Kill Shot (3 page)

Music from a classical station played softly. She stroked her hand over the shiny enamel of the tub. It reminded her of her parent’s house, where she’d felt small and secure in her make-believe world of bubbles and rubber ducks.

Inhaling deeply, Micki sank into the froth and closed her eyes. Warm water swirled, easing tension from her shoulders. She opened her eyes cautiously, the flickering candles drawing her gaze. Her brain flooded with the memory of Oz sitting across from her in a candlelit restaurant holding a ring box with an expectant look on his face. His expression had turned to disbelief and hurt, only to be replaced by anger.

Anger that had smoldered to snarling sarcasm, more hurtful than an angry outburst. Anger that had caused him to turn to another woman.

Micki resolutely banished the image of Oz with the woman she’d glimpsed earlier. She focused on the music, softly humming the tune while she imagined herself floating down a river dappled with sunlight. She clung to this vision until the water cooled. Reluctantly, she climbed out, loathe to face the night alone, hoping for a peaceful dreamless state.

She hummed a few more notes of the music. It was Debussy’s
La Mer.
This usually brought serene rest and beautiful dreams. But, when she crawled between her sheets, she tossed around fitfully thinking of Oz and recalling the sound of gunfire and shattering glass.

Aching for sleep, she finally dozed, only to jerk awake again and again. The pop of the exploding window and the memory of glass powdering her arm clung to her like a shroud. Alone in the dark, she listened to the muffled city sounds. A siren in the distance whined over the usual traffic noises.

She rolled over onto her side. The glow of the clock leered at her.
Three A.M
. She felt stifled and too disturbed to go back to sleep.

Throwing off her coverlet, she slipped her feet into a pair of ragged terry scuffs, poured a glass of juice and booted up her computer.

Micki inserted the memory card into her USB port and examined the color portraits of Zondra Sebastian and her mother.

“I am so good,” she cooed to herself. The softened natural daylight etched the planes of Zondra’s face, slimming the contours and endowing her skin with a translucent glow. The mother-daughter pictures were salable, revealing the loving relationship between the women. The shots taken by the lake were flattering. She would soften the edges and crop out the cluttered background so that everyone could focus on the bride.

Micki printed two sets of three-by-five proofs and created a folder for Zondra’s pictures. She would make the shots of the wedding and reception available online but she preferred to give a little more attention to the formal bridal portraits, knowing how important it was to idealize this moment for the bride. This principle had been deeply ingrained in her by her father.

She couldn’t help but smile as she heard his voice in her head.
The bride is the most important person in this production. It’s her moment. Give her the star treatment.

By the time she logged off, the clock on her monitor read four-thirty-five. She crawled back into bed too tired to dream and too exhausted to provide food for her personal demons to feast on. She slept like a dead thing for four hours before wakefulness penetrated her pleasantly numb state.

Micki woke up feeling groggy and confused. Her eyes were gritty from so little sleep the night before. She forced herself to dress and set out with an errand-filled agenda, determined to offset the negative aspects of the previous day. She was resolutely optimistic as she descended the three flights of stairs to the ground floor. By the time she stepped onto the sidewalk, she’d convinced herself that having been the victim of a random drive-by shooting hadn’t ruined her life.

It must have been random. I don’t have any enemies, except for Sylvia Camanetti.

She recalled the incident in fifth grade when she’d tried to coax the glue out of the bottle and it came out all in a big sploosh in the back of Sylvia’s mane of red-gold hair. Sylvia had never accepted her apology, convinced that it was no accident. Still, she doubted that even Sylvia would hold a grudge this long.

Micki resolved to focus on the fact that she hadn’t been killed or injured and the damage was only to her car.

And, she admitted grudgingly, damage to her emotional well-being. Seeing Oz had been a major mistake. She should have called nine-one-one and not gone running to her former lover.

She pressed her lips together.
Not going to re-open that can of worms. I don’t even like worms.

She walked two blocks to the coffee house, refusing to acknowledge the creepy feeling that she might be in someone’s crosshairs. She kept her eyes straight ahead instead of glancing around at the tall buildings lining the streets. A swell of relief washed over her when she pushed inside the restaurant, inhaling the tantalizing aromas. She ordered a latte and croissant for breakfast and called a courier service. In less than twenty minutes a young bicycle messenger entered the Starbucks and she gave him the envelope of proofs she’d prepared for Zondra. In the interim, she’d called her insurance carrier and agreed to meet him at the police station to obtain a copy of the report and examine the damage to her vehicle.

Walking briskly to the corner, she hailed a taxi, and directed the driver to the precinct house.

She hadn’t ridden in a taxi in a while. The familiar smell of the numerous people who’d ridden before her was somehow comforting. She paid the driver and stepped out onto the curb to stare up at the austere, fortress-like building where Oz worked. He wouldn’t be there, of course. It was almost ten-o-clock and she had delayed her arrival until she was sure he would be out on patrol.

Squaring her shoulders, she strode purposefully up the granite steps. Once inside, she recognized the musty, yet sanitized smell of public buildings everywhere.

Arnold Meyers, the man who’d kept her family insured for decades stood to one side, gripping his briefcase. Somberly, he shook her hand and then escorted her to the high counter, behind which a balding officer in a too-tight collar stood, peering down at them with a singular lack of interest.

Micki cleared her throat. “Someone shot at my car yesterday. My insurance agent needs the report.” She gestured toward Arnold by way of explanation.

“Who was the officer who took your report?”

She bit her lip. “I...don’t know.” She shrugged. “I called a friend when it happened, but he was off duty and phoned for a patrol car. I was too upset to remember the other officer’s names.”

Micki cringed, recognizing the taunting voice belonging to Oz’ best friend and partner, Vinnie Celaya. She had thought that he and Oz would be on patrol.

“Hey, Vinnie.” Micki turned to look up into his smug face. Vinnie was tall, but not as tall as Oz, well built, but not as buff as Oz and cute, but not gorgeous, like Oz. His auburn hair had been buzzed and he looked like he’d put on some muscle since she’d last seen him.

Vinnie let his gaze stroll impudently down her body. “And might I say you growed up in all the right places.”

A blush crept up her neck as others looked her over. Vinnie’s taunting had less to do with actual admiration and more to do with his protectiveness of Oz.

“Shut up, Vinnie,” a deep masculine voice growled.

Without looking, Micki knew that, once again, Oz was rescuing her. She straightened her shoulders and gave him a long look from under her lashes
. Damn!
She had hoped to get by without a repeat of the previous days confrontation.

Oz stared at her. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “The report isn’t done yet but here’s the case number. You and Mr. Meyers can check out the car.” Oz looked big and beautiful in his uniform as he solemnly gestured to the back of the building.

He led the way down a hallway that opened to the rear of the station where the police cars were parked and several towed vehicles were held prisoner behind a high chain link fence.

Micki followed Oz to the fence and laced her fingers through the chain link, gazing at her injured car. Her stomach clenched in a tight fist. The hole in the back window gaped open ominously close to the spot her head had occupied when the shot was fired.

Oz punched a numerical code into the electronic lock on the gate and gave access to the fenced area, motioning her to enter as she tried to manipulate her suddenly rubbery legs.

Arnold Meyer photographed the damage to her car and handed her a voucher for a rental car. He instructed her to let him know when her car was released so it could be repaired. Silently, he turned and left them alone in the fenced yard.

“At least he wasn’t right next to you. The techs are trying to determine the angle of trajectory and the caliber of the weapon. It’s looking like an M-14.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a sniper’s weapon. With a scope it’s accurate at two thousand feet or better but, Micki, there were no other shots fired in the park yesterday.”

A wry grin spread across Oz’ face. “It wasn’t me. I wanted to choke you.” He encircled the back of her neck with one hand and drew her to him. “Up close and personal.”

Micki laughed softly, melting against his chest. She sobered, considering her situation. “I’m really scared, Oz. Why would anyone want to kill me?”

Oz pressed his face into her hair, his words coming out warm against her scalp. “You’re asking the wrong guy. I can think of dozens of reasons. You’re pig-headed and you stick your nose into things that don’t concern you. You’re extremely naïve, but you put on this big sophisticated front and you’ll argue about anything. You can make a guy crazy in nothing flat... Need I go on?”

Micki sighed. “No, that’s plenty.” Oz’ jacket felt good against her cheek. The lightweight wool material was rough, but solid, like Oz. His clean, soap and water scent wrapped around her, offered comfort.

“They’re okay. The bullet that came through your rear window lodged in a thick notebook. It has a calendar and lots of notes, like a diary.”

Micki felt a flutter she hadn’t experienced in a while. She looked up to meet Oz’ dark gaze. “What changed your mind overnight? Yesterday you were furious. Now, you don’t seem so angry with me.”

“I’m still angry, Micki, but I realize deep down that we’ve been friends a long time and I don’t want to lose that friendship.” Pain registered in his eyes, in spite of the words coming from his mouth.

Oz heaved a deep sigh and, drawing her close again, rested his chin on top of her head. “You really got to me last night. When I was ragging on you, you came right back at me with nothing but sweetness. I don’t want to chase that out of my life.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist, enjoying the thrill of his embrace, the embrace she’d missed more than she was willing to admit. “I...I’m glad we can still be friends, Oz.”

“So are you kids getting back together? What about the stripper?” Vinnie’s face split into a wide grin, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

“Dancer,” Oz growled. “Fawn is a dancer.”

“Fawn?” Micki knew she was gaping and tried to appear somewhat less than shocked. Where was that sophisticated front when she needed it?

“Yeah, Fawn.” Oz’ voice took on a defensive tone. “Like a baby deer.”

Vinnie emitted a coarse guffaw. “And that’s some dear babe, I’m tellin’ you.”

“Enough, Vinnie. Let me see if I can get your cameras released for you, Micki.” Oz took her arm and led her inside, with Vinnie trailing behind.

Oz left her at the front desk and disappeared through a door marked private.

Vinnie lolled nearby, biting a fingernail as he leaned against the tall desk. “So, what’s the deal? Are you and the big guy back together or not?” He raised an eyebrow giving his face a cynical expression.