Killer Focus (11 page)

“I'd go for three,” Taylor said flatly. “I haven't seen Letty since I talked to her late Tuesday afternoon.”

Driscoll swore and yelled for Hart. When Hart backed up what Fischer had just said, he made a note and started all over again, increasing the scope of his questions.

Taylor stared at the clean line of Fischer's jaw and his level, dark gaze as he answered the new raft of questions. Most men would be shaken by finding the victim of a homicide, but not Fischer. The cops even responded to him, which wasn't always the case. When Fischer had seen Letty's body, he had quietly assumed control, calling the Cold Peak PD, then insisting on taking point when they'd searched the house. He had also had the presence of mind to conceal her weapon. The action, protective as it had been, could have landed him in hot water. If the Cold Peak police had searched her handbag and found the weapon, she would have been able to pull some strings and smooth out the situation. If Fischer had been searched, he could have been arrested for carrying concealed. It was even possible he could have been held on suspicion of murder, despite the fact that a gun hadn't been used to kill Letty.

Within minutes an ambulance arrived, followed by a news van. The reporter, a cocky young guy in jeans, lifted his camera. Taylor turned so he couldn't catch more than the back of her head.

A plainclothes detective replaced Driscoll. Muir was older, with the calm, patient expression and the worn-down demeanor of a cop who had been in the job a lot longer than he'd bargained for. When Muir had finished taking their statements, Fischer indicated they should sit in the truck. Taylor was more than happy to comply. Even though it was still technically summer, the temperature had plummeted.

Fischer started the engine and turned on the heater, although as lightly dressed as he was in jeans and a shirt, he didn't appear to feel the cold.

Taylor watched as the coroner went into the house, followed by the evidence techs who had been cooling their heels for the past half hour, waiting for him to arrive. Technically, they couldn't start work until Letty was officially pronounced dead. A small crowd, comprised mostly of residents looking shell-shocked and wary, had gathered. She recognized Mr. Scanlon from across the road; Beth Graham, another neighbor; one of Letty's bridge cronies.

At one in the morning the ambulance crew emerged from the house with Letty's body zipped into a body bag. The stretcher was slotted into the rear of the ambulance and they left with lights flashing, but this time, no siren. Over the next few minutes the crowd quietly dispersed. The evidence team packed up and left, followed by the two uniformed cops.

Muir took time out to stop by the truck and update them. As far as the police were concerned, the discovery that Letty's television, VCR and stereo were gone made the motivation for the crime cut-and-dried. It seemed clear that the killer hadn't expected Letty to be home, probably because he'd had prior information that she was going away on vacation. He had pressed the doorbell as a precaution then had been surprised when Letty had opened the door.

Despite the fatality, the M.O. for the theft was familiar. More than half of the appliance thefts in Cold Peak had been from addresses where the occupants were away on vacation. That meant that whoever was committing the crimes had a system for finding out who was leaving town. Letty hadn't had time to cancel her mail—or else she had forgotten that detail—but she had canceled her regular newspaper delivery. It was possible the thief had checked with the news agency and, when Letty had stopped the paper, moved in. Unfortunately, the theif had been a day early.

To Taylor's mind, that didn't answer all of the questions. The Cold Peak appliance thefts had been slick, which suggested that the perpetrator had kept risks to a minimum, although that didn't rule out the idiot factor. A lot of crimes were solved through stupid mistakes, miscalculation and sheer panic on the part of the perp.

When Muir had gone, Fischer opened the glove compartment and handed her the Glock. “When was the last time you used the gun?”

“About six months ago.” Before she'd become a walking target.

“If you're going to carry a weapon, you need to shoot regularly. There's a shooting range just out of town. If you're interested, I'll take you Monday afternoon.”

He had a point. The biggest problem with handguns was losing proficiency through lack of practice. To be confident and accurate you had to practice regularly, something she hadn't considered, and should have.

“Okay.” A shooting range she could handle. It was less like a date; it was home territory. With a practiced movement, she ejected the clip and stowed both the gun and the magazine in her handbag. “You haven't asked me why I'm carrying a gun.”

His expression was unreadable. “I could say that I assumed the scar on your back was the reason, but the fact is I know who you are.”

Shock reverberated through Taylor. Suddenly, the way he'd stood back when she'd first gone in the door of Letty's house made sense. Most men would have assumed a protective role and muscled her aside, and Fischer fitted that mold. She hadn't fixed on his behavior at the time because her need to find out exactly what had happened had been too urgent. “What do you mean you know who I am?”

“You're a distinctive-looking woman. I was in D.C. when you got shot.”

The story hadn't been front-page news but, according to Bayard, one of the major tabloids
had
gotten hold of her photo. The story had also aired on local television and radio stations. There had always been a risk that the publicity surrounding her shooting would compromise her security. It was a miracle that someone hadn't recognized her sooner. “How long have you known?”

“I recognized you the first day.”

Her jaw tightened. “I need to know if you've told anyone.”

His expression turned from guarded to remote. “First off, I don't make a habit of endangering federal officers. Secondly, given what happened, it's an easy bet you're on Witness Security.”

She stared at the line of his profile, every cell on high alert. “You said you had a business. What is it?”

“I'm an ex Navy SEAL. I run a security business out of D.C. These days I'm not required there all the time. It gives me the latitude to pursue a few personal goals.”

The second he said ex Navy SEAL, the final piece in the puzzle that was Steve Fischer slotted into place. When they'd searched Letty's house he had reminded her of a cop, but a SEAL made even more sense, and it explained the pull of attraction. She had always gravitated toward dangerous, physical guys, and that was exactly what Fischer was. His background as a SEAL also explained why he'd chosen a place like Cold Peak as an alternative to D.C. The outdoor focus in Cold Peak, with the rock climbing and the skiing, and the physicality of the job at the gym, would fit perfectly with his training ethics. “What kind of security firm do you run?”

He reached into the glove compartment and handed her a business card. She studied the card in the glow of the streetlamp. She didn't know the firm, which was based out of Georgetown, but she hadn't expected to. Not that the details made much difference. As solid as Fischer seemed, that didn't change the fact that she was compromised.

She pushed her door open, bracing herself against the wash of cool air. “Thanks for the date.”

She had inserted her house key in the lock when Fischer walked down her front path.

“You might need this.” He handed her her cashmere scarf, which she must have left in his truck. “If you don't want to stay the night here you can come back to my place. Or I can book you a motel for the night.”

She took the wrap, pushed the door open and flicked on the hall light. “Thanks, but no thanks. I'll be fine.” The fact that he knew her real identity was just one more reason not to take him up on the offer.

“I'll give you my phone number, and my cell. Just in case.”

She watched as he wrote the details on the back of another one of his business cards and slipped it into her handbag. When she turned to go inside, the warm weight around her shoulders registered. Shrugging out of the jacket, she handed it to him. “You'd better have this.”

“That wasn't what I wanted.”

The blunt statement sent a raw flash of heat through her. “There's no point.”

Instead of taking the jacket, his fingers threaded with hers. She had plenty of time to pull back, but the plain fact was she didn't want to.

A hot pulse of adrenaline went through her.
Three days.
It wasn't long enough. She didn't know enough about him—

Distantly, she was aware that both the jacket and her handbag had slipped to the ground. Her palms slid over his chest, bunched in the fabric of his shirt. His hands settled at her waist. A half step back and her spine connected with the cold line of the doorjamb. A split second later his mouth came down on hers. The first touch of his lips shivered through her and she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave in to the uncomplicated need to be held. It had been years since she'd felt female and wanted, years since she'd felt so needy.

He lifted his head, dark eyes glittering. “If you want me to leave we need to stop now.”

She stared at the taut lines of his face, the stubble that made his jaw even tougher, and regret pulled at her.

He said something low and graphic. His breath washed over her throat. His teeth fastened on the lobe of one ear and a sharp shudder jerked through her.

In an abrupt movement, he released his hold and stepped back, stooping to pick up the jacket. “I'll see you on Monday.”

Her legs distinctly wobbly, she watched as he walked down the path and climbed into his truck. When the sound of the engine faded, she closed the door and tried to get her breath, and her sanity, back. Not only was her WITSEC placement blown for the second time, but sometime between last Tuesday and two minutes ago she had fallen for Steve Fischer.

The fact that she had let it happen didn't make sense. Somewhere inside her there was a benchmark that was carved in stone about loyalty, honor and honesty. She applied it to herself and to other people. Fischer had already lied to her, even if only by omission.

Then there was the whole can of worms about trust. She didn't trust easily, but once she did, that was it—she gave her all. She had trusted a total of three people in her life: her father, her mother and Rina.

Jack Jones had failed her. Maybe that was why she'd become such a difficult sell in the relationship game. Every time she had entered into a relationship with a man she had expected to be betrayed, and she had cut it off before that could happen. The strategy was simple, effective and safe, and it kept her lonely most of the time.

Lately, she'd been lonelier and more isolated than normal. Maybe that had made her more vulnerable, but it wasn't a reason to consider sleeping with a man she barely knew—let alone trusted.

T
he Cold Peak Shooting range was situated five miles out of town, backing onto an old quarry and surrounded by silent woods and acres of rolling farmland.

Taylor watched as Fischer put on a set of ear protectors and safety glasses, focused, aimed, then squeezed the trigger in controlled bursts. The target was set at thirty feet.

Taylor slipped on her own ear protectors as noise filled the booth. Fischer's gun was a Bernadelli Practical, a sporting pistol specifically designed for target shooting. As sporting weapons went, it wasn't fancy or top-of-the-line, but the Bernadelli came in two calibers, the lower a twelve shot, the higher, sixteen shots. Fischer had the larger caliber.

“Nice shooting.” The center of the target had turned into a ragged hole.

He inserted a second magazine. “I used to shoot competitively for my sports club. One year I almost made the Olympics.”

The words were stated casually. No fanfare, no emotion. “What happened?”

He lifted the pistol, emptied the clip, then ejected the magazine. “Competing conflicted with work. I had to make a choice. I chose the job.”

Taylor stepped up to the mark. Since they'd started shooting, she had hit the target but, unlike Fischer, she wasn't drilling the center. In the old days, that lack would have worried her and she would have put in extra time practicing until her aim was perfect. It was an indication of just how much she had changed that, unlike Fischer, perfection was no longer her goal. The competitive edge that had driven her all through her years with the Bureau had dissolved along with her job. If she could consistently hit the target, she was happy, because it meant that if she did have to use the gun she could make a body shot with reasonable accuracy.

Another emptied clip later, Fischer checked his watch. “Time's up.”

Taylor glanced at her own watch, surprised to see that they'd spent more than their allotted half hour. Despite the fact that it was Monday, the range was busy. One of Cold Peak's tourist attractions was fishing and game hunting. Most of the slots were booked out to clients from a popular hunting lodge situated less than a mile away.

Outside, the sky was cold and gray and the wind was blowing from the north, sending leaves rattling across the parking lot. Rain scattered as they made a beeline for Fischer's truck. Ducking her head, Taylor quickened her step. Simultaneously, something zinged past her head. Time froze. She could hear the detonations of rounds being fired on the shooting range. One of the detonations echoed, sharper, out of sync with the rest. Adrenaline pumped. A split second later she was flat on the pavement.

Fischer crouched beside her. She sucked in a breath and wondered if she was going crazy. “Someone just fired a shot. A rifle.”

Long seconds passed while she waited for a second shot. When it didn't come, Fischer handed her the keys to the truck. “Get behind the truck and stay down, I'll be back in a few minutes.”

He extracted the Bernadelli from his gear bag, shoved a magazine into the breech and melted into the screen of shrubs that formed a decorative border around the parking lot.

Keeping low, the Glock gripped in her hand, Taylor took up a position behind the truck. Given that the shooting-club building formed a barrier, the only possible location for a sniper was a hill to the left of the shooting range where the ground rose steeply.

Long minutes passed while she studied mowed fields bordered by a pine forest. Her palms began to sting and the fact that the Glock was slippery with blood registered. She must have skinned her palms when she'd hit the sidewalk. Wiping the excess blood on her jeans, she readjusted her grip.

Rain was falling steadily now, pulling a misty gray curtain over the hills and soaking her hair and clothes. The background noise of cars on the main road into town registered, but beyond that the only sound was the wind gusting through the treetops and the flat detonation of shots being fired in the shooting range.

She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes had passed, but it felt longer. In that time no one had entered the parking lot or left, and no one inside the shooting range appeared to realize that a rogue shot had been fired.

A flickering movement drew her attention. She tensed then relaxed when Fischer detached himself from the dense shade of a clump of trees and loped across the parking lot. She was wet, but he was wetter.

Fischer collected his gear bag and stowed it in the large lockable box he kept in the rear of the truck. “I found a casing and some trampled ground on the edge of the pines.” He took the brass casing from his pocket. “Looks like a .302 caliber, which is a hunting rifle. It could have been a stray shot from a hunter, although no one should be hunting this close to town.”

Taylor examined the casing, her tension returning full force as she climbed into the passenger seat and Fischer pulled out of the parking lot. Fischer hadn't found anyone, but he must have come close, because whoever it was had finally made a mistake and left the casing behind.

Fischer extracted a towel from behind the driver's seat and passed it to her. When she'd blotted the water from her face and hair, she handed the towel back.

“You need those hands bandaged.”

“I'll clean them up when I get home.”

Right after that, she was leaving town.

Someone had just taken a shot at her, and the near miss had cleared her mind. She wasn't paranoid, and she wasn't wrong. Maybe it
had
just been a kid fooling around with his dad's gun at the wrong end of the range, or a hunter getting in some free target practice, but she'd stopped believing in fairy tales and happy endings months ago.

Setting the Glock down on the floor, she buckled herself in. She noticed Fischer had placed his gun down on the floor without removing the clip, keeping the weapon within easy reach, and the tension in her stomach increased. If Fischer believed there wasn't a problem, he would have disarmed the gun and packed it away and told her to do the same. It was unlikely to happen, but if the highway patrol pulled them over and found they were traveling with loaded weapons, regardless of who they were, they would both be arrested.

Minutes later, Fischer pulled over onto a grassy verge and cut the engine. Opening the glove compartment, he pulled out a first aid kit and levered off the lid. “Let me have a look at those hands.”

She studied the metal first aid box as he swabbed her palms with disinfectant then smeared on antiseptic cream. “That looks military.”

His gaze connected with hers. “The quartermaster liked me.”

She glanced away from taut cheekbones and tanned olive skin. If the quartermaster had been female, she was willing to bet it had been a whole lot more than liking. “I bet you outranked him.”

He motioned her to hold out her hands while he taped on wound dressings. He hadn't answered her question, but the suspicion that he had held some kind of command grew stronger.

It was possible that the fact that he was so closemouthed was a carryover from his time in the SEAL teams. He could also be an accomplished liar.

He could be married.

She would be crazy not to consider the idea. She hadn't seen any indication that he wore a wedding ring, but some men didn't. “So what was your rank? Lieutenant?”

This close, his eyes were flecked with gold. She hadn't noticed that last night, but then she had been more concerned with controlling her reactions than cataloging physical details.

“Lieutenant commander. How come you know so much?”

“I used to date a SEAL.”

“Now you're pissing me off.”

As he replaced the first aid kit in the glove compartment, Taylor had to wonder just how annoyed he was. Despite her effort at cold analysis, and distance, she was hoping that he was big on understatement. “Hey, Fischer…thanks.”

“The name's Steve, not Fischer.” He leaned across and brushed her mouth with his.

The kiss threw her off balance. When he would have pulled back, she cupped his neck and held him there, leaning into the kiss, part curiosity, part experiment. He adjusted the angle, her head tilted back and the pressure firmed. His tongue in her mouth sent a bolt of heat straight to her loins. Taylor's heart slammed in her chest. It was sex, pure and simple, she decided…but that didn't explain why Fischer was so damned irresistible.

His mouth lifted and sank back onto hers and the half-formed notion of pushing free receded. Not for the first time she wondered what it would be like to stretch out in a bed with Fischer, to spend an entire night with him.

Not that she would allow that to happen.

For now, she would enjoy the fantasy and the kiss, secure in the knowledge that after today she wouldn't ever see him again.

 

The rain had stopped by the time Fischer dropped her off at her house, and watery sunlight warmed an afternoon that had become distinctly chilly.

Fischer had offered to call the police, but she had turned him down. Even with the evidence of the casing, there wasn't much the Cold Peak PD could do. Unless she broke WITSEC and supplied them with her real identity, the supposition that the shot had been aimed at her wouldn't be taken seriously. Also, any approach to the Cold Peak police would generate a report that could reach Burdett. As it stood, she had half expected a response from Burdett over Letty's murder. If her new name appeared in the police database again, her placement would be officially blown. Burdett would be knocking on her door within hours, and she wasn't sure she wanted that.

Despite WITSEC's protection, her security had been breached—twice. She couldn't think of any other way for the leak to happen but through WITSEC. This time, she intended to take care of her own security.

 

Taylor strode through to the bedroom, placed the Glock on her bedside table, grabbed fresh underwear and a black T-shirt and jeans, then quickly showered and changed. Hair hanging in a wet curtain down her back, she shrugged into the shoulder rig, which disappeared against the black fabric of the tee, holstered the gun and pulled on a dark jacket.

Pulling suitcases from her closet, she packed. Within minutes she had everything she needed. Zipping the bags closed, she carried them out to the SUV and stored them in the rear storage compartment. With her bedroom stripped, she walked through to the kitchen, her mind running over lists—what she needed to take, what had to be left…when, and if, to call Burdett. If she walked out on WITSEC she would be on her own, and effectively on the run from Lopez.

Shoving basic food items—bread, butter, cereal and cheese—into an unused trash sack, she made another trip to the garage and wedged the food in the trunk, beside the cases.

Walking quickly through the house, she gathered the few personal possessions she couldn't bear to leave behind—jewelry, family photos and an antique sampler that had belonged to her grandmother. There wasn't time, but she didn't know if she would ever see any of her possessions again. When the items were safely stored in the backseat of the SUV, she walked through to the sunroom and stopped, for long seconds unable to comprehend what
wasn't
there.
Her computer.

Her stomach hollowed out. She went hot then cold and for a dizzying moment she thought she was going to throw up. The last time she'd had a break-in, she hadn't been aware of it for weeks and all the thief had taken was information.

This time he had taken the entire computer.

 

Glock held in a two-handed grip, she systematically searched the house, then the grounds. The only evidence of the break-in was the damaged lock on the sunroom doors.

Her computer had gone, but it was an expensive model and clearly visible on the desk in the sunroom. If the appliance thief had been in Letty's house, he would have seen the computer. She had checked and nothing else had been stolen, but then the thief hadn't had much time, just the hour or so she had been away with Fischer.

It was possible the theft was just a lousy coincidence and unconnected to the Lopez case. As determined as she was to get out of Cold Peak, she couldn't allow herself to give way to panic. She needed to report the theft, because any evidence collected could provide the break the police needed to catch Letty's killer. If she did nothing else before she left town, she had do that.

Instead of dialing the police, she found the card Fischer had given her and dialed his home number.

He picked up almost immediately. “What's happened?”

“Someone's been in the house.” Her throat closed up and for long seconds she had difficulty speaking at all. “My computer's gone.”

“I'm on my way.” The phone clicked, disconnecting the call.

She dialed Muir's cell. The conversation was equally brief; Muir would be there in five. Hanging up, she walked out to the SUV, stowed her jacket and the holstered gun, then walked back to the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. She was neither thirsty nor hungry, but she needed the physical activity. Over the passage of years, she'd studied and walked into countless crime scenes, some of them disturbing enough to give her nightmares. By comparison, the theft of her computer was innocuous, but it didn't feel that way.