Night's Landing (12 page)

He had a decent head start on her—she almost missed him retreating through a side door. It was an “exit only,” not an entrance, and she went through it without hesitation.

When she reached the street, Nate was climbing into the driver’s side of a black sedan parked about fifty yards up from the ambulance entrance and the throng of reporters.

With an outward calm, Sarah stepped off the curb and stuck her hand up in the air, flagging a cab before she had seriously considered her options. She opened the rear door and climbed in. “Can you follow that black car just in front of us? He left his wallet.”

“I can flash my lights—”

“No, that’s not necessary. I’ll just give it to him wherever he stops.”

She knew what she was doing was wrong. Impulsive, insane. Even dumb. She was following a deputy U.S. marshal who’d just been shot and undoubtedly was in no mood to find her on his tail. Nate didn’t seem to have a lot of patience on a good day. And, given the journalistic onslaught he’d just faced and the possibility that a USMS informant was the shooter, this couldn’t be starting off as a good day.

Not that he’d looked upset or irritated. He’d looked focused, as if he were on a mission.

Possibly doing something he shouldn’t be doing?

She’d sensed his bridled energy last night. As exhausted as he was, he was a man of action. He didn’t take to being on the sidelines.

Wounded, still experiencing the shock of what had happened to him, he could easily go off half-cocked.

Maybe today was
his
day to fall apart, to feel trapped and hemmed in by events, and if she could keep him from doing something he’d later regret, why not?

It was her version of catching him before he fell flat on his face.

Payback for saving her brother’s life.

She stared out the window, her cab speeding north. She knew she was rationalizing her behavior.

But she didn’t tell her driver to turn around, and tailing Nate proved easier than she expected.

They ended up in a run-down section of the city on a mixed bag of a street, some buildings neat and clean, even boasting window boxes, others complete wrecks with nasty graffiti, broken windows, people loitering on the steps. Fortunately, Nate’s car stopped in front of one of the neat, clean buildings.

He mounted the front steps at a trot and disappeared inside. No one had buzzed him in, and he hadn’t used a key—which meant there was no lock on the main door.

Sarah paid her cab driver. “I’ll only be a minute. Can you wait for me?”

He didn’t answer, but the moment she shut her door, he was hurling up the street, leaving her on the curb.

Okay, so she’d have to find another cab back.

Or ask Nate for a ride.

She winced at the thought. Preferably, she wouldn’t even have to see him. She just wanted to make sure he hadn’t gone off the deep end.

Who was she kidding?
She
was the one who’d gone off the deep end in following him.

A stout, elderly woman wearing a wild hat mounted the steps to an adjoining building, more run-down than the one Nate had entered, and two young women in white uniforms rushed along the sidewalk, talking in Spanish—Sarah made out something about an exercise class they were taking. Their casual attitude helped her feel safer, although she had no idea where she was.

The front door was, indeed, unlocked, creaking loudly when Sarah pushed it open.

The entry smelled of a strong cleaning solution. She could hear music playing somewhere above her. The ordinariness of the scene helped her to relax slightly. Nate had followed her to Central Park yesterday. Even if her motives weren’t entirely pure, why shouldn’t she follow him?

Because he’s a federal law enforcement officer.

But she was an historical archaeologist, and that took a certain amount of curiosity, guts and drive—a willingness to take risks.

Not that she’d thought through the particular risks, whatever they might be, of following a wounded deputy marshal.

She had no idea where Nate was. Upstairs, down the hall. Was there a basement? Should she start knocking on doors?

Feeling less smug about her tailing abilities, Sarah stood at the bottom of the stairs and contemplated her options. Just wait for him here?

“You’re going to be a problem, aren’t you?”

She almost screamed and spun around so fast, her hair whipped into her face. Nate had materialized behind her. Sarah caught her breath. “Scare me to death, why don’t you?”

His blue eyes bored into her. “It’s a thought.”

Sarah told herself he had a right to be irritated with her. But she didn’t let it get to her. “Where were you?”

“Let’s go.”

“This isn’t your apartment, is it?” She glanced around the tidy, worn entry. “I thought you were going home. Juliet and I saw you with the reporters and I was concerned—”

“Bullshit.”

She sighed. No way was she worming herself out of this one. “Okay, fine. You think the FBI has the wrong shooter, don’t you? This guy, Hector Sanchez—”

She was out the door before she realized what was happening. Her feet were touching the ground, but she wasn’t walking on her own—he had her by one arm and was marching her down the stairs and out to his car.

He opened the passenger door with his injured arm, apparently by mistake, and swore, then shoved her inside. “Watch your head.”

“Going to cuff me, too?”

“I could. You’re interfering with a federal investigation.”

“Me? What about you? Last I checked, you were a wounded deputy U.S. marshal who was supposed to stay on the sidelines—”

He banged her door shut and walked around the front to the driver’s side.

Sarah felt a wave of guilt when he climbed in. “Do you want me to drive?”

He didn’t answer.

“Your arm—is it bleeding?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You didn’t need to haul me out of there. You could have asked politely, and I’d have left.”

He started the car engine. “I’m not in a polite mood.”

“Are you ever?”

“Sure.” He smiled at her then, a smile that reached his hard eyes and was so unexpected and so sexy, so
deliberately
sexy, it curled her toes. “I can be very polite.”

Juliet had spotted Sarah jumping into a cab and following Nate’s car and almost went after her—then she figured Nate could handle Rob’s pretty southern Ph.D. sister all by himself.

She wasn’t surprised when Nate dropped Sarah off at the private waiting room. “Don’t let her out of your sight,” he said through gritted teeth, then disappeared down the hall.

Sarah’s cheeks were slightly flushed, but otherwise, she didn’t look as stricken as most people would after pissing off Nate Winter. And she didn’t look particularly guilty for having done it. But why the hell wasn’t he home in bed? Juliet couldn’t muster a lot of sympathy for him.

She crumpled up her paper water cup. “Dare I ask what happened?”

“Nothing. I followed him.” Sarah sighed and sat in one of the plastic chairs. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Juliet tossed the paper cup and poured herself more coffee. It smelled fine to her, but people had been complaining about it all morning. “Most people kind of wilt for a bit after getting chewed out by Nate. He’s not exactly your warm and fuzzy marshal.”

Sarah managed a smile. “Is there such a thing?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. “Did you learn anything about Hector Sanchez?”

Juliet had no intention of getting into the scuttlebutt on Sanchez. “Just what’s in the media. Turns out two witnesses identified him. Said they saw him crouched in the bushes on the bank just below Central Park South. He had a rifle.”

“Does the FBI believe he’s their shooter?”

“There’s been no official comment—”

“Tell me unofficially then.”

Juliet thought a moment. Sarah was upset, if not about Nate catching her following him, then about her brother, the whole situation. She deserved what answers Juliet could give her. “It’s hard to say. Nobody’s talking right now. Everyone’s being tight-lipped around here. We can’t afford to screw up. No one wants the shooter to have another crack at Nate and Rob—or anyone else.”

“Why doesn’t Nate have a security detail?”

Juliet smiled. “He
is
a security detail.”

Sarah didn’t seem satisfied with that explanation. “Rob has guards just because he’s more seriously injured?”

“Correct.”

With both hands, she raked her fingers through her hair, then made an abrupt change in the subject. “I’ve been in Scotland on and off for months, working nonstop to finish a major project. I saw Rob briefly in Amsterdam last month, but it wasn’t nearly enough time to get caught up with each other. What happened to the two of you?”

Juliet shrugged. “We did great when we were working out of different district offices—not so great when we both ended up in New York.”

“You were here first?”

“That wasn’t the problem. I’m more ambitious than your brother.”

Sarah smiled. “Rob can be very driven, but he’s not ambitious.”

Juliet nodded in spite of her own urge to give Sarah Dunnemore hell for following a marshal. “I should find myself a nice guy who doesn’t know how to shoot. Why on earth did Rob become a marshal? I never figured that one out.”

“I’ve always thought he watched too many Bat Masterson reruns as a kid.”

“Yep. We marshals tamed the Wild West.”

But Sarah, rising suddenly, shook her head. “I think Rob just liked the idea of doing something that made a tangible difference. Catching fugitives and escaped prisoners, protecting the federal courts—it’s more straightforward than what our father does. It’s more like what our ancestors did.”

“He told me some of them were bank robbers.”

“Trains and riverboats, mostly. Not that many banks. And it was only one—Jesse Dunnemore. He ended up going west and getting killed.”

“Probably by a marshal from the sound of him.”

Sarah picked up the coffeepot, but seemed oblivious to how old and nasty its contents were. “Nate—does he hold a grudge?”

Juliet tossed her crumpled cup into the trash. “Forever.”

To her credit, Sarah seemed neither surprised nor distressed at the prospect of having fallen out of his good graces. She set the coffeepot down, obviously having reconsidered the merits of pouring herself a cup—Juliet figured it was rough enough coffee even for a committed coffee-drinker like herself.

“I’m going to check on Rob,” Sarah mumbled.

Given her track record, Juliet followed her down the hall and made sure Sarah was inside the I.C.U. before retreating back to the waiting room.

Juliet was fidgety and jumpy from too much bad coffee and her prolonged high state of tension. She knew Hector Sanchez. Most people in the district office did. Rob had reeled him in as an informant three months ago. He’d provided good information that had led to several high-profile arrests, ones the news conference yesterday had underscored. There’d been rumors Rob had tried to get Hector into the witness protection program, but Hector had balked. He didn’t want to leave behind his neighborhood. Someone had told Juliet that Hector was a peripheral figure who was too chicken to be a real criminal and too stupid to be a real player.

And he was a drug addict who always vowed he was going to stay clean.

The idea of Sanchez figuring out that Nate and Rob were at the news conference, where it was being held, where he should hide to get a couple of shots off—the idea of him even owning a rifle that could do the job—

None of it washed.

Juliet cleaned up the beverage area and found herself staring into a half-filled mug of cold coffee, gray and filmed over, seeing a dead Hector Sanchez, an AR-15 and a stash of cocaine next to his body. The cocaine she could believe. A drug overdose. Hector dead at twenty-nine. All that made sense. But the AR-15? The silencer? Executing the difficult shots to hit Rob in the gut and even Nate in the arm?

She dumped the coffee into the trash.

Not a chance.

Rob looked better and sounded more alert, less hoarse and confused, but he was still tethered to various tubes and monitors. He gave Nate a weak grin. “I can’t believe Sarah followed you. Holy shit. What was she thinking?”

“She wasn’t thinking.” Nate hadn’t ratted Sarah out to his younger colleague—she’d done it herself before Nate got in there. But if he were in Rob’s position, he’d want to know what was going on. Even if he were at death’s door, he wouldn’t tolerate anyone coddling him. He expected Rob was of a similar mind. “We can get her a counselor if you’d think that’d help.”

“Nah. She’s just like this. Where did you go?”

“I checked in with someone I know in Spanish Harlem.”

It was all he could give Rob. Nate had already talked to Joe Collins about his visit with Maria Rodriguez, a Puerto Rican ex-nun who’d moved to New York three years ago. Within a month of her arrival, she contacted Nate with information that had exonerated a man the USMS was looking for. She’d become a regular informant, but only on her terms, only when she could save someone.

She knew Hector Sanchez, not as a street thug or the confidential informant who’d helped Rob Dunnemore take down a USMS Top Fifteen Most Wanted fugitive—Rob’s biggest coup as a deputy—but as a young man who was trying to put his life back together. Sister Maria, as she was known on the street, had encouraged him to listen to Rob and talk to the U.S. attorney, pursue entry into WITSEC. But Hector couldn’t bring himself to fully give up the life he’d known since he was thirteen.

Now he was dead.

Sister Maria insisted he hadn’t tried to murder Rob and Nate in Central Park. That he couldn’t have. She was adamant, and her certainty had nothing to do with her faith in him as a person. She was a realist—she knew Hector would have setbacks, would lie, would disappoint her. He’d done it before. But she was convinced he hadn’t committed the sniper attack two days ago because he couldn’t. He’d cut a tendon in his right hand a year ago and couldn’t pull a trigger, much less manage a sniper rifle.