The Last Execution (6 page)

“Wish mine did.” Olivia shrugged.

“Going hungry won’t stop a killer. Let’s hit the sandwich shop.” J.T. stood, stretched with a groan. “It’s closest in case we get a call.”

Olivia pulled Romeo away from his computer, and the four of them walked to a corner bistro. Both Olivia and Romeo chatted easily. J.T. contributed nothing, glancing at his cell between bites.

“Atlanta is home?” Olivia asked.

“How could you tell?” The question surprised Leigh. Had some of the colloquialisms slipped back into her speech? She didn’t realize it was noticeable.

“I hear a little of the South when you talk,” Romeo agreed.

“I was razzed a lot my first year at the University of Colorado. People treated me like I didn’t speak English. So I added speech to my curriculum.”

“Why Colorado?”

Leigh swallowed her surprise. Were they making small talk to ease the stress? If so, she preferred a change of subject. “They offered the best scholarship. I damn near froze to death.”

“You said you were single. Ever think about getting married?” Olivia asked.

Her heart rate skyrocketed. Dammit. The questions were getting too personal. “I haven’t given marriage much thought. There’s never enough time. Is there?”

“I’d make time for the right guy. I’d be a good mother.”

“If this meeting of the lonely hearts club is over, can we get back to work?” J.T.’s chair scraped across the floor as he jerked to a standing position. Large hands rolled his sandwich paper into a small ball and crushed it.

Olivia stood, drawing her slight frame up tall. “You’re not the only one whose nerves are drawn tight. We’re working this case day and night. Wouldn’t hurt you to take a mental break.”

She was talking to J.T.’s back.

Leigh sympathized with their stress and understood J.T.’s tension. Casey’s interview Friday afternoon with the news media had added pressure to the week-old taskforce.

His reaction when the conversation shifted to family interested Leigh. He’d struck faster than a coiled rattlesnake. An underlying current of pain vibrated from him. The urge to sooth resurfaced.

****

Monday, April 26, 5:45 p.m.

Doyle parked across from the high school. Carrying his equipment in an oversized toolbox, he felt comfortable that no one noticed a technician. While he made his way to his chosen vantage point, he considered the dangers of executing Steven Sanders in the daytime. Granted, the television interview with the FBI boss and learning they had taken over the case was flattering. It also added a new dimension of care he had to exercise.

Gaining information on Sanders and his battered wife hadn’t been easy. The Junior Varsity baseball coach and the often-absent Faith, who taught seventh grade science, kept to themselves. The excuses for her many absences and injuries would’ve made an interesting read. This beating would keep her out a minimum of two weeks.

The site selection for Sanders’ execution had presented a dilemma, too. Doyle always exercised great caution to ensure only the offender was injured. Thankfully, the coach made a habit of staying until everybody left, allowing for minimum risk.

Doyle entered through the back door, climbed the stairs to the roof of the auditorium, where he unpacked his rifle, and got comfortable. In addition to a clear view of the parking lot outside Sanders’ office, the entrance to the freeway was a mere two blocks south. He inhaled deeply. Today’s execution would be easy and safe.

Doyle wiggled his fingers, which grew numb from holding the rifle steady. Maybe he was getting too damned old. Then he remembered the bruised and beaten woman and imagined the fear and pain Faith Sanders had endured. Hell, he’d prefer the law protected battered women. Until they did, he’d hold the monsters accountable. If only more citizens would shoulder a weapon and help him.

The door opened and his target walked out alone. Nice of Sanders to park in the same spot, right next to the building. Doyle mentally slipped into the zone, lined the crosshairs up with Sanders’ forehead, and gently squeezed the trigger. The 700 produced an incredible report, echoing across the almost empty lot. Doyle remained calm. He stowed his rifle and casually left the premises.

He was too smart for the New York FBI taskforce to stop. Now, even smarter and with more experience, there was no way the Atlanta team would touch him.

****

Monday, April 26, 7:30 p.m.

J.T. was first on the scene. The team had jumped through their asses every time the phone rang all day. Now their fear was a reality. He had to find a clue. Something. Anything to stop this killer. He rocked back on his heels and scanned the area, committing all that lay in front of him to memory.

The head shot reinforced J.T.’s belief the killing skills hadn’t come from military training. A Marine sniper himself, he refused to believe the bastard was a member of the Armed Forces.

Leigh’s voice drifted up from behind him. J.T.’s blood flow kicked up a notch, and he cursed himself for the surge of pleasure. He’d called her over an hour ago with an offer to swing by and pick her up. Her refusal had been fast and firm. She hadn’t given him a chance to figure out if riding together made sense logistically. In fact, he considered her reaction borderline hostile.

“Took you long enough.” He’d heard music in the background when he’d called. Maybe she’d been out for the evening. If she liked to party, he had to steer clear of her.
Not your business
.
Who cares where she hangs out?

“Sorry.” She offered no further explanation. Instead, she turned and walked away.

J.T. joined the small group of firefighters and EMTs, introducing himself all the way around. Ricky Phillips was apparently the lead spokesperson, because he moved to the side, motioning J.T. to join him.

“This sniper’s got everybody in the city jumpy.” Phillips rolled his shoulders. “A fuckin’ car backfires, and we get called out. We had two wasted runs today before this one.” He lowered his voice. “In case you didn’t know it, Jenna Hawkins is all over the place. She’s trying to get the vic’s name. Watch out for her. She ain’t nothin’ but a pretty piranha.”

“She’s with FOX?”

“Yeah. Their local affiliate.”

“Appreciate the tip.”

A uniformed officer joined J.T. “You want to speak to the custodian who called 9-1-1?”

“Yeah, where’d you stash him?”

“In the field house.” The cop indicated a clapboard structure next to the baseball field. “There’s an officer stationed outside. I figured you’d want the guy kept on ice.”

“Good idea. I need your help. Let’s keep the lady reporter clear of this building. Will you take care of that for me?”

“You got it.”

J.T. had to question the custodian. He doubled back past the body and walked over to the building. Damn, the media vans had circled the area like covered wagons.

A female cop stepped between him and the door. “Can I help you?”

He pulled his ID from his hip pocket, extending the leather holder out for her inspection. “I want to question the custodian.”

“Detective McBride’s with him now.” The cop raised her chin a notch as she stepped aside.

“Good.” J.T. decided Leigh had a few friends on the force.

He entered the building and followed the sound of voices down the hall. When he opened the door, Leigh turned in his direction and paused. She lobbed him a smile, motioned him to join them, and introduced him to Henry Elder.

“Mr. Elder was telling me where he was when he heard the gun shot.”

“Don’t stop. I’ll jump in if I think of something.” J.T. pulled a chair over and sat while the older gentleman walked Leigh through his experience.

Leigh made paying attention difficult. His blood ran south when she turned and smiled at him. Now he understood why she wore that plain old-lady-schoolteacher knot at work. Left loose, a riot of blonde waves, swirls, and curls hung midway down her back. A headband of some sort kept her face clear. Jesus Christ, gold silk made his mouth water. His fingers itched to tunnel deep, to test the softness. Her jeans and Braves jersey removed the stiff cop image she portrayed during the daytime.

J.T. pushed his idiot brain into gear. “Mr. Elder, would you estimate your travel time from inside the gym to the body?” J.T. stood, moving next to Leigh.

“Maybe five minutes. I hustled. I know what a gunshot sounds like, heard my share in the military.”

Elder tapped the tattoo on his forearm. It was identical to one partially exposed by the sleeve on J.T.’s T-shirt. He tipped his head in recognition and let the man continue.

“Takes me longer than most, but I hurried.” The older Marine knocked his knuckles against his knee. “I got too close to a landmine in Nam.” He snorted a wheeze of air through his teeth. “You get that in Iraq?”

The question caught J.T. off guard. It had been one of those rare times he’d forgotten the scar on his cheek. The old man had nerve. Unlike Leigh, who pretended the damn thing didn’t exist.

“Afghanistan,” J.T. said, keeping his voice low. Leigh had zero interest in his scar, and he didn’t want to discuss any part of the war around her.

She pulled a card from her hip pocket and handed it to the older man before shaking his hand. “If you think of something else, give me a call.”

“We appreciate your help.” J.T. stood and extended his hand, welcoming the strong clasp he received. “Here and over there.”

“Semper Fi.” Henry nodded his recognition before limping out of the room.

“Marine.” She stated the word with a proud lilt in her voice and approval on her face.

“Once a Marine...”

“Always a Marine,” she finished for him.

“Who?”

“My dad.”

Finishing each other’s sentences couldn’t possibly be a good thing. He’d earned his reputation for being a tough investigator and catching killers. Leigh was distracting, making concentrating a challenge. One he couldn’t allow.

Cold looks and stiff jaws from the locals came with the territory. They rolled off J.T. as he made a final round, ensuring the information was gathered and sent to the lab.

Shit. He’d expected media coverage after Casey’s press conference. This was ridiculous. He paused long enough to refer all questions to the SAC.

“Now to break the news to the widow,” J.T. said.

She held her wrist up under the street lamp and checked her watch. Light bounced off her blonde hair and pale skin, giving her an angelic glow.

“Somebody waiting for you?”
Shit.
He wanted those words back.

“Yes.” Her eyes widened.

His bold question hadn’t pissed her off. Instead, a spark of panic flashed behind her blue eyes. His question frightened her. Why?

“Then by all means, go.” The coarseness of his own voice rocked him back on his heels. “I’ll talk to the widow without you.”

“No, you won’t. This is my case, too. Remember?”

“Of course.” Shit, he’d dig his foot out of his mouth later. “Where are you parked?”

“Across Belton. What about you?”

“Behind the field house.”

“Okay. I’ll drive around and follow you.” She bit her bottom lip, glancing at her watch again.

His gaze dropped to her lush mouth.
Stop or kiss her. Do something.
“Fine. Go get your car.”

She hadn’t taken three strides before her cell was in her hand. Calling a significant other? Checking in with someone? Why did he give a crap?

He had two mysteries to solve. It would probably be easier to catch the sniper than to unravel the mystery of his temporary partner.

Chapter Five

Monday, April 26, 1:20 a.m.

J.T. was through looking for someone who didn’t want to be found, at least for tonight. Going from bar to bar in the old neighborhood flashing a twenty-year-old picture wasted his time. Down deep, if he were into soul searching, he’d admit his hunt had been half-assed. He flip-flopped between actually trying to locate his mother and merely going through the motions.

He shoved the door open and stepped out into the night air. The odor of stale beer, sweat, and cigarettes spilled onto the sidewalk with him. An unexpected blow came from behind, and he stumbled forward a couple of steps. He regained his footing, whirled, grabbed the shoulders of the asshole who’d run into him, and shoved him away. The nutcase rushed him again. He swung. An error in judgment.

“What the hell?” J.T. blocked the guy’s right only to take a blow to the midsection. He had no idea why the man hit him, but enough was enough. J.T. delivered a hard punch to the attacker’s jaw. The guy landed flat of his back. “Don’t fucking get up.”

A uniformed cop ran up and slid to a stop.

“FBI.” He jerked his ID from his hip pocket and identified himself when he saw the Taser. “Does this piece of crap belong to you?” J.T. rubbed his right hand, pissed about his bruised knuckles.

“Yeah. We caught him making a sale a couple of blocks back.” The cop pulled in a deep breath. “The sorry bastard ran.”

A second uniform parked a patrol car at the curb and got out. “Next time, I’ll chase, you drive,” he said to his panting partner. A smile of recognition lit up his face. “J.T. Noble? You son of a bitch. Where the hell have you been?”