Cold Shot (19 page)

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, knowing 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

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

Griffin glanced at his watch. Finley said she wouldn’t wrap up at the lab for a couple more hours.

“Sure. We’ve got time for a quick hike.”

Declan switched on his blinker and pulled into the trailhead lot. “Excellent.”

“We’ve got a situation.”

“What’s wrong now?”

“They took stuff from the co-worker’s place.”

“What
kind
of stuff?”

“A file box for one.”

“I thought you said our girl in-house got all the pertinent files?”

“She did.”

“Then why the hesitation in your voice?”

Because she waited until after he’d shot her to let him know she hadn’t taken everything they needed. It irritated him that the crazy broad had died with a smug smile on her face.

“This has gone on long enough. I’m taking over.”

“I got this. They just pulled off into a trailhead. It’s the perfect opportunity.”

“Then pull the bloody trigger. Just make it look like an accident. I don’t want any more heat. Then take care of the woman. She’s poking her nose where it doesn’t belong.”