Cold Shot

by Dani Pettrey

  He wasn’t lying. “Nice digs.” She strolled farther in. “Not what I’d expected.”

  He glanced at her with that sexy, subtle smile that made her knees go momentarily goofy. “Oh? Do tell.”

  She shrugged. “Single player such as yourself. I pictured a swanky condo in the heart of Canton, not a secluded warehouse on the fringes.”

  “I like seclusion.”

  “You like distraction. Speaking of which, I see no TV.” She spun around, searching the open space. “Please tell me you have a TV.” She needed it to fall asleep.

  “Never fear, Tate.” He picked up a remote, aimed it at the console table in front of the sofa, and pressed a button. The top of the console opened, and a flat-screen TV rose up out of it.

  “Swanky.”

  “I prefer streamlined. I’m not much for TV, other than baseball games.”

  “You like baseball?”

  “Yep. Was pretty much my whole life growing up.”

  “You played?” Not that he wasn’t athletic, but team sports just didn’t seem his style.

  “Since I was three.”

  “Three?”

  “Started with T-ball, then all the way through Little League onto our high school varsity team, and then pick-up games in college.”

  “Our high school team?”

  He strolled into the kitchen, separated from the living space only by a long island. “Declan, Griffin, myself, and another friend.”

  She sank onto one of the bar stools. “This friend have a name?”

  He poured himself a Coke. “Luke . . . Gallagher.” He lifted a can. “Would you care for one?”

  “I’m good, thanks, but please tell me somebody delivers pizza in this neighborhood.” If the industrial area could be deemed a neighborhood.

  “Yes. There’s a pizza place, but we won’t be ordering in.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re a guest in my home, and therefore I’ll be making you a homemade meal.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Believe me,” he said, retrieving ingredients. “It is. We’ve been working together for what . . . three months now, and I’ve yet to see you eat anything that hasn’t come out of a box or bag.”

  She shrugged, popping a grape from the bowl on the counter into her mouth. “I’m not the cooking sort.”

  “Well, lucky for us . . .” He twirled a tomato. “I am.”

  “So you really do cook?”

  “I told you I did.”

  “Most guys just use that as a pick-up line.” She hopped from the stool and moved to the table lined with what appeared to be square containers filled with weeds.

  “Herbs,” he said.

  She bent, inhaling the various savory and sweet scents, recognizing only one—mint. It brought back one of the few good memories of her childhood. A mint vine growing in the dirt along the back corner of their rusted trailer. How it got there no one knew, but her mom would fill a glass pitcher with water, drop in a couple tea bags and a sprig of mint, and then set it out on their splintered picnic table for the sun to do its magic. To this day, it was the one homemade thing she could make—sun tea, like her mom.

  “Tate?” Parker had ceased moving around the kitchen and was instead leaning against the island watching her.

  How long had he been staring at her like that?

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “I know that look. Stop profiling me.” He might work as a forensic scientist, but his undergrad had been in criminal justice, and he’d either taken a profiling concentration or the gift just came naturally. Either way she didn’t want him using it on her.

  He stepped from the island, moving slowly toward her. “I can’t help if my mind wonders.”

  “We both know where your mind wanders to. And . . .” She placed her palm on his chest, halting his advance. “That’s not happening.”

  He placed his hand over hers, and she refused to acknowledge the reaction his touch provoked. “Must you always assume the worst of me?”

  She yanked her hand away. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “Reputation and reality are often two vastly different things.”

  “You’re denying the rumors?” That he was a player who could charm his way into a woman’s heart and bed without batting an eye. With his looks and killer Irish accent, it wasn’t hard to believe.

  He cocked his head, a delicious smile quirking his lips. “Now don’t tell me you’ve been listening to water-cooler gossip? Really, Tate, I didn’t think you the type.”

  To gossip? Absolutely not. To keep her distance from charmers? You bet. “Charm is nothing more than deceit.”

  He arched a dark brow. “So you find me charming?”

  “Clearly you didn’t hear what I just said.”

  “I took in everything you said—spoken and unspoken.”

  “I told you, stop reading me.”

  “Listening. I’m listening to you.”

  And she was excruciatingly tempted to ask what he heard, what he learned, but she was terrified he might actually peg her correctly—that she couldn’t hide from him. “Then you heard I’m not interested.”

  His phone rang, and his eyes widened at the number. “Griff?” he asked, answering it. “What? We’ll be right there.”

  Avery frowned. “What’s up?”

  “Someone broke into and bugged Finley’s home.”

  17

  Finley sat on the couch, trying her best not to freak out as a handful of federal agents swept her home for listening devices. While waiting for Declan and his team to arrive, she and Griffin had quickly conducted their own search, locating two additional bugs in her kitchen and home office.

  Her stomach knotted as the realization that a stranger had been in her home again burrowed deep inside her burgeoning fear. She stood, pacing, praying the room would stop spinning, that the floating feeling would decrease.

  Please don’t let me pass out in front of Griffin.

  The horrifically embarrassing thought rattled through her, her stomach squeezing the breath from her lungs. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she be stronger? So a man had been in her home. It sadly happened to lots of folks, and they probably didn’t completely freak out. If only she were stronger.

  “We got two more,” Declan said, entering the front room.

  Her heart tightened. “Where?”

  “Your den.”

  She swallowed, sensing there was more. “And?”

  Declan’s gaze darted to Griffin.

  Why was he hesitating? What could be any worse?

  Declan exhaled. “Your bedroom.”

  A cold, pulsating wave washed over her. “They put a bug in my bedroom?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She wrapped her arms across her chest, clinging tight.

  “What?” Griffin’s one word communicated the raw intensity of emotion surging through her.

  “We found this.” Declan held up a marble-size device.

  She leaned forward, squinting through her narrowing vision. “What is that?”

  Griffin released a heated exhale. “A camera.”

  Nausea catapulted in her gut.

  “We found it in a stuffed monkey.”

  “A keepsake from my trip to Nevis.” It sat on the shelf opposite her bed and brought a smile to her face when she woke. She swallowed the acid bubbling up her throat. Someone could have been watching her sleep, wake . . . dress . . . ? The world tilted on its axis, spinning. She blinked, struggling to find purchase.

  Griffin placed his hand on her neck, gently lowering her into a chair and then dipping her head. “Deep breaths.”

  She inhaled rapidly.

  “Slower.” His firm voice held a world of comfort. “Deeper.”

  She listened. A handful of breaths later, she sat up, the space no longer spinning. “Thank you.”

  “We’ll get this guy.” The steely determination radiating in his eyes said it was
a guarantee.

  She nodded. Knowing if the man or men responsible for this intrusion had left any trace of their presence behind—a fingerprint, a strand of hair or flake of dandruff—Parker and Avery were the team to find it. Their work at the lab today had been top-notch. The lab . . . “The UPS package,” she said as it hit her.

  Griffin arched a brow. “What?”

  “The missing UPS package. Maybe there was no delivery.” If they’d bugged her home, what’s to say they hadn’t bugged her office too.

  “Smart,” Declan said. “When they are done here, I’ll tell my team and Parker to search the lab.”

  Griffin glanced at Winston curled up asleep on top of his feet. No wonder they were numb. Tonight had gone differently than planned, but he was so thankful he’d been there for Finley. Thankful they’d discovered the listening devices and the video camera. The thought of someone watching her, spying on her . . .

  Rage seared through him. This entire case was crazy. A murdered lab tech, near body snatch, swapped dental records, listening devices . . .

  He shook his head. Bugs weren’t typically part of a sniper’s arsenal. But, then again, they weren’t dealing with a typical sniper. They were dealing with an assassin. Which, in and of itself, made Jane Doe’s identity all the more intriguing. What was so important about her? Why had she been killed? And, why was it so vital to keep her identity hidden—even to the point of killing John . . . and nearly Finley?

  He glanced at her curled up asleep on the couch beside him. The urge to sweep her up into his embrace was nearly overwhelming.

  Parker entered the room with his kit in hand and a sleepy-looking Avery at his side. He rested the black case on the armchair.

  “Anything?” Declan asked, joining them.

  “What time is it?” Finley asked, her eyes fluttering open. She yawned and pulled to a seated position.

  “A little after two.”

  Everyone else had left except the five of them. Parker and Avery inspected the house on a meticulous level Griffin had never witnessed before. Impressive didn’t come close. Declan, of course, had insisted on staying until the sweep was complete.

  “Whoever did this was good, but . . .” Parker began, “we’re better.”

  Griffin stood, stretching his legs, trying to work blood flow back into his feet. Winston just shifted to his side with a sleepy grumble. Good to know he was on watch.

  “Whatcha got?” Declan asked.

  “A partial shoe print with some residue of lubricant. Best guess, grease, but we’ll head back to the lab and start processing. Along with joining the Feds in searching the lab. Will keep you posted.”

  Declan followed them out, leaving just him and a drowsy Finley—her hair tousled, her eyes heavy. Man, she was beautiful. Whoever married her would be one lucky man—getting to wake up to such beauty every day. If only . . .

  “Is it even worth going to bed?” she asked.

  “You need your rest. Besides, we’ve still got a few hours before we need to head back to the range.”

  “Okay.” She stifled a yawn. “I’ll set you and Winston up in the guest room.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll stick here on the couch and . . .” He looked down at his dog sprawled out between the couch and the coffee table, all four paws up in the air. “And clearly Winston is content on the floor.”

  “Okay . . . but why the couch?”

  “I can respond faster to an intruder down here.”

  “Oh.” She bit her bottom lip.

  “Not that I anticipate anyone being stupid enough to come back. I just want to take every precaution.”

  “I understand, and I appreciate it. I’ll go grab you some bedding.”

  She returned a few minutes later with an oversized pillow for Winston and one for him, along with a sheet and blanket.

  “Thanks.”

  Winston woke long enough to circle the pillow, flop down, squish it between his front paws, and burrow his large head into its white, fluffy depths.

  Griffin shook his head. “Real manly, bud.”

  “Aww. He’s adorable.” She bent, petting him good-night, and then stepped to Griffin.

  “Good night.”

  “Night.”

  She lifted onto her tiptoes, leaning in.

  His breath hitched.

  “Thank you,” she said, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

  He struggled to wrangle in the heat flaring through him. “You’re welcome,” he said, praying that hadn’t come out as throaty as it sounded to his ears. He’d practically groaned. This was bad. Very, very bad.

  Winston whimpered as she exited the room.

  He glanced over at his dog. “Believe me—” he exhaled the tautness coiled tight inside, all from a single kiss to the cheek—“I know how you feel.”

  ****

  With apprehension and acid burning a hole in his gut, he placed the call.

  “Yes?”

  He cleared his throat, knowing he was a dead man. “They found the bugs at her place.”

  “I’m aware, and I’ve been anticipating your call.”

  “The rest are still in play.” As far as he knew. He needed to track back to the lab to be certain.

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  He swallowed, hard. “No, sir.”

  “Did you leave anything that could tie back to us?”

  “No.” The only mistake had been knocking over the lamp when he heard someone approaching the rowhome, but he’d righted it before slipping out the rear and hopping the back fence.

  “You’d better be correct.”

  If not, it’d be his head. Literally.

  18

  Griffin pulled into the Red Barn parking lot, his throat tight and muscles coiled. They were sitting ducks anywhere out in the open—or near a window, for that matter—and he loathed the associated vulnerability. The cold, hard truth was, if the sniper watching them yesterday had wanted them dead, they would be.

  Father, as much as I want to protect Finley, we both know only you can truly protect her. You are the God of heaven and earth. You are the One who protects us from evil. Please shelter us in the shadow of your wings. Send your army of angels to encamp around us. Help equip us to see this case through and justice done.

  “You think he’ll be here?” Finley asked, glancing out the truck window.

  “Vern or the man watching us?”

  She slipped a loose strand of hair behind her ear—even the woman’s ear was alluring. He envisioned kissing his way along the curve of her neck up to . . . Whoa! Time for some cold, crisp air.

  “Both, I suppose,” she said.

  He took a deep, focusing breath. “Gunny says Vern never misses a shooting time, so unless he’s heard about us and has something to hide, he’ll be here.”

  “How would he hear about us?”

  “Shooting is a tight community. If any of the guys we spoke with yesterday thought Vern, or anyone else for that matter, should know about us, they’d have contacted them as soon as they left.”

  “So yesterday’s watcher?”

  “Could have been tipped off to our presence.”

  “He could have shot here?”

  “It’s possible, or he could have simply followed us here. He might have been following us since the news stations first announced our discovery of the body on Little Round Top.”

  “That’s comforting.” She exhaled. “But it would mean he might not have anything to do with the range?”

  Griffin shook his head.

  “You think it’s still worthwhile to question Vern Michaels?”

  “Yeah. He’s the man in the know according to everyone, which means he knows the shooters in the area, knows their gun preference, and knows if someone likes to shoot or owns our weapon in question.”

  “But if our killer is simply following us and has no ties here . . . ?”

  “Then this may prove to be a dead end, but it’s not in vain. If nothing else, we’ve lear
ned our killer is close. Close enough to respond to us finding Jane Doe’s remains quickly and close enough to try and steal her body.”

  Griffin chose the most concealed spot to park—close to the building’s rear and Gunny’s motorhome, providing them cover all the way to the front door. Nearly.

  The last few steps were in the open, and that was unacceptable. He’d use his body to shield Finley from any possible threat, any sniper’s scope.

  Griffin scanned the perimeter from the cover of the motorhome, while Finley remained sheltered inside the truck. No sign or inner sense of someone watching.

  Maybe the man knew he’d screwed up, had drawn too much heat. He had to know they were on to him, perhaps not his identity, but most certainly his presence.

  With a steadying breath, he opened the door and indicated for Finley to come. They moved quickly for the door and he exhaled a giant whoosh of relief once they were safely inside.

  “You’re back,” Gunny said, irritation ringing in his voice.

  He understood the man didn’t want them harassing his clientele and they’d be as quick and noninvasive as they could with Vern Michaels, but the fact was a woman was dead, a sniper was tracking them, and they needed answers.

  “Told you we’d be,” he said striding down the ammo aisle toward the man, Finley at his side. “Vern Michaels here?”

  “Yeah, but he’s not going to react well to your questions.”

  “Why not? I heard he likes to talk guns.”

  “With other shooters. Not law enforcement or whatever she is.” Gunny lifted his chin in Finley’s direction. So he had done some digging.

  “Forensic anthropologist,” she said.

  “Whatever. As charming as you are, lady, Vern isn’t the sort to betray confidences.”

  “Confidences? Interesting choice of words.” Griffin leaned against the counter, resting his forearms on the glass. “You make it sound like Vern definitely knows something.”

  “Guess that’s for you and your lady friend to find out. Vern’s on lane three.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You may not want to thank me yet.”

  He paused. “Why’s that?”

  “Vern’s not exactly what you’d call cordial.”

  Finley rocked back on her heels with a slight grin in Griffin’s direction. “You two should get along great.”