet as they assembled outside the hotel room door.

  ‘How do you know this is the one?’ Deacon asked softly.

  ‘The window was missing one of its panes,’ Bishop murmured. ‘Someone cut it out carefully. No jagged edges, nothing to notice unless you were looking, but when I did look, it was obvious.’ She glanced at Rayburn. ‘On three.’

  She slid the keycard through the reader and stood back, letting the team enter first. Bishop followed and Deacon brought up the rear. The bedroom was empty, the bed unmade. A half-drunk cup of coffee sat on the nightstand. A laptop computer sat on the desk, its screen dark. On the dresser were a wallet, a set of car keys, an expensive wristwatch and a handful of change.

  ‘Detectives?’ Rayburn backed out of the bathroom carefully. ‘He’s in here.’

  Deacon entered the small bathroom with dread, knowing what he’d see. But even after more crime scenes than he wanted to count, finding the dead was always worse than he expected.

  This was no exception. Deacon crouched by the tub while Bishop stood at his back taking pictures. The man had been in his mid forties. Wearing only a pair of boxers and a T-shirt, he lay in the tub, a bullet hole in the base o
f his skull. The tiled wall was covered with splatter. Blood and brains. Combs had made no attempt to wash away the evidence.

  ‘Fuck,’ Deacon whispered, both for Faith and for the newest victim of Combs’s evil.

  ‘Execution style,’ Bishop noted, her voice emotionless. Deacon knew that Scarlett Bishop was considered a cold-hearted woman by others in the department, but he wasn’t fooled. He’d seen the pain in his new partner’s eyes many times over the last month. She cared too much.

  We all wear our masks, he thought sadly. ‘He must have a silencer. Somebody would have heard the gunshot.’ Straightening, he grimaced when pain streaked through his shoulder.

  Bishop frowned at him. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I got shot,’ he said flatly. ‘He got me in the shoulder. Don’t worry. The vest caught it.’ He left the bathroom and examined the bedroom, looking for anything Combs had left behind. Of course there was nothing. ‘Status, Sergeant?’

  ‘We’re clear here, but he might still be hiding in the hotel. We’ve got the exits locked down. We can evacuate or do a room-to-room search if need be.’

  ‘Let me check on the security tapes first,’ Bishop said. She made the call to the front desk, then turned back to Deacon and Rayburn, frustration evident on her face. ‘A man Combs’s size left this room at 3.04 with a golf bag over his shoulder. He exited through a side door at 3.05. He drove away in a white van with Tennessee plates. Backup arrived at 3.07.’

  Deacon hadn’t expected Combs to stick around, but . . . Dammit. They’d been so close. ‘I doubt that he broke down his rifle. Probably just stowed it the golf bag until he was able to dismantle it. On the up side, he kept the van and the plates. He doesn’t know what information we have, or he would have gotten rid of them. Did the camera get his license plate?’

  Bishop nodded. ‘Officer Doyle, the uniform I put downstairs at the desk, already added it to the BOLO and informed Isenberg, who’s shut down all major roads out of the city.’

  ‘When CSU gets here, show them this.’ Rayburn pointed at the windowsill. ‘These gouges in the wood are from the stand he used to set up his rifle. He came prepared. Where were you when you got hit, Agent Novak?’

  Deacon joined him at the window and pointed to the lobby, barely visible with all the emergency vehicles now parked in front. ‘In the shadow of my SUV. When I lifted my head – about two feet off the floor – he fired.’

  Rayburn whistled softly. ‘Your guy might be military. If not, he trained somewhere. To make that shot, with it being dark outside and the lights around the overhang making a glare? And considering he’d already missed several times before and had to have figured the cops were on their way? He has a steady hand and a good eye. You’re damn lucky, Novak.’

  ‘Lucky I had the vest, I think. He didn’t want me dead. He wanted Faith Corcoran to jump up and try to save me. I was bait, just like the bellman. I didn’t realize how skilled he needed to be to make the shot. Thank you, Sergeant.’

  ‘Any time.’ Rayburn gave Bishop a little salute. ‘You know where to call if you need me.’

  When he was gone, Bishop turned to Deacon. ‘Go let the EMTs check you out. Bruises turn into blood clots. You could throw a clot and die. Then I’d have to break in somebody new.’

  He gave her a weary smile. ‘You haven’t broken me in yet.’

  ‘My point exactly. Go on. Get yourself checked out. Check on the doc. You take the scene at the creepy old house and I’ll process the scene here and write the report.’ Bishop went to the window, looking at the broken glass and bloody concrete below. ‘That was a pretty amazing shot. Vega had to have done a background check on Combs. If he was military, it would show up. I don’t have her number on me, do you?’

  ‘I do.’ Deacon dialed Vega’s cell, put her on speaker. ‘It’s Novak in Cincinnati.’

  ‘What time is it?’ Vega yawned. ‘Hell, Novak, it’s after three A.M. What happened?’

  ‘I’m with my partner, Detective Bishop. A gunman fired on Faith Corcoran at her hotel.’

  Sheets rustled, a bed creaked. ‘Shit.’ Vega was alert now. ‘Was anyone hurt?’

  ‘Corcoran is okay,’ he said, ‘but a bellman was shot in the chest, just like her boss. He’s on his way to the ER. No word yet on his status. He’d been holding the door for her. Just like Shue.’

  A slight pause. ‘Gordon Shue didn’t die from the shot to the chest.’

  Deacon frowned at Bishop. ‘Then how did he die?’

  ‘Shot to the head. Four shots were fired, two of which hit Shue. The first hit his chest, but probably wouldn’t have been fatal. The second hit the glass in the door a few inches from where Faith was kneeling beside him, so, thinking the gunman was shooting at Shue, she grabbed his feet and had dragged him halfway in when the third shot went over her head. The fourth struck Shue in the head. The first responders said they had to pull her away from Shue. She was trying to stop the bleeding in his chest, but his brains were all over the floor.’ Another pause, followed by a heavy sigh. ‘All over her, too. Her clothes, her hands. Her face.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Bishop murmured. ‘Poor Faith.’

  Deacon couldn’t say anything at all. Shue’s blood on her hands was what she’d described when she’d related the incident earlier that evening. When she’d been safe. But when they’d been on the hotel floor, Deacon’s body covering hers . . .

  I can’t wear your brains. She hadn’t been being wry. She’d been reliving personal trauma.

  ‘When I got there,’ Vega finished, ‘Faith was sitting in a chair, rocking herself. CSU had bagged her hands and one of the evidence techs was swabbing the brain material from her face. When I asked her what happened, she’d only tell me about his blood on her hands. And then later, when she realized she’d been the real target? No one took her seriously except me.’

  Someone should have, Deacon thought, furious on her behalf. And then he remembered that someone had known the truth – the cop for whom she was a CI. ‘She mentioned a friend on the force, a Sex Crimes detective named Deb. Ring any bells?’

  ‘Debra Kinnion?’ Vega sounded shocked. ‘Debra hated therapists like Faith.’

  Deacon frowned. ‘Hated? As in past tense? What happened to her?’

  ‘She died two years ago. Killed in the line of duty.’

  Deacon was conscious of Bishop’s watchful stare. ‘Did you know her to be a successful detective?’ he asked. ‘With a good arrest and conviction track record?’

  ‘Hell, yeah. Nobody put away more sex offenders than Deb Kinnion and . . .’ Vega’s voice trailed away, only to return sharply suspicious. ‘Exactly what are you saying, Novak?’

  Standing next to him, Bishop crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a pointed look.

  ‘Nothing,’ Deacon said easily. ‘Just asking questions.’

  Vega snorted. ‘Seriously, did Faith Frye help Deb Kinnion put offenders away?’

  ‘That would have been incredibly unethical of her,’ Deacon said quietly, hearing Faith’s voice as clearly as if she was standing beside him. I’m not exactly the poster child for ethics.

  ‘I suppose that’s true,’ Vega agreed, just as quietly. ‘A therapist who leaks her client’s information to the cops risks losing her license. Although that would make a lot of things make sense. But I don’t suppose it matters one way or the other now.’

  Bishop’s eyes softened, her expression one of new understanding. ‘I have a question. How was Faith covered in Shue’s brains if she was by his feet when he was shot?’

  ‘After the third shot, people in their building came running to see what was wrong.’

  ‘After three shots?’ Bishop exclaimed. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘It’s a tough neighborhood in Miami, chica,’ Vega chided, purposely thickening her accent. ‘By the fourth shot we had witnesses who told us that Faith was standing over Shue, lifting him by his shirt to pull him over the threshold, which put her in Combs’s sight.’

  ‘Got it,’ Bish
op said. ‘Did Combs serve in the military?’

  ‘Army,’ Vega answered promptly, ‘somewhere in the Gulf.’

  ‘Was he a marksman?’ Deacon asked.

  ‘Not that I recall. Why?’

  ‘He had to have used a rifle to make the shots he did tonight,’ Deacon said. ‘Not the handgun he used on Gordon Shue.’

  ‘I don’t know that Combs has a rifle, but I don’t know that he doesn’t either. I doubt his girlfriend would tell me if he did, but I can ask her. What else do you need?’

  ‘Nothing at the moment, but I’m sure that will change.’ Deacon ended the call and met Bishop’s sharply intelligent stare. ‘What?’ he asked as innocently as he could.

  ‘You knew that she helped cops arrest offenders. When did you plan to tell me that?’

  ‘When it became relevant to the case.’

  ‘I might have distrusted her a little less.’ Bishop’s eyes narrowed. ‘But you trusted her even before you knew the facts.’

  The smile fell from his lips. ‘She’s a victim in this, Scarlett. Surely you get that by now.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. Your feelings for her are no secret. Watching the two of you from behind the glass . . . In my opinion you’re playing with fire. It’s too much, too fast.’

  It was too much, too fast, but playing with fire was becoming more attractive with every new piece of Faith’s history he added to the puzzle. ‘So noted.’

  Bishop sighed. ‘Just be careful. Mixing business with pleasure rarely ends well.’

  ‘I know.’ The thing was, Deacon no longer cared.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cincinnati, Ohio, Tuesday 4 November, 3.30 A.M.

  What is wrong with me? Faith rested her forehead on the edge of the table in the hotel employees’ break room. First I proposition him, then I rip his clothes off. The woman who currently inhabited her body was a stranger, doing the stupidest things. What was I thinking?

  She wasn’t thinking anymore. She was reacting, her mind protecting itself from the overload of one shock after another. The pressure had been building for months, but she hadn’t let down her defenses until tonight. Not until the moment she’d looked into Deacon Novak’s eyes, the shields she’d knitted so tightly unraveling in a few hours. She’d told him everything.