Crossfire (17 page)

Just as Cait reached for her Glock, the figure in the bell tower waved. And moved forward and a bit to the left, which allowed her to see him more clearly.

‘‘What are you doing up there?’’ she shouted, her heart beating jackhammer hard, jackhammer fast in her chest.

‘‘Come on up and I’ll show you,’’ Quinn McKade shouted back.

She should’ve shot him just on principle, Cait thought furiously as she marched across the street and yanked open the huge oak door.

St. Brendan’s Cathedral had been built in the Gothic style, of pinkish-gray bricks made from local clay. Inside, the ceiling was vaulted with heavy timbers, and benevolent angels and cherubs smiled down from the fresco in the nave. A sanctuary lamp glowed dimly in front of the tabernacle, votive candles flickered in red glass holders, and the sun shone warmly through the stained-glass windows that depicted tableaus of the saint’s life.

Cait’s thoughts were far from saintly as she marched furiously past the softly varnished pews, her heels ringing on the stone floor.

She climbed a narrow, twisting stairway that led to yet another door. Just as she reached for it, it opened.

‘‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’’ she demanded as she burst into the bell chamber.

‘‘I told you—I’m checking out sites your shooter might use.’’

Although women had remained a mystery to him for all thirty-three years of his life, Quinn realized she would not be flattered by his observation that she really was flat-out gorgeous when riled up. It brought a bright flush, not unlike that during sex, to her cheeks, and her eyes flamed a brilliant cobalt blue. She’d looked at him like that once before. Right before she’d taken him inside her.

‘‘Did it ever occur to you that I might have shot you?’’

‘‘Never happen. You said you’d never used your weapon in the line of duty before.’’

‘‘Just because I haven’t in the past doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have today.’’

‘‘Nah. You’re too good a cop. You’d never go off half cocked.’’ His lips quirked at his unintentional pun. ‘‘So to speak.’’

‘‘What if someone had called the cops? And one of them got a little trigger-happy? SEALs might think of themselves as Superman, but I’ve never heard of one yet who can actually outrun a bullet.’’

That scenario, as unlikely as Quinn believed it to be, was admittedly a bit sobering.

‘‘Okay. Maybe I should’ve notified the cops ahead of time.’’

‘‘Well, duh.’’ She dragged a hand—a surprisingly unsteady hand—through her wild mass of red hair.

‘‘Better be careful, Special Agent,’’ he said. ‘‘If I didn’t know better, I might get the idea you actually care whether I live or die.’’

‘‘Of course I do.’’ Before he could take satisfaction in that, she just had to tack on the qualifier. ‘‘I joined the cops to protect and to serve the citizens of Somersett. Which, as it turns out, includes you.’’

‘‘Ouch. And here I thought maybe you’d decided to drop the grudge.’’

‘‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’’

But she did. He could tell it in the way she squared her shoulders. Lifted her chin. And in the quick flare of color on those high cheekbones that could cut diamonds.

‘‘You know, if we’re going to work together, we’re going to have to put it behind us,’’ he said.

‘‘We’re not really working together. And there’s nothing to put behind us.’’

Quinn rubbed his chin and decided that he had her right where he wanted her. Well, actually, he’d prefer her in bed. Or in his hammock. Or in his shower, with water streaming down her slick, wet, naked body.

But since that wasn’t likely to happen in the next ten minutes, he’d settle for right here, where the only way she would be able to escape the overdue conversation would be to jump off the roof.

‘‘So, I guess what you’re saying is that having wild, chandelier-swinging sex with a guy in his hotel room, then taking off before he can get back with breakfast and refusing to ever speak to him again is standard behavior for you?’’

‘‘Of course not.’’

‘‘Better be careful, sweetheart,’’ he said. ‘‘If you clench your jaw any tighter, you’re going to shatter those pretty white teeth.’’

‘‘I’m not your sweetheart. And this entire conversation is inappropriate while innocent people are getting shot. If you want to talk about snipers, I’ll be more than happy to listen. Anything else is off the table.’’

Actually, he wouldn’t mind having the luscious FBI special agent on a table.

‘‘You’re a tough cookie, Cait. But okay. Here’s the deal. There’s no way the guy’s just picking sites on a whim.’’

‘‘Why not? If you factor in the crossing guard, he certainly seems to be shooting people at random.’’

‘‘I’m not so sure about that. Think about it. What’s more likely to boost him from a local crazy blowing away former military guys to leading all the national newscasts? How about killing someone surrounded by kids on the way to the first day of school? And hey, those little blue, green, and white plaid uniforms make an even better picture on TV.’’

‘‘You know,’’ she said slowly, thoughtfully, ‘‘that’s not such a bad point.’’

He slapped a hand against his chest. ‘‘Damn.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘I think you just gave me a heart attack. Maybe all the years being around gunfire have left me hearing-impaired, but I thought for sure you just agreed with me about something.’’

‘‘Ha. Ha. Ha.’’ Because the small chamber was taken up mainly with three iron bells hanging mute on their thick ropes, Cait put the briefcase on the wooden floor, opened it, and showed him the note, which was visible through the clear envelope.

‘‘So this is all about Valentine Snow?’’

‘‘I can’t discount it. Not when it could be like John Hinckley shooting Reagan to get Jodie Foster’s attention.’’

She glanced around, as if really taking note of her surroundings for the first time since she’d come storming into the bell tower to confront him.

‘‘This isn’t good.’’

‘‘Depends on your point of view. To a would-be shooter, it’s one of the best places in town.’’

She shielded her eyes with a hand to the forehead and made a slow circle. The bell tower was the highest point in the city, offering panoramic views for miles.

To the east was the harbor, leading out to the sea. While some of the harbor-front development was still necessarily industrial, more and more of the area was being gentrified, with the old warehouses turned into trendy restaurants, shops, and loft apartments.

Normally, especially during Buccaneer Days, the cobblestone streets would be packed with tourists. The shooter—and Quinn continued to refuse to refer to him as a sniper—had definitely taken a bite out of the shopkeepers’ profits.

To the south was the river, its banks having recently been turned into a greenbelt. On weekends locals would flock to the grassy expanse for picnics. Today, it too was largely deserted. Beyond the river, the marsh spread out over the land, the still, black waters reflecting stark gray cypress.

Admirals’ Park, with its formal gardens, Spanish moss-festooned ancient oaks, and lacy white Victorian bandstand, was to the west. As was the military academy.

Whatever sprawl the city was experiencing was to the northeast, where new subdivisions, featuring leafy green parks, playgrounds, tennis courts, and swimming pools, were being established for young, growing families.

‘‘He could shoot right down into the parade ground of the academy,’’ she said.

‘‘He could. Actually, from here he could shoot just about anywhere he wanted.’’

‘‘But he’d have to get off the roof without being noticed.’’

‘‘There’s an alley right behind the building,’’ Quinn pointed out. ‘‘Wouldn’t be that difficult to tie a line around one of these steel beams, then rappel down. Especially now that he’s switched to a silencer. If he sticks to a single target, he could be gone before anyone realizes there’s been a shooting.’’

‘‘Damn.’’ She briefly squeezed her eyes shut, as if wanting to rid her mind of possible images, none of them pretty. ‘‘You know what I hate about this? Other than innocent people being killed?’’

‘‘You’re playing catch-up. You’re on defense, while he’s on offense.’’

‘‘Exactly.’’ She didn’t look as surprised as she might have last night that he’d known what she was thinking. ‘‘There’s no way of knowing where he’s going to be. Or when. We’re getting a lot of help from a lot of different agencies, but even if we called in the entire U.S. military, there wouldn’t be enough personnel to protect everyone in the city. We’ve probably got a one in one hundred gazillion chance of catching him in the act.’’

‘‘There you go, being pessimistic again,’’ he said. ‘‘We’re not talking New York City here. I’ve come up with a few other hides, like this one. Station some plainclothes guys at them, and odds drop to maybe one in a thousand.’’

‘‘Well, that’s encouraging.’’

‘‘It’s a start. He’s also making it easier by moving from place to place.’’

She cocked her head. Gave him a hard look. ‘‘Why would that make it easier? Seems like with him being on the run the way he is, it’s only going to make it more difficult.’’

‘‘You’d think that. Which is yet more proof that he’s a shooter, not a sniper. A sniper’s main role is to dominate the battle by removing the threat.’’

‘‘The threat being the bad guy.’’

‘‘Sure. A lot of militia, which are big on strutting around and acting like big shots, have a top-down leadership structure. Which means the grunt on the ground isn’t trained to take command. So if you kill the officer, the troops’ll scatter like cockroaches.

‘‘But it’s other things, too. Communication is key on a battlefield, and someone not trained to think about the big picture might think the best idea, when you spot a radio guy, is to shoot him.’’

It took her only a split second. ‘‘Better to shoot the radio. If you kill the operator, anyone else can pick up the radio.’’

‘‘Roger that. You’ve wiped out a major threat. The thing about being in the middle of a firefight is that your entire focus is on what you’re seeing in your sniper scope. Which means you want to stay put and let the other guys protect you from additional firepower.’’

‘‘Our guy isn’t in a firefight. And he doesn’t exactly need protection,’’ she pointed out dryly. ‘‘Since we can’t find him.’’

Quinn wondered if she realized she’d gone from talking about the shooter as her guy to speaking of him as our guy. He liked the idea of her thinking of them as a team, even though she might not be willing to admit it yet. Even to herself.

‘‘True. But again, he’s demonstrating he doesn’t have true sniper skills. Or a sniper mind-set. Moving from place to place is going to make him vulnerable. Someone’s going to spot him. Or at least his vehicle. Then we’ve got him.’’

He could read the skepticism on her face. But there was determination there as well. The odds might be against them, but he could tell that she wasn’t going to let them get her down.

A zephyr of wind blowing off the nearby water slipped into the chamber, picked up the ends of her hair, and blew a few random curls in her eyes. She was just about to push them away when he caught hold of her wrist and took care of it himself.

The red curls were soft as silk. Memories of that bright, fragrant silk spread over his chest were all it took to make thoughts of snipers and death leave his mind.

‘‘Do you ever think about that night?’’ he asked as he trailed his fingers down the side of a face that was as smooth and pale as porcelain, but much, much softer. And warmer. ‘‘Not New Year’s. The second one.’’

‘‘No.’’

Her own memory, which flashed in her eyes, came and went so quickly that a lesser man might have missed it.

Quinn did not.

She was a liar. A lovely one, but a liar just the same.

‘‘I do.’’

Emboldened despite her insistence that she only wanted to talk about the case, he allowed his caressing touch to follow the arched line of her upper lip. That night, after he’d called her beautiful, she’d felt the need to point out flaws that were imperfections only in her own mind. Like her slight overbite, which had her bemoaning years of braces that hadn’t achieved perfection but which Quinn had assured her was sexy as hell.

‘‘I remember a lot of things. Like the way you tasted.’’ He stroked her bottom lip. From the way her lips parted, ever so slightly, Quinn knew he wasn’t the only one thinking about hot, sweaty sex. ‘‘And the way that god-awful dress crackled like cellophane—’’

She lowered her eyes, just for an instant. She’d darkened the tips of her lashes, but they gleamed gold at the lids. ‘‘It was taffeta.’’

‘‘It was ugly as homemade sin.’’

She’d regained her composure. Met his gaze again as a hint of a smile teased at the corner of those lips he’d spent a great deal too much time in the long dark hours of last night thinking about.

‘‘It was a bridemaid’s dress. They’re supposed to be ugly so the bride can shine.’’

‘‘The only way any woman could outshine you, Cupcake, would be if you took to wearing a brown paper bag over your head and a pair of camouflage BDUs. But I’m not even sure that’d work. Because you’d still be radiating sex from every fragrant pore.’’