Cold Shot (12 page)

“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

G
riffin 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.”

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.