Cold Shot

by Dani Pettrey

  Finley glanced over, her curiosity piqued. “Sure.”

  “What’s with the tension and barbs between Parker and Griffin?”

  She’d been wondering the very same thing. “No clue.” She took a seat at the workbench and invited Avery to pull up a seat.

  Avery settled into the chair. “You want to hear my theory?”

  “You sound like Parker,” Finley teased. “Brimming with possibilities.”

  “Can’t help it—my mind is always spinning.”

  “So what has it spinning about Griffin and Parker?”

  “They used to all be close—Declan, Parker, Griffin, and the fourth guy they mentioned—Luke. I saw him in a couple pictures at Parker’s. I think something difficult happened and it fractured them.”

  “Difficult as in . . . ?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m guessing it has to do with Luke.”

  “Have you asked Parker?” She always found honesty to be the best policy.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And?”

  “And he quickly changed the subject.”

  “Interesting . . . but probably not the mystery we should be focusing our time on.” She glanced back at Marley’s picture.

  “You’re right.” Avery got to her feet. “My mind tends to track on all kinds of things, but she’s where our full focus should be. How long until Declan and Griffin get back?”

  “I told Griffin I’d wrap up around six-thirty or seven.” She was anxious to see him, to be in his comforting and engaging presence.

  It was difficult to relax knowing someone had invaded her home again— and, as it turned out, her office too. Sweeping the lab they’d found more listening devices. She glanced at the line of small rectangular windows high on the room’s outside wall and shivered. On top of it all, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being constantly watched.

  23

  Griffin and Declan made a stop by Rachel Lester’s last known address on their way up to Paul Geller’s place in Aberdeen. She lived off Pratt Street, but not the nicer end. Her apartment was above a shabby laundromat. The entrance was located at the rear of the building, and a gentleman who reminded Griffin of a run-down Donnie Wahlberg sat on a folding chair on the crumbling concrete porch.

  He lifted his chin. “What you two want?”

  “We’re looking for Rachel Lester.”

  “And you are?”

  “Federal Agent Grey and Chief McCray.”

  “FBI and the po-po.” He spit out a mouthful of sunflower seeds. “What’d Rach do this time?”

  “This time?”

  “Rach is always skirting trouble. Figured that’s why she took off.”

  “Took off?”

  “Yeah. Probably been eight, nine months since I’ve seen her around.”

  Same time Marley disappeared.

  “Any idea why she took off?”

  He popped more sunflower seeds in his mouth. “Nope.”

  A small tan dog yapped in the fenced yard next door.

  “Shut up, Rex,” the man yelled, but the dog continued. He stood and leaned over the crumbling stone porch wall. “I said shut it.”

  With a whimper the dog quieted.

  “Any idea where she went?” Declan asked.

  The sun beat down on Griffin’s back, warming him despite the chill in the air.

  “Nope.” He retook his seat.

  “And what was your relationship with her, Mr. . . ?”

  He laughed. “I’d hardly call it a relationship. We hooked up now and again.”

  “You lived in the same building, Mr. . . ?” Declan asked.

  “Ted Stavros, and, nah, she was bunking at my place.”

  Declan glanced over his sunglasses at Griffin, then back to the man. “Living together sounds more serious than hooking up.”

  “Dude, she couldn’t afford her rent. What was I gonna do? Kick her to the curb?” He wiped his nose and checked out a woman walking by. He yanked up his jeans and sucked in his gut as he replied, his eyes still fixed on the girl. “I ain’t that kind of guy.”

  Yeah, Griff thought, it was quite clear what kind of guy Ted was.

  “Does Rachel have family nearby? Could she be staying with them?”

  “Nah. Her family is out west, I think, and they aren’t close.”

  Not sounding like the passionate, dedicated people they’d witnessed interning at GJM.

  “Why’d she want to work at GJM?”

  “Beats me.”

  “She never said?”

  “Nah-uh. You’d have to ask her.”

  They’d also want to chat with Emily at GJM and see how Rachel presented herself during her initial interview and conducted herself throughout her internship.

  Ted’s description of the girl was very different than the brief description Emily had given. Better not to judge until all the information was in.

  The question forming in Griffin’s mind was, had she run because she was scared or because she’d been Perera’s mole? And, more importantly, where was she now?

  A man like Perera, according to the picture Paul painted, didn’t leave loose ends. If Rachel had worked for Perera, she would most certainly have been considered a loose end.

  Before leaving the city they made a quick swing back by GJM. Paul had just left for the day when they arrived, but their chat with Emily could be important and wouldn’t take long. It was worth the short side trip.

  “Gentlemen. Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” Emily closed the folder she’d been working out of. “What can I do for you?”

  “Rachel Lester.”

  “What about her?”

  “Who interviewed her when she applied for the internship?”

  “A number of us did.”

  “But you were among them?”

  “Yes.” Her thinly arched brows furrowed.

  “What was your impression of her?”

  “I don’t understand this line of questioning. I thought you were looking for Marley’s killer.”

  “Please,” Declan said. “It may prove quite helpful.”

  “All right.” She exhaled. “As I recall, Rachel seemed quite nervous that day.”

  “Like she had something to hide?”

  “Like she really wanted the position.” She narrowed her eyes. “I think I see where this is going.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Rachel’s past.”

  “Her past?”

  “Yes. As a Christian organization, we ask people where they are with their faith.”

  “And Rachel?”

  “Had recently come to Christ. She said she’d made mistakes in her past, but she’d given her life to Jesus and wanted to serve Him in every area of her life.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “She gave me no reason to doubt her.”

  “Did you run a background check? Fingerprints?”

  “Of course, due to the sensitive nature of our work.”

  “And no record?”

  “No.”

  At least not adult, but Griffin figured her juvie record told a very different story.

  Emily folded her hands on the desktop. “Why are you focusing on Rachel?”

  “Were you aware she was living with a man at the time of her disappearance?” Declan asked.

  “Yes. She told me she was having a hard time financially and was staying on his couch. I was trying to help her find a roommate among her fellow interns, but I’d hardly call leaving an internship disappearing.”

  “The man she was living with said he hasn’t seen her since March.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear that. I thought she just didn’t feel comfortable staying after Marley disappeared. Is there anything I or the organization can do?”

  “Give us whatever you have on her.”

  “Of course, and please keep me posted. This is extremely disconcerting.”

  As they headed for Declan’s vehicle, Declan asked, “What do you think?”
<
br />   “I don’t know.” Griffin’s gut said Rachel was in trouble or already dead, but, then again, his gut couldn’t be trusted in high-pressure situations.

  24

  The scent of Old Bay seasoning, a Maryland staple, wafted down the hall of Paul Geller’s condo building in Aberdeen—forty-five minutes northeast of Baltimore. His condo sat on the shores of an inlet to the Chesapeake Bay, a community beachfront picnic area visible from the hall windows they passed between condo doors.

  “Number 203,” Declan said.

  “Up on the left,” Griffin noted, hoping Paul didn’t give them any resistance. The man was emotion-driven, which made him unpredictable.

  Declan hovered his fist over the door. “Here goes nothing.” He knocked.

  Paul answered, dressed in running attire. “Great. You’re here. I can still make my four-twenty run.”

  “It may take longer than that,” Declan said, stepping inside. “We need to go through Marley’s belongings.”

  “I’ve saved you the trouble.” He retrieved a file box from his coffee table. “I’ve gathered anything you might consider pertinent.” He handed Declan the box.

  “While I appreciate your efforts, Mr. Geller, my colleague and I need to see all of Marley’s things—not just what you feel is pertinent.”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  Griffin shifted his stance, wondering what Paul was hiding.

  “If you’d like I can have a warrant and team here within the hour to conduct a full-scale search of your premises.”

  Paul’s lips thinned. “That won’t be necessary. Follow me.”

  Declan set the box back on the coffee table, taking in the leather sectional, the large-screen HDTV, and custom cherry bookshelves lining the walls—masterful workmanship. They followed Paul down the hall, noting the pictures of Marley lining them. Some she was posing for, others held an unsettling feel of voyeurism. No wonder he didn’t want them traipsing through his home.

  He paused outside of a room, his head bent, his hand on the knob. “Are you sure this is necessary?”

  Seriously. What was the man hiding?

  “Positive. Would you prefer we get a warrant?”

  Paul ground his jaw. “No,” he said, “that won’t be necessary.” Releasing a deep exhale, he opened the door.

  Griffin forced his feet to stay rooted in place, the urge to stagger tugging his legs.

  Before them was an exact replica of Marley’s studio bedroom, right down to the silver curtain rod and seashell curtains in front of the bed.

  Griffin took mental inventory of the room’s contents. The dresser was slightly different but painted to appear the same. A cross suncatcher hung in the window, though composed of a more primary color palette. The difficulty would be determining exactly which items had actually belonged to Marley and which ones Paul had so carefully replicated.

  Paul stood uncomfortably, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while Griffin and Declan examined the contents of Marley’s re-created room.

  “It would be helpful if you could point out what items of Marley’s you brought into the room,” Declan said.

  Paul swiped his nose. “What do you mean?”

  Griffin wondered how tactful Declan would handle this one.

  “I’m assuming everything in the room didn’t belong to Marley. Her landlady mentioned the place Marley rented was furnished, so I’m assuming some of this belongs to you?”

  Well done. He let Paul know they’d seen Marley’s place without fully pointing out the massive creep-out factor.

  “I see,” Paul said, stepping in the room. “The jewelry on the dresser is hers.” He cleared his throat. “The clothes inside.”

  He’d kept her clothes? Griffin’s skin itched.

  Declan stepped to the closet and opened the door to reveal what Griffin could only assume was Marley’s wardrobe. What depth of sicko were they dealing with?

  “Wow!” Griffin said, sticking Paul’s offered file box on Declan’s backseat, curiosity nipping at him. He’d probably riffle through it on the drive back to the lab. What had Paul deemed important, or had he simply given them what he was willing to part with?

  “No joke,” Declan said, glancing in the rearview mirror at Paul’s waterfront condo complex. “If he were a sniper . . .”

  “I know.” They’d have their man. “How long will it take to go through his financials?” His condo’s location and furnishings definitely spoke of a comfortable livelihood.

  “Probably a couple days.”

  Unable to resist the niggling curiosity, Griffin grabbed the box from the backseat and balanced it on his lap. “Let’s see what we got.” He lifted the lid and sifted through the contents.

  A handful of personal files, older bill statements, letters, clipped articles, nothing to tie to Perera—at least not anything apparent.

  He pulled out a handful of notebooks in various shapes and sizes, flipping through them.

  “Looks like an eclectic combination of a diary, to-do lists, notes from conversations, shopping lists . . .” He flipped pages, intrigued by the different shades of ink she used, even the variance in handwriting styles.

  “Guess she preferred old school,” Declan said.

  “Guess so.”

  He tried to follow the doodles, attempting to track the woman’s train of thought as her notes shifted from a handful of linear sentences at the top of each page to numerous patches of script and winding trails along the side edges, some even zigzagging and wrapping around the top, forcing him to turn the notebook upside down.

  “You’re gonna have fun with this project.” He could only imagine left-brained, linear-thinking Declan trying to follow Marley’s creative flow.

  “Au contraire. You, my good man, get this one.”

  “Funny.” Griffin stuffed the notebooks back into the box.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Why on earth would you put me on this?”

  “One, as I told you, my boss has made it painfully apparent I’m on my own for this. Two, you’re currently on leave, so you’ve got time. And three, and most importantly, you get people.”

  The ultimate irony. Declan was right. As much as Griffin loved solitude and privacy, God had gifted him with the ability to read people—though at times he definitely didn’t view it as a gift. And twice in his life the gift had flat-out failed him when he needed it most.

  “What about Parker?” he asked. God had gifted Parker in that same area. Though Parker, of course, tended more toward the philosophical while he was all about the tactile.

  “He’s got his hands full in the lab. Besides, he’s a profiler—focused on what motivates people. You, on the other hand, are a natural detective—able to see the small pieces of a person’s life and then put the puzzle together to form a whole. You see the details, and that’s what we need.”

  Truth was, if Griffin hadn’t been so set on SWAT, he’d have enjoyed being a detective.

  Even Kate had tried to hire him on when she’d left the Bureau to start her private investigator business. Speaking of Kate and being able to read people . . . “Heard from Kate lately?”

  Declan glanced over at him, wariness flickering in his eyes.

  Kate was Luke’s girl, had been since the first day on campus at the University of Maryland. She’d lived in their dorm, one floor up. Luke had taken one look at her knockout smile and offered to help move her in. They’d been inseparable since, right up to Luke’s disappearance nearly seven years ago.

  Sadly, Declan had fallen for Kate just as quickly, but it appeared no matter how much time passed she’d always be Luke’s girl, and Declan knew it. In all the years since Luke’s disappearance, Declan had never made a move. Oh, he’d kept in close contact with Kate. Helped her on her quest to find Luke—who they both believed was still alive and off on some heroic adventure. But he was just as certain that Luke wouldn’t just leave them like that. No way.

  “Last week,” Declan finally said, k
nowing Griff could read him too.

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Business is keeping her on her toes.”

  Kate thrived off adrenaline. “Bet she loves that.”

  “Yeah.”

  Like he loved her.

  Griffin felt for the guy. It couldn’t be easy being in love with a woman whose heart still belonged to someone else, especially when that someone else was one of his best friends, and even further complicated by the fact that he’d been missing for years.

  “Have you thought about bringing her in on this one?” Kate possessed a unique and impressive skill set. Part bloodhound, part ninja.

  She could provide great insight, and Declan came to life whenever she was around, though Griffin knew he beat himself up on the inside every day for it. Even though Luke had been gone for years, the fact remained a guy didn’t move in on another guy’s girl—or sister, for that matter. At least Declan got that.

  Declan tapped the steering wheel. “I’ve thought of it.”

  “And?” Her presence clearly brought him a mixture of pleasure and pain.

  “Maybe I’ll give her a call.”

  It’d be good to see Kate again. It’d been months since he’d seen her. Last time was Fourth of July weekend in Chesapeake Harbor.

  “Good, then maybe she can handle this.” He dropped the box back onto the rear seat of Declan’s Expedition.

  Declan flashed a smug smile. “Sorry, friend. Getting inside Marley Trent’s head is all yours.”

  So they took her things.

  If only he’d considered the co-worker earlier.

  That’d been his mistake.

  He’d hit her office and home, but somebody had already been there. Items were missing—home files picked through. He’d assumed the cops had confiscated them as evidence and simply missed what he feared, but apparently the co-worker had slipped in first.

  But why? He clearly was obsessed with the woman. That much was apparent now. But how had he known she was dead—that she wasn’t coming back—before anyone else figured it out?

  25

  Declan lifted his chin toward the Gunpowder pull-off a quarter of a mile ahead on the left. “How about it?”