Running for Cover (2 page)

J
ackson Sharo pulled the unconscious woman up against his chest, shielding her from the street as best he could. Gun in hand, he shifted his stance, glancing over his shoulder, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He’d come to Lakeview, Virginia, for his friend’s wedding. He hadn’t come for trouble. Unfortunately, trouble had found him.

He scowled, kicking the door.

“Open up. I’ve got an injured woman out here. We need help,” he shouted, wishing he still had the right to call himself a police officer. That was a lot more likely to get a door opened than kicking it and shouting would.

A light in the house went on and a shadow passed in front of the window to the left of the door.

“I’ve called the police. They’ll be here any minute,” a shaky voice called out.

“Call an ambulance, too. And open the door. We need help,” Jackson responded, tensing as a car passed by on the street behind him. A bullet in the back wasn’t the way he planned to end the night.

The woman he was holding stirred, pushing against his chest, her soft hair brushing Jackson’s chin as she raised her head and mumbled something he couldn’t hear.

“What?” he asked, looking down into her face. A dark bruise covered her left jaw. Another marred her cheek. Blood seeped from her forehead and shadowy marks on her neck hinted at other injuries. If he hadn’t shown up, she’d be dead by now. The thought made him cold with rage. He’d seen injuries like hers one too many times during his years as a New York City homicide detective, had experienced firsthand the devastation of losing a loved one to violence. No way would he let it happen to someone else.

“I said that her name is Mrs. Richardson. Tell her Morgan needs her help. She’ll open the door,” she repeated as she tried again to lever away from Jackson’s chest.

“Mrs. Richardson? I’ve got Morgan out here with me. She’s hurt.”

A face pressed against the window, and Morgan twisted in Jackson’s grip, offering a quick wave that seemed to reassure the elderly woman.

The door opened, and she hovered in the threshold, white hair puffed around a powder-pink face that nearly matched the color of her flowered bathrobe. “Morgan?”

“I’m afraid so,” Morgan said, her voice shaky.

“Come on. Inside.” Jackson kept his hold on her waist and urged her into the house, not waiting for further introductions or an invitation.

“What in the world happened to you?” Mrs. Richardson put a hand on Morgan’s arm, her gaze darting to Jackson and to the gun he held, her eyes widening with fear.

“Some men came into the gallery right before I closed. They—”

“I’m going to look for them,” Jackson cut in. “Close and lock the door when I leave. Don’t let anyone but the police inside.” There were two armed men on the loose and no time for chitchat.

“You can’t. They could kill you.” Morgan grabbed his arm,
her grip surprisingly strong. Her bruises looked darker in the stark fluorescent light, her eyes pale silvery-blue, the pupils dilated. Trembling with fear or with shock, she didn’t look capable of staying on her feet, let alone arguing with Jackson. Somehow, though, she was managing it.

“The police should be here soon.” Jackson pulled off his jacket, draping it around her shoulders, hoping to warm her.

“But—”

He didn’t let her finish, just walked outside, pulling the door closed, his gun still firmly in hand. The sense of danger and urgency he’d felt while waiting for Mrs. Richardson to open her door had dissipated, and Jackson jogged back to the gallery, knowing the men were already gone, the opportunity to bring them into custody gone with them.

Except for his car, the parking lot was empty, light from the upstairs windows spilling onto the pavement. The gallery’s double doors yawned open, inviting Jackson to explore the darkened area beyond. If he hadn’t spent nine years as a police officer, he might have, but he knew that contaminating the evidence would make prosecuting a lot more difficult.

He turned away from the building, searching the area for any signs of the men who’d been there. There was nothing. No bullets. No casings. No tread marks, cigarette butts or trash. Everything clean and tidy and free of clues.

Jackson had just completed a circuit of the area when a squad car raced into the parking lot, lights and sirens off. An officer jumped out, her frantic energy freezing Jackson in place. No way did he want to get shot by a police officer, and the way the cop pulled her gun and pointed it in his direction, getting shot looked like a distinct possibility.

“Drop the weapon, sir, and step away from it,” she ordered.

Now wasn’t the time to explain things, so Jackson did as she asked.

She eased forward, lifting the gun, her gaze never wavering. “Facedown on the ground, sir. Hands where I can see them.”

Jackson knew the drill. He’d issued the same command enough times in his years on the New York City police force. He dropped to the ground, waiting impatiently as the officer checked the safety on his gun, frisked him for weapons and pulled the wallet from his pocket.

“I guess you have a permit for your gun?” Judging from the way she asked the question, Jackson figured she didn’t guess any such thing.

“I do. I’m a private investigator. My ID and permit are in my wallet.”

The deputy opened the wallet and took her time looking through it. Finally, she seemed satisfied with what she’d found. “You can get up, Mr. Sharo. Did you fire your weapon tonight?”

“One shot.”

“Did you hit your target?”

“Unfortunately, no,” he said as he accepted the wallet she held out to him.

“I’m not sure the law would agree with that.”

“I was firing in self-defense, Officer…?”

“Deputy Lowry. Want to tell me what happened here?”

“I saw a light on in the gallery and thought it might be open for business. When I rang the doorbell a woman answered. She looked beat-up and scared, so I searched the perimeter of the building to try to get a feel for what was going on.”

“You didn’t think to call the police?”

“For all I knew, she’d been in an accident of some sort and didn’t need help.”

“So, you walked around the house and…?”

“I didn’t see any reason to be concerned.” But he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something was wrong or to forget the look of stark terror in Morgan’s eyes. “I was going to leave,
but decided to check on the owner one more time. Before I got to the door, she ran out. Next thing I knew, two men were shooting at us.”

“And you fired back.”

“One shot.” He repeated the answer he’d given before, knowing he’d probably be asked the same thing a hundred times before the night was over.

“Have you been back in the gallery since you fired the shot?”

“I was never in the gallery.”

“I see.”

Before she could explain what she thought she saw, another squad car pulled into the parking lot. The door opened and a tall, dark-haired man got out. He wasn’t alone. Morgan sat in the passenger seat, huddled beneath a blanket, a coffee mug cupped in her hands. She met Jackson’s gaze, offering a smile that turned into a grimace of pain.

“You should be on your way to the hospital,” he said as he walked to the vehicle, ignoring the deputy’s sputtered protest.

“She will be,” the man offered before Morgan could reply. “I’ve already called an ambulance, but Morgan wanted to make sure you were all right while we waited for it. I’m Sheriff Jake Reed.”

“Jackson Sharo.”

“From New York?” The sheriff’s brow furrowed and he cocked his head to the side, studying Jackson.

“That’s right.”

“You’re here for the Sinclair wedding?”

“Right again.”

“Jude told me you were coming. Said you were partners when you worked homicide in New York. I’m surprised you’re not hanging out with him. This being his last night as a bachelor and all.”

“That’s exactly what I’d be doing if I hadn’t run into trouble.”

“I guess what I’m asking is how you ended up at Morgan’s gallery tonight.”

“I’m happy to tell you, but you might want to get some men out looking for the perps before you waste time listening to my story.”

“I’ve already taken Morgan’s statement and issued an APB based on her description of the suspects. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear your story.” If the sheriff was annoyed by Jackson’s comment, his tone and expression didn’t show it.

“You want the long or short version?”

“Either will work.”

“I was working on a case and missed my flight out of New York last night. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get another flight, so I drove down here. I got into town a few hours ago and realized I’d left Jude and Lacey’s gift in New York. After Jude’s rehearsal dinner, I decided to drive around town to see if I could find a place to buy one.”

“So that’s the short version?”

“Yeah.” The long version was something Jackson didn’t plan to share. He had wanted to find a gift for his friend, but he’d also needed space. Seeing Jude’s family together had reminded Jackson of his own family and the loss that had torn them apart. It was that more than anything that had driven him to his solitary search for a gift. If he’d been the kind to believe that God intervened in the business of men, Jackson would be tempted to think that He’d put him in just the right place at just the right time to save Morgan’s life.

“Tell me what happened when you got here,” the sheriff said, interrupting Jackson’s thoughts.

Jackson gave him as many details as he could, his gaze drawn to the squad car and the woman inside it. She looked vulnerable, her eyes hollow and empty. Jackson had gone into police work to help people like her. He’d left it because he’d
failed when it counted most. The truth was a hard knot in his chest. He cleared his throat, wishing he could clear his mind of the past as easily. “That’s as much as I know. I think the rest of your answers will have to come from Morgan.”

“All right. Thanks. Are you staying with Jude?”

“Yes.”

“Leaving after the wedding tomorrow?”

“I’d planned to do some fishing and head back to New York Sunday morning.”

“Then I’ll let you get back to what you were doing, but I’ll want to ask a few more questions before you leave town. How about we meet after the wedding reception?”

“Sure.” Not that he had a choice in the matter.

“You have a business card?”

“In my wallet. Your deputy still has it.”

“Here you go, Mr. Sharo.” She dropped it into Jackson’s outstretched palm.

“And my gun?”

The sheriff nodded, and the deputy returned that to Jackson, as well. That meant he could do exactly what the sheriff had suggested and get back to the wedding gift hunt.

It was probably what he should do. It was even what he wanted to do, but Jackson knew he couldn’t. Quitting the police force hadn’t changed his desire to serve and protect. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t leave until he was sure Morgan would be all right. “You said you called an ambulance?”

“Should be here in a few minutes.”

“A few minutes or an hour, it doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to the hospital,” Morgan said as she eased out of the squad car, leaving the blanket and coffee cup behind.

“I think we discussed this already,” the sheriff said. “You need to be checked out at the hospital. We’ve got a victim’s advocate
there who will talk to you and help you through the process.” His tone was implacable, but Morgan didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m not a victim.” Despite the argumentative tone, her voice trembled, and Jackson wondered how long it would be before her tough facade crumbled and she crumbled with it.

“Sheriff Reed is right. You need to let the doctors take a look at your injuries.” He put a hand on her shoulder, letting it fall away when she flinched.

“I don’t need a doctor to tell me I’ve been beaten. And I don’t need a victim’s advocate to tell me it wasn’t my fault.”

“Then what do you need?”

Jackson’s question must have surprised her. She met his gaze, her almond-shaped eyes surrounded by thick black lashes that contrasted sharply with light-colored irises. “To go back a decade and say no when my ex-husband asked me to marry him.”

“You think your ex-husband had something to do with what happened tonight?”

“Something
to do with it? He had everything to do with it. The men who were here were searching for something of Cody’s. A disk. They said Cody told them that I had it. That he’d given it to me before he went to prison.”

Her ex-husband was in prison?

And
she owned an art gallery in Lakeview, Virginia.

And
her first name was Morgan.

Surprised, Jackson studied her face. Bruised and swollen, it barely resembled the photo of Morgan Alexandria that he’d seen months ago when Jude Sinclair had asked him to investigate the ex-wife of a man he’d put into prison. Barely resembled but did. Dark black hair. Vivid, silvery-blue eyes. Exotic beauty that had stuck in his mind long after he’d seen the photo. Maybe if he hadn’t been so caught up in escaping his thoughts and his guilt, Jackson would have put two and two together when he’d first arrived at the gallery.

And maybe he wouldn’t have rung the doorbell.

Seen Morgan’s battered face.

A God thing?

His sister would have said so.

Maybe, just maybe, Jackson believed it.

An ambulance pulled into the parking lot, cutting off further conversation.

“Looks like your ride is here, Morgan,” the sheriff said quietly. “I’m going to check things out around here. Then I’ll come by to see how you’re doing.”

“Really, Sheriff Reed, I don’t need to go to the hospital. All I need are a few aspirins and an ice pack.”

Of course, she
did
need to go. There’d be a team waiting to collect forensic evidence from her clothes, hair and skin. Photographs would be taken. Doctor’s reports written. Everything done to ensure that anything collected would be admissible in court.

Sheriff Reed didn’t mention any of those things as two EMTs approached. Jackson didn’t either, but the thought of Morgan facing doctors, police and victim’s advocate alone didn’t sit well with him.