Cold Shot

by Dani Pettrey

  “We spoke with a gentleman named Gator today,” she said, a smile rounding her lips.

  Griffin laughed. “Don’t think Gator could ever be accused of such.”

  Finley smirked. “Well, he was a gentleman with me.”

  Griffin shook his head. “They all were. You should have seen them. Some serious roughnecks, a former sniper, even a former Navy Seal. All polite and flirtatious as could be.”

  “They didn’t flirt with me.” She pointed her chopsticks in his direction. “They were too scared with you around.”

  Parker chuckled. “Jealous sort, are we, Griff?”

  He gave Parker a warning glare.

  Parker took the hint and slouched back in his chair, kicking his booted feet up on the empty chair opposite him with a playful grin.

  “I just meant they clearly respected your presence,” Finley said, pushing her chopsticks around in her container. She looked up, her heartfelt gaze locking on him. “So did I.”

  He swallowed, warmth flooding him. How did she do that with a simple smile? Because her smile was anything but ordinary.

  Parker and Declan exchanged bemused glances, but were wise enough to let it drop. The time for silly ribbing had ceased years ago. They were grown men. Though he doubted it’d be that easy. They’d mouth off again. They were just considerate enough to wait until they were out of Finley’s presence. Besides, as good as he felt in Finley’s presence and at the thought of spending more time with her, he still couldn’t go there. Listening to his instincts was dangerous, and even more importantly, he wasn’t where he needed to be spiritually to be in a relationship.

  God called husbands to love their wives like the church—that he believed he could do—but he couldn’t lead his wife while still struggling with his own demons. Until he conquered them, he couldn’t move forward. And he certainly wasn’t into casual dating, and most definitely not with an amazing woman like Finley Scott. If he pursued her, it’d be with passion and purpose.

  “What about your friend Gunny?” Declan asked.

  “He tried his best to be charming with Finley at least until we started asking the hard questions.” All he’d had to say was Dragunov and the man’s demeanor shifted. Did Gunny know more than he was saying?

  “He probably knows the real names, last names, of the men you spoke with.”

  “Maybe, but no guarantees. You’d be surprised at the level of anonymity most of these guys manage to keep—pay cash, stick to basic topics—guns, ammo, politics—but I’ll ask Gunny tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Avery lurched forward in her chair. “You’re going back?”

  “We need to speak with Vern Michaels,” Finley said.

  Parker shifted. “You’re going back too?”

  Finley nodded.

  He dipped his head in Griffin’s direction. “You think that wise?”

  Griffin opened his mouth to respond, but Finley cut in before he could get a word out. “I’m going.”

  He exhaled. As much as he didn’t want her out of his sight, perhaps she would be safer at the lab. “It might not—”

  “Stop right there. I’m going. Either with you or on my own.”

  Parker’s lips twitched with admiration. “Looks like she’s not giving you a choice.”

  Griffin smiled. “Guess not.” And it didn’t surprise him in the least. The woman was the definition of determination. He shifted his gaze to Declan. “Any luck on identifying our Jane Doe?”

  Declan wiped his mouth and set his empty plate aside. “I quickly expanded our missing persons search, as no Jane Does matched locally.” He stood, moving to the whiteboard they’d pulled into the lounge.

  Parker lifted his chin. “And?”

  “And I’ve found four possibilities by extending our reach regionally.” He pulled out four missing-person flyers and stepped to the whiteboard, pinning them up with thumbtack-size magnets.

  Four images of beautiful women, all in their twenties and thirties, all blond, and all missing. Just the sight of them hit Griffin hard in the gut. He kept his gaze fixed fast on the board, careful not to look at Parker.

  “First victim is Jennifer Beckham,” Declan began. “She’s from Chevy Chase. Age twenty-five. Reported missing March sixth by her roommate when she didn’t show up for a birthday party. No significant leads reported. Second victim is Karen Miller. Age thirty-five, reported missing February twenty-third by her friend after receiving no word from her for three days. There was a history of domestic violence in the home, but no evidence to hold the husband on. Third victim is Marley Trent. Reported missing on March ninth by a co-worker when she didn’t show up to work. No open leads. And last—”

  “Wait,” Finley interrupted, standing.

  Declan arched a brow. “Yes?”

  “Is that Marley Trent, as in social justice lawyer Marley Trent?”

  Declan glanced back over the information he had. Just the bare essentials. “It says she was a lawyer. Why? Did you know her?”

  “Not personally, but definitely by reputation. She’s one of Towson University’s star alums. She finished her undergrad degree there—well, one of them—but it was before I started on staff. The woman is a legend.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She fights for those who can’t fight for themselves.”

  Griffin smiled at her. “Sounds like someone I know.”

  She smiled back. “I’d like to think we share or shared a purpose in our work. Both fighting injustice, just in different areas. She was a remarkable woman. I hate to think it’s her, but it would be nice to finally know what happened.”

  “It could be her,” Declan said. “But there are four possibilities.”

  “Right.” Finley smoothed her shirt and retook her seat. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “No problem at all. If it is Marley Trent, you may be a great asset to us, knowing what you do about the woman. Now . . . where were we . . .” Declan’s eyes tracked over the information he had about the woman on the final flyer. “Alexandra Samson. From Westminster. Age thirty-one. Reported missing by her parents March third when they arrived for a visit and found her home broken into and no sign of Alex. She lived alone, and it appears she may have been missing for a couple days before her folks arrived. Detectives on the case looked pretty deeply into a male neighbor but couldn’t make anything stick.”

  “So they are all cold cases?” Griffin loathed the term. They all did.

  Declan looked down. “I’m afraid so.”

  “What’s the next step?” Finley asked.

  “We check into getting more information about the women—to see if anything matches up with the hat and ring we found on our Jane Doe. I also pulled dentals on all the missing women.” Declan grabbed the oversized manila envelopes and handed them to Finley.

  “Great. I’ll have Dr. Kent do the comparisons,” she said. “He’s the best odontologist on the east coast. I’ll run these up to his office. Sometimes he works late—actually prefers to, I think. I’ll also pop in on Shirley. She’s the forensic artist I called in. Let me check on her progress. It’s possible we may have a rendering of our victim’s face tonight.”

  Declan looked to Parker as Finley ducked out of the room. “What about you? Any progress on your end?”

  “Yes.” He retrieved a file from the counter, and Avery joined him at the whiteboard, pinning up magnified shots of the trace evidence in question. “Avery spent today combing back over all the shots I took. The first particulates we found definitely were glass. Glass specifically manufactured for cars. GMC vehicles to be precise, but this particular glass was used only from 2005–2008, which narrows things down significantly.” He shifted to the next photo. “The second particulate we removed from our victim’s baseball hat and Dr. Scott removed from her skull is a plastic used in camera flashes.”

  “Camera flashes?” Declan asked.

  “That’s correct. I’m narrowing it down as quickly as I can to locate which particular brands and models it�
��s used in. I should have a manageable list for you in the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Okay.” Griffin sat, hunching forward, resting his hands on his thighs. “Are you saying our victim was shot through a car window and a camera flash?”

  Parker nodded. “That’s what the evidence shows.”

  Griffin exhaled.

  “What?”

  “Our sniper is a superior shot. Fifteen hundred meters is select enough, maybe a hundred guys in the world, but through two barriers . . .” He shook his head with a whistle. “We’re dealing with an extraordinarily skilled sniper.”

  Which made the fact he’d had Finley and him in his crosshairs a whole new level of deadly. He looked to Finley as she reentered the room and swallowed. Sticking to her like glue didn’t come close. She’d better get ready, because if they didn’t ID the vic tonight, he’d be bunking on her couch. Yeah, it might be overkill, but better to be overly cautious than risk anything happening to her.

  13

  Dr. Scott,” Declan said, using formal names, as he did when he was getting serious. He recapped what Parker had shared while she was out of the room, and then asked, “Is that concurrent with your findings?”

  “Yes. Fragments of glass and what we now know are shards of camera flash were embedded in our victim’s skull at the point of impact.”

  “Which explains why the bullet didn’t exit the skull,” Griffin said, standing and moving to the whiteboard to examine the gunshot wound more closely.

  “Meaning . . . ?” Avery asked.

  “Even at a distance of fifteen hundred meters, there should be both entry and exit wounds. I was curious why the bullet embedded in the brain rather than shooting straight through, but if the bullet had to travel through two barriers before hitting the victim’s head, that would slow the velocity further, causing the bullet to lodge in her brain.”

  “Okay, so how does this information help with the case?” Finley asked.

  “For one, it tells us what the victim was doing at the time of her death,” Declan said. “Taking pictures.”

  “Or using her camera as a telescopic device,” Avery offered.

  Declan frowned. “What?”

  “If I want to see something that’s out of my field of vision more clearly, I’ll look through my telephoto lens.”

  “Excellent point. Okay, so our victim was either watching someone or taking pictures of them,” Parker said.

  Griffin shifted. “I don’t know. . . .That’s quite a leap.”

  Parker stiffened. “How do you figure?”

  “If our victim was a tourist at Gettysburg, she might simply have been taking photos of the battlefield.”

  “True,” Declan said. “If she was killed at Gettysburg, but I think given the evidence we have, regardless of what our victim was doing at the time of her death, hers was a professional hit with that kind of shot.”

  “Or some sicko’s target practice,” Griffin said.

  Finley’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “You cannot be serious?” Avery gaped.

  “Sorry to break it to you, but there are monsters in this world.” Some way too close to home.

  “Somebody would seriously kill another human being for sport?” Finley’s face paled with disgust.

  “I’d love to tell you it’s never happened,” Griffin said.

  “Why? How? I don’t understand.”

  Because it was beyond comprehension.

  “Men get used to killing in war. Snipers are no different. Some of them feed off of it. Being in control. Taking a life with the squeeze of a trigger. I’m not saying that’s what we’re dealing with, but it’s always best to consider every possibility, no matter how improbable.”

  Professor Warner, their mentor and friend, had instilled the adage into their brains throughout their college years and beyond. “No matter how improbable, consider every possibility.” It didn’t have to be probable to happen, just possible.

  “Okay. Let’s run both scenarios,” Declan said, rubbing his hands together. “Scenario one, our victim was spying on someone, which could be the reason for her death. She saw something she wasn’t supposed to.”

  “That would indicate the person she was spying on knew she was spying and set her up for the kill,” Griffin said. “He or she gave her something to watch to hold her attention while the sniper took her out.”

  “Meaning she was lured to her death,” Finley said. “Set up.”

  Griffin nodded.

  “Scenario two, the sniper was simply waiting at a public location hoping for a mark to hit.”

  “Of the two, the first scenario is the most plausible, but we shouldn’t discount the latter. Hopefully between the forensic artist rendering and dentals we should have a match tonight.”

  Griffin prayed for Finley’s safety—and the victim’s family’s peace of mind—but the thought of no longer needing to be at Finley’s side disappointed him on a far deeper level than anticipated. What was it about this woman that entranced him so? Whatever it was, it had to be ignored. As soon as he was certain Finley was safe, he was back to Gettysburg and routine. That’s where he belonged, regardless of what his gut kept saying.

  14

  Dental results are in, Dr. Scott.” Finley looked up several hours later to find another one of the lab techs, Max, standing in front of her with a folder, his jaw tight. They all wanted to find John’s and Jane Doe’s killer—assuming they were one and the same.

  “Thanks.” She blinked the drowsiness from her eyes and grasped it, praying it held the answers they needed, though disappointment sifted through her at the thought of not being paired with Griffin any longer. She opened the folder.

  Most doctors sent results via the computer, but Dr. Kent was old school. She didn’t mind in the least though, considering his level of expertise and his compunction for working until his desk was cleared each day—as late as that might take.

  She looked across the lounge at Griffin. There was something so calming and yet tantalizing about his steadfast presence. “Here comes the moment of truth,” she said. Swallowing, she glanced up at the women’s faces on the whiteboard. Whose family were they about to bring closure to?

  “Results, I hope,” Declan said, striding back in the lounge.

  “Yes.”

  “Great. I’ve got some of my own.” He’d set up a command center of sorts in a recently evacuated office down the hall from Finley’s while they waited, not wanting to be far away when news came in.

  “So do I,” Parker said, rejoining the group. He and Avery had been hard at work on the trace evidence.

  “Wonderful.” They’d be able to give Jane Doe a name and a family closure. She looked at Griffin, anticipation darting through her. She loved this part. Finding the answer. Giving the dead back their identity. It’s why she did what she did.

  “You first,” Declan said, lifting his chin.

  With a deep breath, she flipped open and scanned the folder’s contents. Shock rippled through her. It couldn’t be. “I don’t believe it.”

  Declan shifted. “What is it?”

  She handed him the file. “No match.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean no match?”

  “That’s what the report says.” How could it not be one of their victims?

  “But victim number three, Marley Trent, drove a 2007 GMC Silver Envoy,” Declan said.

  “Which matches the glass fragments found on her remains,” Parker added.

  “Right.” Declan’s voice held the urgency Finley felt sifting through her. Wanting something so badly, being so close you could grasp it, and yet feeling it slip through your fingers. “Parker, you said you had results as well?”

  “I did some tracking on Jane Doe’s ring. As you know there was no alma mater on it. Just the phrase Omnia Pro Patria, and the emblem of a town.”

  “And?” Declan pressed.

  “And it’s the emblem for University of Nevada, Las Vegas.”

  “Any id
ea where each of our victims in question attended college?” Griffin asked.

  “I can look, but it’s a moot point,” Declan said. “Dentals didn’t match any of them.”

  “I think I recall reading Marley received her first undergrad degree from UNLV before moving to Towson and completing her preprofessional studies in law. It was part of her alum bio.”

  “That may be, but she’s not our Jane Doe. The dentals didn’t match.”

  “Okay, then you should extend the missing persons search radius,” Finley said. Just because they’d struck out with these four women didn’t mean they were finished. Jane Doe had a name. They just had to keep digging. She was not letting go of this one.

  “I’ll hit the drawing board anew,” Declan said, handing her back the folder with a sigh.

  Shirley Mitchell, the forensic artist she’d called in, entered the room. “Why all the long faces?”

  “We thought we’d gotten a positive ID.”

  “Oh, sorry, but maybe this will help.” She set her laptop on the table and stood back. “Your Jane Doe.”

  Finley moved closer, her gaze fixed on the image. She knew that face.

  “That’s Marley Trent,” Declan said, excitement renewed in his voice.

  “How is that possible?” Griffin asked.

  “There must have been a mistake with the dentals,” Parker offered.

  “I’ll get back in touch with Ms. Trent’s dentist and see if he can resend a copy of her films.” Declan pulled his cell from his pocket, clearly not realizing the lateness of the hour.

  “Better if you personally pick up the films,” Parker said.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “We need to rule out foul play.”

  Finley frowned. “You think someone intentionally switched the films?”

  Parker shrugged. “I’m saying someone might be doing everything they can to make sure their victim isn’t identified. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that somewhere along the line a switch was made.”

  “If that’s the case,” Griffin said, “then what’s to say all of Marley’s films haven’t been switched? They could have hit the dental office. Where’s her dentist located?”