Cold Shot

by Dani Pettrey

  “Baltimore,” Declan said.

  “How long has she been with that dentist?” Griffin asked pointedly.

  Declan snapped his fingers. “On it.”

  Finley watched Declan race from the room. “What just happened?”

  Parker smiled. “Griffin just came up with a brilliant idea.”

  “What now?” she asked.

  Griffin exhaled. “We wait.”

  How many times had he been told that?

  “Just wait and be patient. We’re working the case.”

  “Just wait and let us do our jobs. These things take time.”

  “Just wait for your mark.”

  “Just wait—it takes time to get over things like this.”

  He was sick and tired of waiting. Waiting through pain. Waiting for justice. Waiting for God to act.

  Where are you in this injustice, Lord?

  Aren’t you the God of justice? Don’t you say those who wait on the Lord will mount on wings of eagles? That we will be more than conquerors?

  I’ve been waiting, Lord, but just when I think I’ve found some measure of control and peace, all hell breaks loose and I’m reminded of the helplessness in waiting.

  How long will you let injustice prevail?

  “Hopefully we’ll have an ID tomorrow,” Parker said, interrupting Griffin’s pensive thoughts. Probably for the best. Sometimes he felt sinful for expressing his frustration, but God already knew his heart, knew what he was thinking. Better to be up front than pretend to hide the frustration brewing inside.

  He’d been praying for understanding, praying for God’s action, but it was cases like this that exposed the bitterness still burrowed inside.

  How long, Lord?

  “In the meantime . . .” Parker stood and stretched. “Everyone take precautions. Someone was very intent on preventing this woman’s ID. I can’t imagine he’d let up now.”

  Griffin looked at Finley. “I meant what I said earlier. I don’t want you staying alone until an ID is made. I have a guest room, or if you prefer I can bunk on your couch.”

  A mix of emotions rushed over her face. “Are you sure that’s necessary?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Parker said, shocking him. “In fact . . .” He looked to Avery. “You should probably stay at my place.”

  Avery rolled her eyes. “Nice try.”

  “I’m serious.” He held up his hands. “No funny business, I promise. I agree with Griff. You ladies should not be alone until our Jane Doe is identified.”

  Avery exhaled. “Fine. I’ll stay at your place, but any sign of funny business and you’re losing digits.”

  Parker grinned. Clearly he appreciated the lady’s style.

  15

  They decided to stop by Griffin’s place so he could grab a few things on the way to Finley’s house. The thought of Griffin spending the night in her guest room was a mix of reassuring and unnerving. She loved the protection aspect, but she hadn’t had a man in her home since Brent Howard.

  She swallowed the bile burning up her throat at the traumatic memory, trying to ground herself as the room began to spin.

  It was a wonder she hadn’t moved, but she refused to be driven from her home because of him.

  Griffin unlocked his front door and flipped on the entryway light.

  She would have pegged him as the cabin type, especially in the wooded area of Thurmont, but somehow the rustic farmhouse—a two-story, deep greyish-blue home with a gorgeous wraparound front porch she could spend hours reading on—suited him too.

  He stepped back, allowing her passage inside. Exquisite, handcrafted pine wainscoting covered the bottom half of the walls from the chair rail to the hardwood floors, the top half painted a crisp white, the ceiling navy blue with track lighting. The effect was stunning. Sailor’s rope framed the pictures of the Chesapeake lining the long, narrow entryway—images of ships, shore, sunsets, and crabs. On top of the pictures ran a row of antique oars. Griffin clearly loved the Chesapeake.

  An Irish wolfhound, his head level with her rib cage, lumbered forward with a red Kong in his mouth.

  “Easy, Winston,” Griffin said, and the dog heeded, sitting on his haunches with what she swore was a smile, his tail wagging.

  Griffin squatted and ruffled the dog behind his ears, his tail going into hyperdrive.

  “Don’t let his size scare you. As you can see he’s a big softie.”

  “If you’re staying with me, who’s taking care of Winston?”

  “My neighbor Kristin. She adores him. And he’d probably trade me in an instant for her.”

  “You’re welcome to bring him along.”

  Griffin cocked his head with a smile. “Really?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “Most people don’t want such a large dog in their home.”

  She shrugged with a smile of her own. “I’m not most people.” She didn’t mean it in a conceited way. She just didn’t fret the small stuff, especially when it came to animals. Besides, after the day they’d had, she wouldn’t mind the added level of protection.

  “No.” Griffin’s smile widened. “I suppose you aren’t.”

  She bit the side of her lip, wondering if that was a compliment or an insult. She couldn’t always tell with the man. He left her unbalanced, which while intriguing, was also terrifying.

  Griffin looked at Winston. “Road trip, buddy?”

  Winston raced for his leash hanging on an anchor-shaped peg by the front door.

  She cocked her head. “Did he just . . . ?”

  “He loves road trips.”

  So did she. Any kind of trip really, as long as it involved water or mountains, but since the incident she’d been embarrassingly nervous to travel on her own. It angered her that she allowed him any lingering control over her, but traveling in the midst of panic attacks was hardly enjoyable. She still forced herself to go, determined not to let one evil man’s actions destroy a lifelong love of exploration, but the fact she struggled ticked her off.

  Winston nudged his leash off the peg with his nose, the blue strap dropping at his feet, the metal clasp clanging on the wooden floor.

  “Hold on, buddy,” Griffin said. “I gotta grab a few things first. Come on, let’s go out.”

  With a grunt, Winston left the leash and followed Griffin through the house to the kitchen and out the back door.

  Finley followed them. “Nice kitchen,” she said looking around. Vaulted ceiling with wooden beams, glass-front cupboards, weathered hardwood floors.

  “Thanks. It’s a work in progress.”

  She took in the ladder propped against the back wall, the can of stain in the corner. “You did this?”

  “I’m refurbishing little by little. Sort of a project of mine.”

  “Refurbishing kitchens?” She never would have pegged him as the renovating sort, though she was quickly coming to realize she didn’t have him pegged at all. He was so much more.

  “That’s a part of it,” he said, offering her a drink.

  She accepted a glass of OJ and hopped up on the stool. The sweet juice would no doubt give her a renewed burst of energy, which she needed. She was dragging. It’d been a long couple of days.

  “I enjoy restoring older homes and then selling them,” he said, topping off her glass.

  “Cool. So flipping houses?” She took another sip.

  “Yeah. Run-down ones with character.”

  “You give them new life.”

  He smiled, looking around the rafters. “I suppose you could say that.”

  Winston pawed the door, and Griffin let him in. He wasted no time in bustling back to his leash.

  “I’d better go get my stuff before he starts grunting again.”

  “Is it done?” he asked over the phone.

  “Almost.”

  “See that everything’s in place.”

  “I understand.”

  “I want it set to go tonight.”

  He
got it. He wasn’t an idiot. “We’ll own them.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “At his place.”

  “Together?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “This could prove to be an interesting development. If things progress between them on a personal level it may provide the leverage we’ve been searching for. Continue to focus on them.”

  “And the federal agent?”

  “Him, I’ve got taken care of.”

  16

  Griffin followed Finley along the cobblestone sidewalk lining Thames Street, the fishy scent of the bay wafting on the cool November breeze, the wind-capped water sloshing the ships docked in the marina edging Fell’s Point.

  Finley’s paid parking slot sat several blocks from her home and the thought of her walking through Fell’s Point alone each night terrified him. Not that it was a bad neighborhood, by any means—it’d been beautifully restored and was a Baltimore nighttime hot spot—but it was also only a handful of blocks from the blue light district, and a woman living on her own anywhere needed to be vigilant.

  He prayed she paid attention to her surroundings, to the people they were passing on the short jaunt past the restaurants lining the block, the Thames Oyster Company being his personal favorite.

  His attention gravitated to the dark water, across the harbor to the Canton warehouse district where Parker lived, curious if he could spot his loft. It was a distinct building, though he hadn’t been since the day they’d helped Parker move in. It was hard to believe they were all working together again—all but Luke, of course.

  Finley stepped around the old-fashioned black lamppost on the corner and banked right onto South Bond Street, stepping to the first house on the left—a traditional brick rowhome, with a small fenced yard jutting out in the triangular shape of the corner it sat on. A knotted sailor’s wreath with blue crabs hung on her bright blue door illuminated by a strand of white, sparkling lights woven around. The small light to the right of the door was lit, but the interior of her home was dark. Not smart.

  “You really should leave some interior lights on too,” he said, stepping through the narrow doorway.

  “I always leave the entry table lamp on,” she said, moving toward it, flipping the hall light as she went. “Must have burnt out.”

  Winston happily pranced through the bright yellow entry, the walls covered with beautifully framed and mounted postcards. A vast and unique collection from the cursory glance he took. Though he was more interested in the fact no alarm had been triggered upon their entry.

  She stepped to the alarm keypad. “That’s strange.”

  “What is?”

  “Must not have set my alarm today.”

  At least she had one.

  She dropped her keys in the giant overturned seashell functioning as a bowl on the table and bent, turning the lamp knob. “Nada,” she said, straightening. “I’m sure I’ve got an extra bulb somewhere around here.”

  Griffin walked the interior of the main floor with Winston thumping beside him while she searched for a bulb, seeking out the best place to set up camp. It was obvious from the weathered steamer trunk functioning as a coffee table, glass jars brimming over with seashells, beach-themed quote boxes lining her mantel, and the eclectic collection of geographically diverse artwork framing her walls that she loved travel and the sea. The latter they had in common, but . . . He didn’t mind traveling, but his idea of travel involved weeklong hiking-camping treks, skiing out west, and pushing off the dock and sailing into the sunset. Her travel interests evoked a love of experiencing new cultures, which was very cool.

  “Found one,” she said, returning a few minutes later with bulb in hand.

  “Here.” He held out his flattened palm. “I can swap it for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  He ducked under the lampshade, wrapping his hand around the existing bulb’s base. With a grimace he pulled his hand back, blood on his fingers.

  Her eyes widened. “What happened?”

  “The bulb was cracked—I busted it.”

  She reached for his hand. “Let me take a look.”

  “It’s nothing, really.”

  “We both know I’m looking. No sense arguing.”

  The lady was right. Arguing with her, while intellectually stimulating, was, in the end, futile. Unless it came to her safety—about that he’d brook no arguments.

  Her fingers gently eased back his, and she bent, examining the cuts. “You’ve got some glass in here. Hang tight while I grab my first-aid kit.”

  He opened his mouth to argue and then halted at her steadfast expression, daring him to try.

  “Okay,” he conceded.

  Grabbing the first-aid kit, she waved him into the kitchen. “Better light in here.”

  Her kitchen was a galley style with a small eating nook. A table with two chairs and cushioned window bench filled the tiny space. He could picture her sipping her morning coffee curled up on the bench.

  “Let me see your hand,” she said, drawing his attention back.

  She smelled amazing. What was that? Something floral and tropical, but not overly sweet. Hints of coconut, perhaps.

  Cradling his right hand in her left, she started tweezing out the shards of glass. She paused after removing a few and glanced up. “Doing okay?”

  Better than okay. Her skin was so soft, her eyes brimming with compassion. He cleared his throat. “Good.”

  She turned back to the job and had his cuts cleared, cleaned, and bandaged in a matter of minutes, but didn’t release her hold.

  What was it about Finley that drew him so—other than the obvious? She was beautiful, funny, intelligent, but there was something stronger, something binding that continued to hold him fast.

  “Thanks.” He released her hand, taking a deliberate step back. He didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. As interested as he was, he wasn’t the man for her, not now. Not while still battling his guilt, his past, and his mistakes. “Let’s get that bulb swapped.”

  She looked half-disappointed at his pulling back but nodded and followed him back out to the entry, Winston padding behind them.

  A towel in hand, Griffin bent to examine the busted bulb, and his gaze tracked upward, landing on something far more dangerous.

  Avery watched as Parker unlocked the tall black door wedged like a slit in the brick side of an old cannery warehouse along the docks of Canton.

  A merchant ship sat moored on the left side of the building and a trawler on the right. Avery glanced up at the brick front with Harrison painted in fading white letters. Other than a small light shining from the third-floor window, the place was dark.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  She’d been asking herself that ever since she’d answered Parker’s ad for a crime-scene photographer, never expecting him to actually hire her. She’d been desperate to pay her bills and remain behind a camera lens, and so she’d gone for it. Much to her shock, he’d hired her after a few moments’ questioning and since then continued to walk her through each step of crime-scene photography with patience few people possessed. But she still didn’t understand why.

  He was one of the best in his field and surely had plenty of other applicants. Far more experienced applicants.

  Who was she kidding? She had zero crime-scene experience. Before this gig, her only dalliance with crime photography came purely by accident when she’d stumbled upon State Senator Mulroney attempting to rape a woman in the back room at a gallery showing. Fortunately, she’d just retrieved her camera at the request of one of Annapolis’s upper crust eager to see a sampling of her recent work—still loaded on the Canon.

  Her quick response of snapping off a few shots of the situation before calling for help substantiated the assaulted women’s claim over the hometown hero’s vehement denials. It’d cost her the business she’d worked so hard to build, right as it had begun to launch. Mulroney�
�s well-connected society wife had seen to that. But Parker, a renowned albeit unconventional investigator, had taken pity on her. She still couldn’t figure out why. What was his end game? Everybody had one.

  Parker opened the door and flipped a switch illuminating a metal cage freight elevator.

  Lifting the grate, he gestured for her to step inside. He turned and bolted the front door before joining her in the metal box masquerading as an elevator.

  He pulled a lever, and the gears, visible on the right, churned to life. Up what she guessed were two levels—it was difficult to tell in the dark—the elevator shook to a stop and what she could only assume was a motion-sensor light flashed on, revealing a small platform. An oversize grey metal door stood on the other side.

  “You aren’t some sort of serial killer, are you?” she said, trying to ease the knot in her belly with a really bad joke.

  He stepped out of the elevator and extended his hand to help her. “If I were, I’d have the perfect cover, wouldn’t I?”

  She took his hand and stepped off the elevator, thinking the very same thing. But he was just trying to get a rise out of her.

  He entered a security code into the panel beside the door and it slid open.

  “Fancy.”

  “Modern conveniences.”

  “In an old cannery warehouse?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose you could say I have somewhat eclectic tastes.”

  That much she was aware of. Fruit she’d never heard of—star something or other—Nat King Cole records—actual records—and a Triumph motorcycle. His tastes were most definitely eclectic.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said, strolling inside.

  Wow. Floor-to-ceiling windows ran the length of the two-story rear wall overlooking the harbor, the dim lights of Fed Hill glimmering across the dark expanse. She turned, examining the upper level—an open, airy loft enclosed only by a black double rail running from the ladder leading up to it and the front brick wall.

  “Mi casa es su casa.” He punched another code into the interior panel, and the door closed behind them, and then he lowered a metal bar across its width. “Told you you’d be safe here.”