Crossfire (25 page)

‘‘You knew the prayer,’’ Quinn said as they drove out of town into the marsh.

Cait didn’t ask what prayer he was referring to.

‘‘I guess I failed to mention while I was drunkenly bemoaning my newly divorced state that I’d gone to some Al-Anon meetings. My ex was an alcoholic.’’

‘‘That’s tough.’’ He also suspected it might have had something to do with why she’d been in such an uncharacteristically fragile state that night when she’d been fresh off the official end of her marriage.

‘‘It wasn’t easy. The irony that I went through a brief stint of overdrinking myself after the breakup has, by the way, not escaped me,’’ she said, confirming his suspicions. ‘‘And, although I know we all have to take responsibility for our own actions, it wasn’t entirely his fault. He was a nice guy—when he wasn’t drinking—and a good person, who also happened to be a vice cop.’’

‘‘Who, let me guess, stayed too long on the job.’’

‘‘Yeah. He’s in burglary and arson now. Which, although it’s not exactly Disney World, is a lot better than hanging out in the vice sewer. He’s been sober going on four years.’’

‘‘Good for him.’’

‘‘He remarried a couple years ago. They’ve got a toddler and another one on the way. They seem really happy.’’ She paused. ‘‘Happier, I think, than he would’ve been with me.’’

‘‘Don’t you think that’s being a little hard on yourself?’’

‘‘Not so much on myself, but I do think our situation contributed to our problems. His new wife’s a kindergarten teacher. She reminds me a bit of Mary Poppins, which is probably just what he needs in his life. Murder,’’ she said dryly, ‘‘doesn’t make for the best pillow talk.’’

‘‘Probably not. Yet I know this SEAL, Nick Broussard, who works for Phoenix Team. So does his wife, who used to be a Chicago homicide detective. They seem to be making it work.’’

‘‘Good for them.’’ She shrugged and pretended intense interest in the scene outside the passenger window.

‘‘Sounds as if you’re not a real fan of matrimony.’’

‘‘I’m sure it’s a fine institution. For people who want to spend their life in an institution,’’ she said. Then sighed. ‘‘I’m sorry. That sounded really negative.’’

‘‘You’ve had a rough couple of days.’’

‘‘That’s still no excuse to be so snarky. Especially since I’ve seen marriages work. My parents have been married thirty-six years.’’

‘‘That’s admirable.’’

‘‘Yeah. How about yours?’’

He paused. How much to tell? Obviously she’d been too busy with her shooter case to run a background check on him. Or maybe she just wasn’t interested.

He was going to have to come clean. But, telling himself that she already had a lot on her mind, Quinn decided to hedge.

‘‘My dad died when I was eight.’’

‘‘That’s too bad.’’ She glanced back toward him. ‘‘He must have been fairly young. Was it an accident?’’

‘‘No.’’ Not unless you considered it an accident that had taken ten years to finally happen. Like a runaway freight train racing without brakes down the side of Mount Everest. ‘‘Actually, it was suicide.’’

Suicide by cop. Specifically FBI.

‘‘I’m sorry.’’

She touched a hand to his arm, her fair skin a contrast to his dark. Although he knew it was only his imagination, Quinn imagined he could feel her touch, which was meant to soothe, branding his flesh.

‘‘So was I.’’

‘‘But your mother’s still alive?’’

‘‘Yeah.’’

‘‘Where does she live?’’

Jesus. Cait Cavanaugh was obviously a detective all the way to the bone. The need to question everyone about every little thing was probably woven into her DNA, along with her blue eyes and bright hair.

‘‘West Virginia.’’

‘‘I’ve never been there. But I’ve heard it’s beautiful country.’’

‘‘So I hear.’’

‘‘This is admittedly none of my business, but you haven’t visited her?’’

‘‘She only moved there recently.’’

Which was the truth, since his sources had informed him she’d been transferred from the federal prison in Phoenix. Which he’d never visited either, because she’d insisted, from the day the FBI had taken her away in handcuffs, that she wanted him to forget she existed.

Like that was ever going to happen. Though he did quit writing to her the summer he turned eleven, after three years of weekly letters being returned to sender. A guy can take only so much rejection, after all.

Even from his mother.

Especially from his mother.

‘‘Oh.’’ She seemed to accept that. ‘‘I guess that’s why you don’t have an accent.’’

‘‘Yeah. We moved around a lot while I was a kid.’’

‘‘Well, I can certainly identify with that. Personally, I know people who like a constant change of scenery and lifestyle. But I hated it. How about you?’’

‘‘Like the plague,’’ he agreed.

Then, deciding it was time to drop the subject before he found himself in over his head, he said, ‘‘You did good back there at the meeting.’’

‘‘You couldn’t tell my knees were shaking?’’

‘‘Not at all. I wouldn’t hold my breath, but it’s possible you might get some calls.’’

‘‘I sure hope so. Oh, since you seemed to have assigned yourself to the role of my unofficial partner, you might as well know about a few other avenues I’m checking out.’’

Quinn knew that given her druthers, Cait would rather that the shooter had never shown up in Somersett. He could tell that she regretted the loss of life and was concerned about the little boy who’d given her the possible vehicle ID, and he agreed with her conclusion that so long as the kid’s name didn’t get out, he was probably not in any immediate danger. Especially since she’d said he hadn’t seemed like the type to feel the need to brag about his part in the investigation all over his new school.

He could also tell that there was a part of Cait that was jazzed about being back in the action. Which made him wonder what his chances would be of recruiting her to work for Phoenix Team.

She might not have wanted to admit it, but they worked well together. Quinn sure wouldn’t mind making their partnership official.

‘‘May I ask a question?’’

‘‘Sure,’’ he said, bracing himself for something personal.

‘‘That bullet you wear around your neck? I assume there’s a story behind it?’’

‘‘Yeah. Sorta. It started back in ’Nam with Marine scout snipers. The other troops in-country started calling the snipers pigs, because they ran around half shaven, with camouflage paint all over their faces, and their eyes perpetually bloodshot from lack of sleep. Instead of being insulted, they decided to claim the title, and since snipers never wear insignias on their uniforms, they started wearing a bullet on a chain around their necks as a badge of the profession.’’

‘‘Snipers don’t wear insignias?’’

‘‘No. Because they don’t need that kind of recognition.’’

‘‘Another reason my shooter might not be an actual sniper,’’ she mused. ‘‘Given that he’s obviously looking for notoriety.’’

‘‘Exactly. It’s a sniper’s duty to work behind the scenes. And unlike a uniform ribbon or badge, you can decide whether or not you show a bullet.’’

‘‘Like you did today. As a way of letting the other vets know your credentials without actually having to talk about them.’’

‘‘Got it in one.’’

‘‘But you’re not a Marine.’’

‘‘Thank God.’’ He grinned. As grim as the subject was, Quinn realized he was actually enjoying himself. Enjoying being with her, whatever the circumstances that had brought them together. ‘‘Although the SEALs didn’t pick up the practice, the army snipers eventually did.’’

He reached up and fingered the copper-clad bullet. ‘‘This belonged to a Marine who was on a mission with our team in Afghanistan. He gave it to me right before he died.’’

‘‘That’s nice, I guess. In a sad way.’’

And wasn’t that an understatement? He’d only taken to wearing the bullet from the kid Zach had nicknamed Opie when he’d started writing the book based on the battle that had taken the young Marine’s life. It kept him in the scene, which might be helpful for the writing but sure as hell hadn’t done a lot for his peace of mind.

‘‘He must have thought a lot of you,’’ she said quietly. ‘‘To want you to have it.’’

Quinn wasn’t sure, but he had the feeling that the story—which he hadn’t intended to share with her, at least not until they nabbed this shooter and could move on to the personal aspect of their relationship— had softened whatever animosity she’d been hanging on to.

Which was, he decided, perhaps one positive thing to come out of that deadly clusterfuck in Afghanistan.

The crime scene, which was quickly becoming dotted with orange evidence flags, was lit up like Christmas. Along with the flashing red, white, and blue lights atop the various vehicles, ATF had brought out some klieg lights so bright Cait felt as if she was looking into the sun.

‘‘The kid was right,’’ she murmured, looking down at the charred corpse inside the burning hulk of galvanized steel. ‘‘It actually was an Altima.’’

‘‘Not that we know yet that this vehicle has any connection to our shooter,’’ the ever pessimistic Angetti, who’d somehow escaped phone duty and shown up from the JOC, pointed out.

‘‘True. But it’s one helluva coincidence if it doesn’t.’’

‘‘You can see the bullet hole,’’ Drew Sloan pointed out. ‘‘In the right temple.’’

‘‘An execution,’’ Cait said.

‘‘Obviously, despite all the evidence, I’m not about to officially call it as a homicide until I can get the guy into the morgue,’’ the medical examiner said. ‘‘But it sure as hell would’ve been a tricky way to pull off a suicide.’’

‘‘Light a fuse, climb inside the truck, and shoot yourself before the car catches on fire isn’t exactly the easiest way to off yourself,’’ John Tremayne said.

‘‘He got rid of his spotter,’’ Quinn murmured.

‘‘From the bottles of liquor in the ashes of the shack, the guy had probably become a liability,’’ the ATF agent said.

‘‘Probably went over the tipping point,’’ Zach agreed. ‘‘Where he became more trouble than he was worth.’’

Cait shielded her eyes against the glare and turned to Sloan. ‘‘You can’t get DNA from charred bones, can you?’’

‘‘Not usually from the bones themselves,’’ he said. ‘‘But occasionally it’s possible to extract it from marrow or connective muscle. But I doubt that’ll be necessary in this case.’’

‘‘Why not?’’

He snapped on some latex gloves and tossed a second pair to the ATF guy standing next to the smoldering car. ‘‘Help me turn him over.’’

Cait watched as together they carefully lifted the body onto its left side.

‘‘Wow.’’ She stared down into the trunk. Not only was the carpet still unsinged, but the entire back of the dead man’s naked body was intact. ‘‘How did you know that?’’

The doctor grinned. ‘‘Saw it on CSI.’’

‘‘No shit?’’ Angetti asked.

‘‘Actually, I picked it up during a class put on by the University of Tennessee’s body farm and Oak Ridge National Lab.’’

‘‘Cool,’’ Quinn said. ‘‘Gross. But cool.’’

‘‘We needed the guy to make a mistake,’’ Cait said. ‘‘And lucky for us, it looks as if he may have just screwed up.’’

Although the Home Handi-Man parking lot, like most of the others in Somersett, was nearly deserted, the shooter parked the van far enough away from the automatic doors to stay out of the glare of the halogen lights.

He would have preferred for the store to be busier, which would’ve allowed him to blend into the crowd, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and besides, since the lack of customers in the building supply store was his fault, it wasn’t like he had any right to bitch about the situation.

He strolled through the aisles, picking up several cans of white spray paint, a one-hundred-gallon heavy-duty plastic storage box with a tight-seal lid, a box of black industrial-strength trash bags, a hacksaw with a locking screw design for jab sawing, and three carbide grit blades. He doubted he’d need that many, since bone was a lot easier to saw through than steel, but like that drill instructor had kept screaming at him during boot camp, failure to prepare was preparing for failure.

He paid cash for his purchases, then drove to the same harbor-front Piggly Wiggly where he’d blown away that spic maid. Unsurprisingly, this store was even emptier than the Home Handi-Man had been. He picked up some bleach, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, some sterile gauze, and tape. Then, as the managerwent into the back to get the dry ice the shooter claimed to need for a Buccaneer Days party, he was treated to a breathless, play-by-play account of the shooting from the cashier.

‘‘I just cannot believe such an evil thing happening right here in Somersett,’’ she said. ‘‘Maybe New York City. Or Chicago. Or one of those other Northern cities.’’ Her gray hair, sprayed to steel-helmet consistency, didn’t move as she shook her head and clucked her tongue. ‘‘But this has always been such a safe, peaceful, family town.’’

She glanced around as if expecting to see armed assassins leaping up from behind a nearby larger-than-life cardboard cutout of a leering pirate.

‘‘It’s like nobody’s safe anywhere, anymore.’’

‘‘Unfortunately, I’m afraid you’re right,’’ the shooter said.

‘‘Well.’’ Her plump pigeon bosom puffed out as she drew in a deep breath. ‘‘Like I told my daughter, Brenda, this morning, when you’ve got serial killers on Swann Island, and snipers in Somersett, it’s a sure sign of the Apocalypse.’’

‘‘Next we’ll be seeing four horsemen riding down Harbor Boulevard,’’ the shooter agreed.

She nodded vigorously as the manager returned. ‘‘That’s the very same thing I told Brenda.’’

He paid for the purchases and left the grocery store. He’d been a little bummed by having his schedule screwed up, first by Valentine Snow’s report about the Altima, and second by Captain Jack, who hadn’t gone easily, which was the reason for the first-aid supplies, to deal with the damn bullet wound in his shoulder.

But the idea that he’d had such an effect on an entire town lifted the shooter’s spirits considerably.

Just wait, he thought, as he opened the back door of the white van, until they saw what he had planned for his next act.