Her Deadly Secrets

by Griffin, Laura

  The intruder was shooting at her.

  Another crash from the kitchen, and Kira’s heart skittered. Was that Logan? The gunman?

  She tried to think. The phone glowed in her hand, and she realized the call had connected. She muted the volume with her thumb and ducked low, trying not to make a sound. Where was the shooter? Inching to the end of the sofa, she peered around it. She could see Ollie in the foyer, and he wasn’t moving.

  Kira crawled back to him, hoping he’d stay quiet and then hating herself for hoping that. His face was slack and ashen. She stripped off her blazer and pressed it against the crimson stain on his chest.

  Ollie, please.

  She heard more commotion at the back of the house as she desperately tried to stanch the bleeding, but the wadded fabric was already soaked through.

  Kira’s stomach twisted, and she pictured the gunman walking up behind her and putting a bullet in her skull. Blood, warm and sticky, covered her hands now, and she felt a surge of panic. This couldn’t be happening. She checked the phone again, hoping they were tracing the call. The line was still open, but she had it on mute. If the shooter was nearby, she didn’t want to draw him in here.

  Ollie, come on. Open your eyes.

  He wasn’t moving, wasn’t blinking, wasn’t making a sound. The rest of the house had gone quiet, too. She prayed the shooter wouldn’t come back. Had he fled out the back door? Was he in another wing of the house? Where the hell was Logan? She pictured him dead in the kitchen, and her blood turned cold.

  Everything was quiet. Too quiet. The only sound was the frantic pounding of her own heart.

  Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead.

  The quiet ended with an earsplitting shriek.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  CHARLOTTE SPEARS pulled up to the curb and surveyed the action. This was not her lucky night. She counted five patrol units and two SUVs, but the CSI van was nowhere in sight.

  She got out of the car, tucking a notebook into her pocket just as a media van turned the corner and rolled to a stop beside the police barricade.

  “Oh for two,” she murmured.

  Charlotte studied the house. The sidewalk leading to the front door had been cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape, so she picked her way up the steep lawn, cursing as her heels sank into the grass. She’d considered going with flats today because of the soggy weather but had ditched the idea. She’d learned to accept the dull pantsuits her job required, but she would never be a gumshoe.

  Charlotte paused beside a pair of cement lions and noted the open French doors on the far end of the courtyard. Ken Phan stood in the doorway talking to another uniform.

  Okay, so maybe her luck was changing. She liked working with Phan. He had an eye for detail and didn’t have a problem with female authority figures.

  Phan looked up and waved her over to the alternative entry point. Something must have gone down near the front door.

  “Welcome back, Detective. How was your break?”

  “Too short,” Charlotte said, trading her heels for paper booties. She stepped through the French doors into a formal dining room with a table big enough for twenty.

  “What have we got?” she asked.

  “Shooter rang the bell. Guy who answered took it in the chest, point-blank range,” Phan reported.

  She sniffed the air. “Smells like a fraternity party in here.”

  “Vic dropped his beer when he got shot. There’s glass everywhere.”

  Charlotte stepped closer to the entry foyer, where a crime-scene photographer in a white Tyvek suit was crouched beside a dark red puddle. She snapped a photograph of the blood, then stood and stepped carefully around some shards of brown glass.

  “Where’d she come from?” Charlotte asked. “I didn’t see the van outside.”

  “They parked around the corner. Street was a mess when we got here. Looks like someone’s having a party down the block.”

  Which would add even more chaos to an already hectic scene, no doubt. But maybe they’d catch a break and one of the partygoers had seen something.

  Charlotte nodded toward the foyer. “Is our victim the homeowner?”

  “No. Homeowner was in the kitchen. He had some kind of confrontation with the perp, who got a couple shots off and left him bleeding on the floor.”

  The photographer continued taking pictures from various angles. The puddle was smeared, and it looked like emergency personnel had already managed to muck up the blood evidence.

  “Are the victims a couple?” Charlotte asked.

  “The vic works for the homeowner.” Phan smiled. “And last I heard, Brock Logan likes women.”

  She turned around. “Brock Logan the lawyer?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Guy from the foyer is Logan’s investigator, apparently.”

  Charlotte disliked lawyers in general and defense attorneys in particular. She’d never met Logan personally, but she’d gone toe-to-toe with plenty of defense attorneys in court over the years, and it was about as fun as a migraine.

  Phan led her through the dining room and into a spacious kitchen. Most of the room had been taped off, including another bloody patch of flooring near the granite cooking island.

  “Logan went down there.” Phan nodded at the spot. Once again, there was a great deal of blood. Near a door to the utility room, Charlotte noticed a smear of red on the wall beside a keypad.

  “After the shooter fled out the back, Logan managed to get up and set off the alarm,” Phan said.

  “What’s the status on him?”

  “Both vics were transported to Hermann Hospital. I don’t have an update.”

  “Get one.”

  Phan stepped away and spoke into his radio as Charlotte studied the scene. The breakfast table was a mess of legal pads and index cards. File folders were strewn across the floor, along with loose papers and a FedEx envelope. Charlotte noted two black power cords plugged into the wall but no computers in sight.

  “We’re getting an update,” Phan reported.

  “Two laptops stolen?”

  “Looks like. But nothing obviously missing in the rest of the house. There’s a bunch of high-end electronics everywhere. He’s got a gold Rolex sitting on the dresser in the master bedroom and a pistol in the top drawer of the nightstand, so not your typical burglary.”

  Charlotte didn’t like the sound of that.

  “There’s a partial footprint on the FedEx envelope on the floor there,” Charlotte said. “Make sure the techs see it.”

  “I did.”

  She shook her head. “So this guy just rings the bell, shoots Logan’s PI, comes in here and shoots Logan, then helps himself to some computers?” She glanced through the archway into the entry foyer. “Why’d the PI open the door in the first place?”

  “Witness said they were expecting a food delivery.”

  Charlotte’s gaze snapped to Phan. “What witness?”

  “There was a girl here, too.”

  “A child?”

  “No, a woman. Sorry.” Phan cleared his throat. “She was here the whole time. The perp shot at her and missed.”

  “Is she injured?”

  “No.”

  “Where the hell is she?”

  Kira sat motionless on the patio chair.

  Motionless except for her hands, which wouldn’t stop shaking. She clamped them between her knees but couldn’t get them to still.

  The scene before her seemed far away. Detached. She was surrounded by people and noises and clipped commands, and she felt like she was on a movie set, watching a cast of characters rush this way and that. She kept thinking someone would jump into the action and yell “Cut!” and it would all be over.

  But the people around her weren’t actors. They carried real badges and real guns with real bullets that could tear through flesh.

  Kira’s stomach roiled, and she leaned forward, hoping she wouldn’t puke. S
he glanced at the huddle of cops on the other side of Logan’s patio. The pool lights cast their skin in a bluish hue, and again she felt like she was in some alternative universe. She was sitting on Brock Logan’s patio in a borrowed Harris County EMT sweatshirt with Ollie’s blood all over her jeans.

  Police had arrived shortly after the alarm sounded, and Kira didn’t know whether it was her phone call or the security system that summoned them. Maybe both. Ollie had been loaded onto a gurney and whisked away. Logan, too. He’d been conscious, at least, and cops had pelted him with questions as paramedics wheeled him out.

  Ollie hadn’t been conscious at all. Hadn’t been moving or even breathing, as far as Kira could tell.

  She tucked her hands under her thighs, but still they trembled. She stared down at the little bits of glass embedded in her knees.

  Kira took a deep breath to steady herself and got a whiff of chlorine. Logan must have just had his pool shocked. She looked out over the blue expanse, and again she felt like she was on a movie set.

  As she watched the group of police officers, the patio door opened, and a tall woman with short blond hair stepped out. She wore pants and an HPD windbreaker, and she towered over her male counterparts, including the heavyset uniform who’d interviewed Kira earlier. Hanson? Hamlin? Kira couldn’t remember his name. Her brain was only minimally functioning, and her answers to his questions had come out garbled and disjointed. Embarrassed, she’d asked him for some water, and he’d given her a look of disapproval before he’d flipped shut his notebook and walked off.

  The woman turned, and her gaze rested on Kira. She broke free from the others and walked over.

  “You’re Kira Vance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Detective Spears, HPD.” She took a notebook from her pocket. “Can you tell me what time you arrived at the residence?”

  “Where’s Ollie?” Kira sat up straighter and squared her shoulders. “Oliver Kovak. He had a pulse when they took him out of here. I heard the paramedics talking.”

  The detective looked her over. “He’s been transported to Hermann Hospital. That’s all I know.”

  Kira’s chest squeezed. A tremor went through her, and she broke out in a cold sweat.

  “We should know more soon,” the detective said. “Can you tell me what time you arrived at the residence?”

  Kira took a deep breath. “Around six forty.”

  “And you were coming from . . .?”

  “Work.”

  The detective nodded. “Where do you work?”

  “I work for myself. Not, like, for a company. I’m a licensed PI.” The woman’s eyebrow tipped up as she scribbled in her notebook. “And you were coming from . . .?”

  “Downtown,” Kira said. “I had some papers for Ollie that I knew he’d want for tonight’s meeting.”

  The detective flipped a page in her notebook. “Officer Hanlin tells me you got a look at the shooter.” Her eyes locked with Kira’s. “Can you describe him?”

  “It was a blur, really. I didn’t see much.”

  “Was he white? Black? Tall? Short?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you get a look at his clothing?”

  “He wore a gray sweatshirt. He—” Kira halted. Her throat went dry.

  “Ms. Vance?”

  “I saw him before.”

  The detective’s gaze sharpened. “When?”

  “When I pulled up. He was jogging. He had a gray hoodie and shorts, and he was jogging down the street right in front of the house.” The words spilled out of Kira’s mouth, and she was sweating again. “I had a fleeting thought about how that takes discipline, jogging in the rain like that, but maybe . . . I don’t know.”

  “You think he was casing the house?”

  Kira nodded.

  Spears eased closer, her gaze intent now. “What else do you remember?”

  “He was white.” Kira visualized the jogger. “Caucasian but . . . tan. He was tall. And he was wearing these tinted glasses. Amber-colored.” Which was odd, now that she thought about it, given the weather. “I didn’t notice his hair because of the hoodie.”

  Officer Hanlin was back, and he looked Kira over as he handed her a bottle of water. Spears motioned for him to step away with her, and they spoke together in low voices.

  Kira twisted the top off the water and took a gulp. It felt cool on her throat, and she realized how thirsty she was. She guzzled half the bottle. Then she poured the remainder over her fingers, trying not to think about Ollie’s blood as she wiped her hands on her jeans.

  Another cop approached. He talked to Spears, and Kira overheard the words “Kovak” and “hospital.” She held her breath as the detective stepped over.

  “Ms. Vance? We just got word about your friend.”

  One look at her eyes, and Kira knew.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  THE WHINE of the Cessna’s engine made conversation impossible as the plane banked and descended, and that suited him fine. Jeremy Owen didn’t like small talk, and he had a special aversion now, as he closed in on hour forty-two of a trip that had bounced him around the globe. He’d started in Jakarta and been through three airports before getting waylaid in San Jose and catching a lift home on a client’s jet.

  Jeremy was on edge. He needed food, a shower, and about three days of uninterrupted sleep before he was fit for human contact. He glanced at his teammate across the aisle, who was in worse shape than he was, dealing not only with extreme fatigue but with a dislocated shoulder that was going to knock him out of active duty for the foreseeable future. It had been a grueling job. Things had started out crappy and gone shitty from there, and Jeremy was ready to put the entire op in his rearview mirror.

  He scrubbed his hand over his itchy beard and looked out the window. The morning sun gleamed off the bayou, and he squinted at the glare. Last time he’d had a bird’s-eye view of Houston’s Buffalo Bayou, he’d been in a helo packed with veterans en route to a staging area. It was two days after a hurricane had dumped fifty-two inches of rain on the city, stranding thousands of people in flooded houses until a volunteer army had pulled them out in skiffs, airboats, and kayaks—anything that would float. Jeremy had been drained that week, too, but not nearly as exhausted as he was right now.

  The Cessna swooped low over the trees, and Jeremy tried to shake off the daze as the ground loomed closer. It was a pissant airfield with a too-short runway, but the pilot coasted in for a perfect landing, and Jeremy wasn’t surprised, because he was a former Marine.

  At the end of the runway was a twin-engine Otter. Catching sight of the familiar pickup parked beside it, Jeremy went from dog-tired to alert in less than a heartbeat.

  The plane taxied to a stop. Jeremy grabbed his duffel as his teammate exited ahead of him. Jeremy shook hands with the pilot, then trudged down the stairs, his attention locked on the man waiting beside the truck.

  Erik Morgan was dressed as usual in black BDUs and boots, with a SIG P220 on his hip. But the look in his eyes made it clear something unusual was up.

  Jeremy crossed the tarmac and stopped in front of him. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  Jeremy tipped his head back. He wanted to howl at the sky. Or punch something. Or turn around and walk away.

  “Fuck,” he said.

  “Get in.” Erik nodded. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  Jeremy tossed his duffel in back and slid into the truck. Erik quickly got moving, veering around the Otter and speeding across the tarmac to the exit.

  “The rest of Bravo Team is in Los Angeles, and Alpha just started a training rotation,” Erik said.

  “What about Lopez?” Jeremy asked. “Special assignment in Aspen.”

  “What about Keith?”

  “He’s in already.”

  “Trent?”

  “In already. So is Joel, and Cody’s sidelined with the shoulder injury. That leaves me and you.”

  “Five agent
s?”

  “Six, including Liam.”

  Jeremy stared at him. “Who’s the client?” Not that he gave a damn, but it had to be someone big for their CO to be directly involved.

  “Brock Logan.”

  Jeremy rubbed his eyes. “I’ve heard that name.”

  “He’s an attorney in Houston. Involved in some big murder trial that’s about to start.”

  “The doctor who killed his wife. I read about it.” Jeremy shook his head.

  “Someone tried to take out his legal team last night, killed one of them,” Erik said. “Now his law firm’s scrambling to hire protection. They’ve got an in with Liam, so everything’s code red, rapid response.”

  Jeremy leaned his head back against the seat. Physically and mentally, he was whipped. He was in a black mood, too, and the dead last thing he wanted any part of was a hastily organized op for some VIP client. A well-connected attorney, no less. Shit, shoot him now.

  He looked at Erik. His friend was tense. Determined. And he hadn’t budged a millimeter on anything.

  “Our entire op went to shit,” Jeremy reminded him. “We haven’t even done a full debriefing yet.”

  “Liam’s aware. He wants you anyway.”

  “Then he’s getting a compromised agent.”

  Erik looked at him. “Are you?”

  Was he?

  Deep down, Jeremy knew he was solid. He had four tours in Afghanistan under his belt and five years with one of the world’s most elite security firms. He was trained to take a hit and get right back in the fight. Plus, he wasn’t the one who’d made the mistake that screwed everything up. But still, he felt rattled. Pissed off. Morose. And all that was in addition to being tired beyond belief.

  “I’m not a hundred percent,” Jeremy said. It was the closest he could come to admitting he had some work to do to get his head straight.

  “Get there.” Erik looked at him. “We need you on this one.”

  Kira awoke with sun in her face and a screaming headache. She closed her eyes, trying to quiet the noise, but it only grew louder, and she sat up, wincing.