Crossfire (18 page)

‘‘I don’t recall you being such a sweet talker.’’

‘‘That’s because you were pretty much wasted.’’

‘‘So were you.’’

He really hadn’t been, given that he’d stuck to beer. She’d switched to rum after the obligatory champagne toast, then gone on to outdrink him. But since he’d known at the time that he was breaking all the rules about not making love to a woman who’d drunk too much, Quinn had let her think so.

He slipped an arm around her waist and drew closer. Close enough that he could feel the heat of her body. The weight of her sidearm against his thigh should’ve splashed cold water on his libido, but Quinn figured it’d take a lot more than a Glock 9 mm to make him stop wanting her.

‘‘This isn’t going to happen,’’ she warned.

‘‘Want to bet?’’ He bent his head until his lips were a whisper from hers. ‘‘I don’t remember you being a coward, Cait.’’

She went rigid. Tossed up her chin, bringing her tightly drawn mouth even closer. ‘‘I’m not.’’

‘‘Then kiss me.’’ He splayed his hand against her back. ‘‘One kiss.’’ He could feel her draw in a breath as his lips lightly touched hers. ‘‘Then, if you can honestly tell me you don’t want to explore this a little deeper—’’

‘‘Even if there was anything to explore—which there isn’t—I couldn’t. Because I’ve got a killer out there.’’ She pressed her hand between them. Against his chest. ‘‘ I have to stay focused.’’

‘‘Try focusing on this,’’ Quinn suggested.

Then took her mouth. And ravished.

Cait had been married. She’d had lovers, and had even experienced a few reasonably lengthy relationships. It wasn’t as if she was some inexperienced virgin who’d get all starry-eyed and weak in the knees just because some hot guy kissed her.

But, dammit, the problem was no man had ever made her feel as desirable as Quinn did. With a simple look. Or touch. And, heaven help her, as a liquid heat began to pool in the lower part of her body, she’d never wanted a man as much as she wanted— needed—this one.

She wasn’t a coward. But she was afraid. Not of Quinn, but of this dizzying, out-of-control way he made her feel.

Then there was the fact that the timing was all wrong. She couldn’t go falling into bed with the former SEAL while some maniac was running around Somersett with an arsenal of weapons, gunning people down.

But oh, God, he tasted so good. Like black coffee, cinnamon gum, and lust.

‘‘This is so not a good idea,’’ she managed to say right before he sucked her tongue into his mouth, kissing her so hard he drew the air right out of her lungs.

The hell with it. It was only a kiss. No big deal, right?

She grabbed his hair in her hands and, arching against him, kissed him back, a damn-the-torpedoes, full-steam-ahead, hard, vicious kiss that set off explosions inside her.

Hooking one strong arm around her waist, he lifted her off her feet.

They knocked against the largest of the three bells, setting off a deafening clanging that shattered the silence.

And the mood.

‘‘Well.’’ Quinn took his time, sliding her down his body in a way she was surprised didn’t cause sparks. ‘‘I suppose it’d be a cliché to ask if you heard bells.’’

‘‘I think I’ll be hearing them in my sleep for the next ten years.’’

As if on cue, the phone she was wearing on her belt rang.

With her sixth sense sounding nearly as loud as those damn church bells, she flipped it open.

The message, from Angetti at the JOC, was short and to the point.

The shooter had struck again.

Although once again the shooter had managed to disappear seemingly without a trace, no one on the task force doubted they were dealing with the same guy.

In contrast to the smaller force that had shown up at the first shooting, hundreds of local, state, and federal officers descended on the supermarket parking lot. Along with the various cops, ATF brought in a yellow Lab.

‘‘Our dogs never eat from a bowl,’’ the handler, who despite the heat was wearing a black ATF raid jacket, informed Cait. ‘‘They’re trained to sniff for gunpowder and when they find it, they get fed. It makes for one motivated dog.’’

Unfortunately, they were getting this down to a science. The dragnet went out. The dog walked back and forth across the lot, nose to the asphalt. Two police helicopters circled overhead.

Cait couldn’t allow herself to think their efforts would be futile, but in her heart she was worried, because the shootings didn’t seem to fit any known pattern. They were too random, too geographically scattered.

A check of the license plate had shown the car belonging to a General Stockton, who was—no surprise— on staff at ASMA. According to the general, who’d been contacted at the academy, he and his wife had employed the victim as a domestic.

Coincidence? Or some connection?

But if they were connected, then where did the elderly crossing guard fit into the picture? So far, other than the fact that she had a grandchild enrolled in Air Force ROTC at Clemson, investigators hadn’t been able to find a military link.

‘‘How long has it been since you’ve had anything to eat?’’

Cait looked up at Quinn. They’d arrived at the crime scene two hours earlier, and she’d been so caught up in the investigation that she hadn’t noticed the time passing.

‘‘I’ve no idea. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a little busy.’’

‘‘Gotta keep fuel in the engine,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ve still got that vets meeting to go to.’’

‘‘That’s hours from now.’’

She glanced down at her watch. Three hours, anyway. She wondered if they’d be able to get through rush hour without another demonstration of firepower.

‘‘We need to talk.’’

‘‘I’m busy.’’

‘‘Don’t look now, Special Agent, but your crime scene is shutting down. I’ve got some thoughts I want to run by you. And since I’m hungry, I figure we might as well talk over burgers.’’

The search crews were wrapping up. The dog had come up empty, which had her worrying he might not get fed. Witnesses had not seen anything overtly significant. Oh, they’d gotten some descriptions of vehicles seen leaving the lot right after the housekeeper had been shot, but it was one of the busiest grocery stores in Somersett. Open twenty-four hours a day, with people coming and going all the time.

And then there was always the chance that he was using multiple vehicles. Perhaps even stealing them, then discarding them later.

She made a mental note to start running checks on all cars reported stolen.

Yet another needle in their hayfield.

‘‘Twenty minutes,’’ she decided.

‘‘Thirty,’’ Quinn countered.

Not wanting to waste any time arguing, she gave him his ten additional minutes.

The Black Swan, always popular, should have been packed. But even though it had been cleaned up after having been gone over by the lab, nearly half the tables were empty.

Quinn was surprised to see Joe Gannon sitting at the bar, a glass of iced Coke in front of him. He was even more surprised, and decidedly not pleased, to see the warmth with which Cait greeted her former partner.

‘‘So,’’ Joe said, after a hug that went on, to Quinn’s mind, too long. ‘‘Just think, if you’d come to work for Phoenix Team, you’d be missing out on one of the hottest events to hit the Lowcountry since Sherman’s boys rode through with their torches.’’

‘‘Lucky me,’’ she said. She glanced up at Quinn. ‘‘I guess since you both work for Phoenix Team, you two know each other.’’

He nodded. ‘‘Sure. What brings you off-island?’’

The former cop exchanged a glance with the Irish proprietor, who nodded.

‘‘Brendan here hired me.’’

Cait glanced pointedly around the nearly deserted pub. ‘‘It’s not as if you’re in dire need of an armed bouncer.’’

‘‘I hired Gannon as a bodyguard,’’ Brendan O’Neill revealed. ‘‘For Valentine.’’

‘‘That’s not such a bad idea,’’ Cait said. ‘‘I would’ve loved to have offered her protection, but it’s not as if we have a lot of extra resources.’’

‘‘Exactly.’’ Brendan nodded. ‘‘Which is why I took matters into my own hands.’’

‘‘Does she know yet?’’ Cait asked.

‘‘No.’’

‘‘She may not like you taking responsibility. It’s not like she’s never been in danger before, given all her war coverage.’’

‘‘She’s an intelligent woman. I believe she’ll see the light,’’ Brendan said with absolute confidence. ‘‘I’d be watching over her myself, but even though business is still down, I’ve still a pub to run. There’s also the little matter about me not being licensed to carry a firearm.’’

And Gannon was. Having shot on Phoenix Team’s firing range with the former homicide detective, Quinn knew him to be good. Not sniper good, but still good enough to give Quinn a run for his money once they’d switched from rifles to handguns.

Quinn could only hope Gannon wouldn’t need that Glock he knew the Phoenix Team agent had holstered it in the back of his jeans, beneath the navy blue polo shirt.

After placing an order for two cheeseburgers—one topped with chili—and fries, with coffee, Cait and Quinn chose a table in the corner. There was a little jockeying for position, as both of them automatically picked the seat that would put their backs to the wall, allowing them to view the entire room.

‘‘Old habits,’’ he murmured, leading her to a booth instead, where they could sit side by side.

‘‘Die hard,’’ she finished. ‘‘So.’’ She leaned her elbows on the table, linked her fingers, and rested her chin on them. ‘‘Shoot.’’

‘‘My guess is you’re looking for two guys.’’

‘‘Yeah, I know that’s how it worked in D.C.,’’ she agreed. ‘‘But the profilers are saying one. Or if there’s a second one, he’s subordinate.’’

‘‘Yeah. Exactly. The thing about being a sniper is that you get so your eyes magnify things even without the scope. Everything’s intensified. Your sense of smell, your hearing—your brain filters out the noise and turns down the volume until all you hear is silence. Or white noise, like the sound machines you can buy in those yuppie stores.’’

‘‘But you keep insisting he’s not a sniper.’’

‘‘True. But he’s still got to be concentrating on what he’s doing.’’

‘‘Which he can’t do if he’s also worrying about driving the car.’’

‘‘Yeah. There’s also the fact that if he had any sniper training at all he knows snipers all have spotters. Which means he’d want one just to feel more like the real deal. So, when we’re at that meeting tonight, you might want to keep that in mind. Don’t just be watching for a vet you think capable of blowing people away without a qualm.’’

‘‘I should also be looking for a guy willing to play second fiddle.’’ She took a drink of coffee, then shook her head. ‘‘I have to believe we’re responding as well as we can, given the circumstances of the case. We’ve even been in touch with the guys who worked the D.C. sniper case, and some of them are coming in to assist. But we need more evidence, dammit.’’

‘‘Which means more shootings.’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ She managed a faint smile, thanks to Brendan, who delivered their burgers and sweet potato fries, refilled their thick white coffee mugs, and returned behind the bar to continue setting his own strategy with Joe Gannon. ‘‘Talk about your catch-22. We really, really want this psycho to stop. But the longer he keeps on killing, the better our odds of catching him.’’

As serious as the topic was, when she bit into a crisp golden fry, Quinn felt a jolt, like lightning, shooting straight to his groin.

He was concentrating on keeping his expression from revealing the slap of lust when Joe Gannon ambled over, turned a wooden chair around, and straddled it.

‘‘So,’’ he said to Cait, ‘‘tell me what you know about this guy.’’

‘‘Not a helluva lot, unfortunately.’’

She filled him in, including, Quinn noticed, what weapons the guy had used. He’d learned early in his work for Phoenix Team that local authorities didn’t like to share with private cops, which made it more difficult to do their job.

‘‘I just keep thinking how, when I first made the move from street patrol, you taught me that the most important thing a detective had to keep in mind was who benefits,’’ Cait said.

‘‘That’s pretty much it,’’ the former detective agreed. ‘‘Figure that out, nine times out of ten you’ll close the case.’’

‘‘Also, murders are more often committed by individuals the victim knows. Most often family members.’’

He nodded. ‘‘Spouses are always the first place to look.’’

‘‘So, I can see Jacob’s wife wanting to get rid of a cheating spouse.’’

Sure, divorce was easier, but she’d also checked out the Jacobs and discovered that the general’s widow had inherited a tidy sum from her grandfather, a former WWII general who’d come back from the war and parlayed his service into a cushy seat on Wall Street. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to waste any of that money on lawyers when she could get rid of the guy— or pay to have him exterminated—herself.

‘‘And, although I don’t like to think it, since I used to know the guy and liked him a lot, maybe Ryan Hawthorne’s wife had a rosy scenario about a future with Jacob and decided her husband was in the way of her own happily-ever-after.’’

‘‘That’s not an impossible leap.’’ He paused. ‘‘Just like it’s not impossible that Hawthorne decided to pay the guy back for sleeping with his wife.’’

‘‘True,’’ she allowed. Quinn could tell she hated that idea. ‘‘Though it’s even harder to stomach than Ryan’s wife being a serious suspect, we both sure saw worse things during our days on the force.’’

‘‘The second murder somewhat lets them off the hook,’’ Joe said.

‘‘Yeah. Kristin Davis stands to inherit big bucks. Also, she volunteers with your brother’s PTSD group. It’s not impossible she could’ve found herself a shooter.’’

‘‘I think this is where I point out that not all vets with PTSD are candidates to become serial killers,’’ Quinn said, breaking into the conversation. ‘‘And taking advantage of some vet with problems that Kristin’s supposed to be helping would be damn cold.’’

Though he, too, had seen worse.

‘‘That’s probably why it’s called cold-blooded murder,’’ Cait suggested.

‘‘Kristin doesn’t seem the type.’’

‘‘Says the guy who pointed out that it’s often hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys,’’ Cait said.

‘‘Touché.’’

‘‘One problem with either of those who-benefits scenarios is, the murders aren’t connected,’’ Joe pointed out.

‘‘They could be if one was done to throw us off track,’’ Cait said.

‘‘That’s a stretch.’’

‘‘But not impossible. But, damn. Shooting the crossing guard.’’ She bit into another fry and chewed thoughtfully. ‘‘That doesn’t make any sense. Unless it was a meant to be sleight of hand.’’

‘‘To take the focus off the real motive,’’ Quinn said.

She nodded. ‘‘Exactly.’’

‘‘Or the guy’s a wacko.’’ Joe snagged a fry from Quinn’s plate. ‘‘Who just likes smoking people.’’

‘‘I’m trying not to go there,’’ Cait said. ‘‘Because if that’s true, then we’re going to have to hope like hell we get lucky and the shooter screws up, because it’s the only way we’re going to catch him.’’

‘‘Like the truck driver spotting the D.C. shooters at that rest stop,’’ Joe mused.

‘‘The main problem is that they don’t fit any identifiable patterns,’’ she complained. ‘‘Most homicides are about greed. Or revenge. Or hate.’’

‘‘Or love. Or at least a twisted version of it,’’ Brendan, who’d come over to refill their coffee mugs, offered. ‘‘Where I guess Valentine would come in.’’

‘‘It’s always a possibility. And one we’re taking seriously, though I’m glad you hired Joe as backup,’’ Cait said.

‘‘It’s best someone apprehend him quickly,’’ the pub owner said.

‘‘Well, we’re all in agreement with that.’’

‘‘Because if the bastard were to harm one hair on Valentine Snow’s head, I’d have no choice but to tear off his bloody arms and legs and beat him to death with them.’’

Silence dropped like a stone over the table. Quinn figured he wasn’t alone in thinking that the threatening words sounded even more deadly for having been uttered in such a calm, matter-of-fact tone.

‘‘Works for me,’’ Quinn said.

Cait’s gaze went back and forth between the two men, reading intent. ‘‘If either one of you goes cowboy on me, believe me, you’ll be wearing cuffs and eating dinner on an aluminum tray behind bars.’’

She clearly meant it. But, interestingly, O’Neill seemed less than impressed by the threat.

‘‘Then you’d best be apprehending the shooter,’’ he said mildly. ‘‘Sooner, rather than later.’’

Cait’s eyes turned as hard as O’Neill’s, the clash of stone on stone almost audible.

‘‘She’s important to me,’’ the man finally said. And in the confessing of it, he revealed a weakness that felt all too familiar.

One of the reasons Quinn had never allowed himself to get emotionally involved with any woman while he’d been in the SEALs was that as soon as you cared about someone, you risked becoming weak. It would take only a split second, while you worried about leaving behind a widow and kids, for the enemy to gain an advantage. Which could end up costing not just your own life but your team members’ as well.

Spending his first eight years constantly on the move and then the next eight in the revolving door of foster care had taught Quinn that relationships were as ephemeral as the morning mist floating over the marsh.

But that hadn’t stopped him from thinking about Cait Cavanaugh over the years. Too much. And too damn often.

‘‘Nothing’s going to happen to Val,’’ the woman in question was assuring him as Quinn dragged his uncharacteristically wandering mind back to the conversation. ‘‘Especially since the love connection thing doesn’t feel quite right to me, because it brings us back to a Hinckley-type shooter. Or even that guy Chapman, who shot John Lennon. Which this guy isn’t.’’

‘‘Because he doesn’t stand around and wait to get arrested,’’ Quinn said.

‘‘Yeah. I’m not even going to try to get into the legal definition of insanity, but Hinckley had to know that Reagan was surrounded by Secret Service agents, and John Chapman just stood there after killing Lennon at point-blank range and handed his weapon over to the Dakota’s doorman . . .

‘‘This guy has an agenda. And I have this horrible feeling that he’s got a cat-and-mouse game going.’’

‘‘That definitely gets my vote,’’ Joe agreed.

‘‘The thing is,’’ Cait said, clearly on a roll, ‘‘with most crimes, the victim and the perpetrator are either related or know each other. And, like Joe always says, the answer comes down to who benefits.’’

‘‘Which, as you already pointed out,’’ Quinn said, ‘‘gives you quite a few suspects with the first two shootings.’’

The burger was medium rare, the chili topping it hot enough to set off the smoke detectors. Just the way Quinn liked it.

‘‘Yeah. But none of the dots connect them.’’

‘‘At least not yet.’’ Quinn didn’t envy her. ‘‘But you’ll get him.’’

‘‘Damn right I will. I just need to get him yesterday.’’ Cait balled up her paper napkin. ‘‘Right now I need to run by the JOC. See if the media guy’s arrived yet. And see if Drew Sloan has turned in the paperwork on the first two autopsies. Maybe something will show up that’ll connect them. Maybe something in their systems.’’

‘‘You’re thinking something like drugs?’’ Joe asked.

‘‘Not really. But sure as hell the one thread we don’t pull will be the one that’s connected to the motive.’’

‘‘There’s something else you need to do,’’ Quinn said.

‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘Run a check of all the military guys who’ve washed out with undesirable or bad conduct, or dishonorable discharges.’’

‘‘Talk about needles in haystacks,’’ Cait muttered.

‘‘Hey, you’re the feds. Use that FBI badge for something other than intimidating local cops and law-abiding citizens. While it’s true the military might not be real fond of the bureau, one thing the brass does care a helluva lot about is negative publicity.