Her Deadly Secrets

by Griffin, Laura

  Jeremy’s shadow fell over her, dimming her light as he shielded her from people.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure yet.” She skimmed the top page. As she flipped through the papers, her pulse picked up until she could hardly breathe.

  “Holy hell,” she murmured.

  “What, Kira?”

  “Two years ago, Ava Quinn’s brother filed for bankruptcy.”

  His eyebrows went up.

  “He had creditors, too,” she said. “Some of them are listed here. I wonder if he had any unlisted ones.”

  “You’re thinking of Andre Markov.”

  “Right.” She looked up. “I mean, Markov’s dirty. Not the kind of guy you want listed in your court documents, especially if what you owe him for is something illegal, such as drugs or whatever. But Craig Collins might have owed him money.”

  “You’re saying Craig killed his own sister and cleaned out her safe?”

  “Craig had an alibi. He got a DUI on the night of the murder.” She shook her head. “But maybe he hired it out. Or maybe Markov did it, and it was some kind of trade.”

  “A trade like . . . ‘I’ll help you murder my sister and steal her cash, and then we’re square’?”

  “Exactly.” Kira’s heart pounded as all the pieces fell into place. “It makes sense, right? Her brother probably knew she was having marital problems. She might have mentioned she was hiring a fancy divorce lawyer, and he spotted an opportunity to intercept that big fat retainer.”

  “It was cash?”

  “Her attorney handles divorces, so money can be tricky. He only takes cash and wire transfers, and she probably wanted to hide the transaction from her husband. So say Craig pumped her for information about it, so he knew when the money would be in her safe, and he picked the timing for the murder.”

  “And then he got himself arrested for a DUI, giving himself an alibi,” Jeremy said. “Damn, that’s cold.”

  “Yes.” She checked her watch. “I need to call Brock. I think I just found the alternative suspect Ollie was looking at.”

  “Two suspects,” Jeremy said.

  “Right. And I think we have their motive right here.”

  Charlotte bumped into Diaz as she was leaving the police station. The fast-food cup in his hand told her he’d already had lunch.

  “Hey, check this out.” He handed her a stapled stack of papers.

  “What is this?”

  “Just got this from my FBI contact. I asked him about Andre Markov.”

  Charlotte stepped out of the traffic flow beside the door as she skimmed the top page.

  “This is an arrest record for Anatoly Markov.”

  “Andre’s father,” Diaz said.

  “He was busted for drugs. And . . . check fraud. But this is old. The most recent arrest was twenty years ago.”

  “Yeah, but I hear the feds have him on their radar. Him and his businesses. They’re looking at RICO charges, and my friend told me he’s rumored to be behind an unsolved murder in Channelview.”

  That got her attention. “Tell me more.”

  “One of Anatoly’s dock workers got popped on drug charges—intent to distribute. He managed to get his throat slit two weeks before trial.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yup. Like I said, the feds don’t have it all nailed down, but they’re looking at this guy hard, and he’s Andre Markov’s father.”

  Charlotte skimmed the papers again. “Mind if I keep this?”

  “It’s yours. Where you headed?” he asked, holding the door open for her.

  “I got a message from Kira,” Charlotte said. “She wants to meet, and she says it’s important. You want to come?”

  “Sure.” He fell into step beside her on the sidewalk.

  “She’s at Logan’s law office. Their team is on a lunch break. I’m going to meet her there before I head over to the courthouse. The Quinn trial is starting, and I want to sit in.”

  “Why?”

  “You know. Get a read on the players. Watch Logan. Get a feel for his case.”

  Diaz smiled.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he replied.

  “That was definitely a look,” she said as they crossed the parking lot. “What is it?”

  “You and Logan.”

  “Me and Logan?”

  “Yeah, I noticed you’re interested in him.”

  “I am not interested in him. I hate lawyers.”

  Diaz shook his head.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  They reached the car, and Charlotte slid behind the wheel. She grabbed the accordion file from the passenger seat to make room for Diaz. As he got into the car, she slid the new paperwork into the file and pulled out a forensics report.

  “Read that,” she said, handing it to him. “It’s from Grant.”

  Diaz skimmed the paper as she backed out of the parking space.

  “This is from the car hood last night?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Says the prints aren’t in AFIS.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But he got a full handprint?”

  “That’s right.”

  Charlotte exited the parking lot. She glanced at Diaz, and he was frowning at the page. “I don’t get it. Sounds like a dead end.”

  “Keep reading.”

  She changed lanes so she could pick up Smith Street, which would take her straight to Logan’s building.

  “One of the prints matches the glove from Brock Logan’s back fence.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Bingo.”

  “So whoever it was at Kovak’s office last night is our shooter.”

  “Yep. And Grant’s still working. He said he had another lead on the print, but he had to confirm something first.”

  “That’s vague.”

  “Yes, but given Grant’s track record, that’s good, right? He turns over every stone.”

  Charlotte fought her way through the lunchtime traffic. The streets were still wet from the drizzle earlier, which made people forget how to drive. Diaz didn’t talk, and she took advantage of the quiet to sort through her thoughts about the case.

  The shooter was after something. As in some thing, a physical object. Otherwise, why grab up all the electronics from Logan’s house? And ransack Ollie’s office looking for something? And then return to that office as if whatever it was still needed to be found?

  But Charlotte couldn’t figure it out.

  So much paperwork was digital now. Why would the killer want a physical copy of something? It had to be something unique. And uniquely incriminating. Such as a piece of biological evidence, maybe. Or a murder weapon. Or a stash of money. Some thing with value in and of itself. But that theory didn’t tie in with the theory she’d come up with originally, that the shooter had shown up at Logan’s home and gunned down Gavin Quinn’s defense team and stolen their computers and files in order to throw a wrench into their court case.

  Who the hell was this guy, and what was he after? And why was he so certain that whatever it was, Oliver Kovak was in possession of it at the time of his death?

  Kira knew much more than she was saying. If she wasn’t careful, her secrets were going to get her killed.

  “You’re quiet over there.”

  Charlotte looked at her partner. “Just thinking. Mind?” She picked up his drink from the cupholder.

  “Finish it. I’ve had enough caffeine.”

  She took a slurp. It was real Coke, cold and sugary, and she wished she’d had time to grab a bite of lunch. She wasn’t looking forward to sitting in court on an empty stomach.

  Charlotte pulled into the parking garage beside Brock Logan’s office and took a ticket from the dispenser. There was a row of spaces marked reserved, and she pulled into one, adjusting the police hangtag on her rearview mirror, which she hoped would keep her from getting ticketed.

  They crossed the garage to the door, where the
y were met by a wall of frosty air. An all-glass tunnel led to the main lobby of Logan’s building. It was a three-story atrium with a huge black sculpture in the center. The sculpture was an oblong-shaped glob on two spindly legs, and Charlotte thought it looked like a charred flamingo.

  She scanned the lobby for any sign of Kira.

  “There she is,” Diaz said, and Charlotte followed his gaze to a group of people walking from the elevator banks. Charlotte spotted the PI. She was dressed like a lawyer today in slacks and high heels, and she had her hair pulled up in a ponytail. Evidently, she planned to be in the courtroom this afternoon, too.

  At her side was Jeremy, who was half a head taller than everyone else in the lobby and looked intimidating in his dark suit. He’d skipped the tie today, but he appeared every bit as grim as he had at Ollie’s funeral Saturday.

  Spotting Charlotte and Diaz, Kira crossed the lobby and stopped in front of them.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” she said to Charlotte.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “A lot.” She pulled a blue folder from her bag. “Take a look at this.”

  Kira watched as the detective skimmed the paperwork and knew the exact moment her gaze landed on the name Craig Collins. She glanced up.

  “Where did you get this?” Spears asked.

  “The courthouse this morning.”

  She looked at her partner. “This is the deadbeat brother-in-law Quinn mentioned.”

  “What about him?” Diaz asked, peering at the folder.

  “It’s a bankruptcy filing. Ava Quinn’s brother has money problems.”

  Watching Spears flip through the pages, Kira felt a swell of relief. Clearly, she understood the implications in terms of a new suspect in Ava Quinn’s murder case.

  Brock emerged from the crowd near the elevator bank. He was flanked by two bodyguards, Erik and Trent, and the three of them made an imposing trio in their black suits. Brock noticed Kira and walked over. The entire legal team had spent the lunch break in the conference room, strategizing about how to incorporate Kira’s latest bombshell into their client’s defense.

  Gavin, meanwhile, had stood beside a window, silently gazing out over the downtown skyline. The man had looked shell-shocked. And he probably was. Kira couldn’t even imagine the betrayal he must be feeling right now.

  Brock’s entourage stopped beside Kira.

  “You show her?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  A shrill scream pierced the air.

  Kira whirled around, searching for the source as the screams continued.

  Hands clamped around both her arms.

  “What—”

  “Go!” Jeremy commanded as he and Trent propelled her across the lobby. They were on either side of her, and her feet barely touched the ground.

  “Move, move, move!” Jeremy said, slicing through people as they hustled her to a corridor. They rushed down the hallway and stopped at a solid gray door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Jeremy opened it, and she noticed the pistol in his hand as he pulled her inside.

  “What—”

  “Get down,” he ordered, cutting her off again.

  She dropped into a crouch beside the wall, and Brock joined her.

  “What happened?” she asked Brock.

  “I heard someone say something about a gunman.”

  “Where? I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Don’t move,” Erik ordered. “I’ll be right outside.”

  Kira’s chest clenched as the door whisked shut, leaving them alone in the dingy room. It was a staff break room, from the looks of it, with a table and chairs in the middle and a coffeepot on the counter.

  “Where’s Gavin?” Kira asked.

  Brock was already on his phone. “Fuck,” he muttered. “He’s not answering.”

  Kira’s chest tightened again. She tucked her forehead against her knees and tried to breathe.

  The door burst open, making her jump, but she saw that it was Jeremy.

  “Quinn’s been shot.”

  She jumped to her feet. “Where is he? Where’s the gunman?”

  “He fled the building.”

  “He?”

  “They think it’s a he.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?” Brock demanded.

  “Quinn’s bodyguards,” Jeremy said. “Come on.”

  Taking Kira by the elbow, Jeremy guided her to a door she hadn’t noticed before. He opened it and stepped into an adjacent room that was bigger and brighter and crowded with people. A long counter on the far wall was filled with video monitors.

  Erik leaned over one of the screens, pointing at something and talking to two uniformed security guards.

  Brock turned to Jeremy. “What happened?”

  “Quinn was stepping out of the elevator when someone shot him,” Jeremy said. “He went down right there, and the woman beside him started screaming.”

  Brock cursed. “Is he—”

  “Paramedics just showed up. We don’t know.”

  Jeremy turned to Kira and rested his hand on her shoulder. “You all right?”

  “Yes—I didn’t hear gunshots. I didn’t hear anything, except for the screams.”

  Jeremy stared down at her, his gaze intense. And then she understood.

  The hallmark of this shooter was that he used a silencer. He’d probably scoped out the lobby and waited in the crowd by the elevator until Gavin stepped off.

  Kira closed her eyes. Jeremy’s hand tightened on her shoulder.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I . . . I can’t believe this is happening again.”

  “Kira.”

  She turned to look at Erik.

  “Come take a look at the monitors. We’re searching for a tall male wearing a black baseball hat, according to an eyewitness.”

  She crossed the room to the row of screens and studied the footage. She recognized the concrete pocket park in front of the office building. People milled around and sat on benches, seemingly oblivious to what had just happened.

  “Anyone look familiar?” Erik asked. “You and Jeremy might be able to ID him.”

  Kira studied the figures. The camera was placed at a second-story vantage point. She searched for someone running or jogging or even walking briskly away from the scene. She moved to the next monitor, which showed a view of the attached parking garage. The next monitor showed footage of the sidewalk on the building’s north side as a police car raced up to the curb and stopped.

  Diaz stepped over. “See anything?”

  “Not yet,” Jeremy said.

  Kira turned to Erik. “Are we sure he fled through a street-level exit? What about the tunnels?”

  “A witness said he went out the front door, walking quickly.”

  “Walking?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “There.” Jeremy leaned forward and tapped on the monitor. “That’s him.”

  “Is that Rusk Street?” Diaz leaned closer. “Okay, we’ve got an update,” he said into his phone. “He’s moving east on Rusk. I repeat, east on Rusk.”

  “Who’s he talking to?” Kira asked Erik.

  “Detective Spears. She went after him.”

  Kira eased closer to Jeremy, peering around him to look at the monitor. She immediately saw what had his attention: a tall man walking quickly down the sidewalk. He wore a baseball cap and had both his hands stuffed into the pockets of a heavy jacket that didn’t fit the ninety-degree weather.

  “That’s him.” Jeremy pulled Kira closer. “Take a look.”

  She studied the man’s gait, his build. “Yeah, I think that’s him,” she said.

  As he neared an intersection, the man pulled off his jacket and wadded it into a ball. He walked past a trash can and stuffed it inside.

  “He’s at Rusk and Travis, and he just ditched something. Maybe the weapon,” Diaz said. “You see him? Looks like he’s headed into the Southwest Bank Tower, west entrance. You copy?”

  Kira’s heart pounded as
she watched the man enter the building. “That bank lobby has direct access to the tunnels.” She looked at Diaz. “You guys are about to lose him.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  WEST ENTRANCE?” Charlotte demanded, pressing her phone to her ear as she ran as fast as she could.

  “Affirmative.”

  She raced for the revolving glass door, where people streamed in and out. She still hadn’t spotted the man in the black ball cap, so she was blindly following Diaz’s directions over the phone.

  “We have units en route,” Diaz said. “Should be there in . . . one to two minutes.”

  Faint sirens sounded in the distance as Charlotte reached the door. “Tell them to hurry.” She entered the lobby, where she was hit by a cold blast of air-conditioning. She skimmed her gaze over all the people, searching for a black ball cap, or even someone tall moving suspiciously quickly. Baseball caps were easy to ditch, and she couldn’t get hung up on that detail.

  “I’m told there’s an escalator there,” Diaz said.

  “I see it. Shit.” She was already rushing toward it. “He might be going for the tunnels.”

  “You have visual ID?”

  “No.” Charlotte hopped onto the escalator. All the way at the bottom was a man in a black ball cap. “Wait, yes. I see him!”

  She elbowed past people, rushing down the steps and trying not to trip. Her Glock was gripped in her hand, but no one seemed to notice as she squeezed past them. She reached the bottom and found herself in a long, narrow hallway filled with throngs of businesspeople moving to and from lunch spots.

  “You have him?” Diaz asked.

  “Not anymore,” she said as she jogged down the corridor, dodging huddles of people who’d stopped to talk or read their phones. “I need backup here ASAP.”

  “It’s coming.”

  “I’m hanging up now so I can run.”

  She stuffed the phone into her pocket and increased her speed, moving as fast as she could through the congested corridor. She’d lost sight of the ball cap and didn’t even see anyone tall ahead of her anymore.

  “Shit,” she muttered, cutting through the crowds.

  The corridor emptied into a huge atrium with a food court centered around a giant water fountain. People sat on the wall of the fountain, eating lunch and looking at their phones. Others lined up at restaurants and food kiosks.