Killer Focus Page 8

“He’s not Bureau and he can’t be working for the U.S. Marshal’s office, because he was in the picture before the shooting.” She watched a gull settle onto a wharf piling. “Unless they’ve had me tailed since Eureka.”

  She’d gone over the reasons why the U.S. Marshal’s office would allocate a chunk of their annual budget to surveiling her until she was tired of thinking about it. The U.S. Marshals had their own very specific agenda. In Lopez’s case, they were solely concerned with apprehending him so he could stand trial. It was a stretch to believe that they had been watching her on the off chance that Lopez would try to make contact.

  “That brings us back to Lopez.” He reached down into a cabinet slotted beneath a padded window seat and pulled out a notebook and a pen. “Describe the guy who was following you.”

  She gave him the details. “I could help you find him.”

  “No.”

  The answer didn’t surprise her. Jack Jones had been a part of a criminal underworld, she had been an agent; he couldn’t work with her breathing down his neck. But she couldn’t let go of the fact that the man who had followed her could be a bona fide lead in the Lopez case. “You’ll need my cell phone number.”

  His expression didn’t change as he wrote the number down, but the tension was palpable. Taylor couldn’t help but be aware that asking Jack Jones for help—giving him her number—strengthened a link she’d spent years rejecting.

  “Have you got a place to stay?” His expression was cool and direct, the message blunt. He didn’t want the risk of her staying with him.

  “Not yet.” She pushed to her feet and adjusted the strap of her handbag over one shoulder. “I’ll book into a motel in town, then head back to Wilmington in the morning.”

  Steve Fischer stepped down off the pier onto a moored yacht as Taylor walked past, his focus sharpening as he studied her expression.

  Something had changed.

  Keeping his head down so the bill of his ball cap shaded his face, he continued to study her through dark glasses, then thumbed the speed dial on his cell phone and lifted it to his ear. “You pick up the tail. There’s something else I have to do here. And be careful—she’s armed.”

  Keeping an eye on the launch Taylor had just spent the past half hour in, he settled down to wait.

  Ten

  Instead of repeating the two-day drive back to Wilmington, Taylor made arrangements to leave the car at the Miami airport and caught a flight out the following afternoon. She had driven to the Keys so that Burdett, or anyone else who might be following her, wouldn’t have the easy convenience of a paper trail to follow. Now that she’d concluded her business, the fact that her name would register on a flight manifest was no longer a problem.

  When she stepped into her apartment, her answering machine was flashing and her phone was ringing. It was Burdett, and he wasn’t happy. She hadn’t informed them that she was leaving town after he had authorized extra protection. He was more than happy to supply the protection—they were there to support her—but she had to cooperate.

  Taylor understood Burdett’s view perfectly, but that didn’t change her reality.

  After a restless night, she showered and dressed, shrugged into the shoulder holster and slipped on a fresh jacket. Checking the load on the Glock, she placed it in the holster.

  She made coffee, then grimaced when she discovered the milk had gone sour. Emptying the milk into the sink, she spooned sugar into her cup instead and drank the coffee black while she did an inventory of the cupboards. She was reluctant to leave the apartment complex, but she was almost out of food, which meant she had to shop.

  After loading laundry into the washing machine and discovering that she didn’t have washing powder, either, she added that to her list, locked the apartment and strolled to the front gate. One of Burdett’s men waved at her as she stepped out onto the sidewalk and relief channeled through her. Despite Burdett’s annoyance, he hadn’t canceled the security detail.

  She waved back and kept walking, but her response to Burdett’s security had made up her mind. Wilmington was supposed to be her refuge, but not any longer. Somehow, despite all the precautions, her security had been compromised. When Burdett had calmed down she would request a new placement, and tighter security. If Burdett didn’t listen, she would call Bayard and keep calling until she got results.

  The beach was still crowded, the roads crammed with tanned couples holding hands, kids wearing fluorescent shorts and eating ice cream, but Taylor couldn’t relax. There were plenty of tall, dark men around, but none wearing spectacles. She studied faces, but dark glasses distorted appearance to a degree that she had to accept that even if she looked directly at the man who had been following her, she wouldn’t recognize him.

  She walked into the nearest mall, found a supermarket and bought the few items she needed. Without a car, she couldn’t carry much so she kept her purchases to basics: fresh milk, salad vegetables, wholegrain bread and washing powder. There was no point in loading up with food when she would be leaving Wilmington.

  When she stepped out of the mall, she slipped dark glasses on, studied the queue of tourists lined up waiting for cabs and decided she would get home faster walking. Crossing the road, she threaded her way through a parking lot. As she stepped onto the sidewalk, light flashed from one of the apartment balconies overhanging the street. A flicker of movement drew her eye, another flash, and for a disorienting moment she was transported to a cold, gray street in D.C., ice and rain forming a misty murk, and shiny dents in stainless steel. She was already moving when lettuce and wholegrain bread exploded and, for the second time in less than two months, she hit the sidewalk.

  The Glock in one hand and dragging her handbag, which contained her cell phone, she crawled behind the nearest cover, a shiny black convertible. Her right forearm was burning where the bullet must have grazed her. Blood had already soaked her jacket sleeve and was steadily dripping, making her grip on the gun slippery.

  A metallic pop split the air and a sideview mirror shattered. Her arms jerked up, shielding her face, but it was too late. Her skin stung where shards of glass had either cut her or become embedded.

  Long seconds passed while she waited for the next shot. When it didn’t come, she risked checking out the direction the shots had originated from. Above street level, floor space was mostly given over to apartments with balconies, and in the balmy weather a lot of doors and windows were open. The flash of light she’d seen had most likely come from a telescopic sight. She knew the general location, but she couldn’t pinpoint the exact balcony.

  Staying low, she fumbled in her bag, found her cell phone and dialed emergency services. Normally she would have the local police department on speed dial, but with a new identity, and living in a strange city, she hadn’t thought she would need that particular number.

  The operator picked up and began taking details. Blood dripped from her wrist, soaking into her clothes and forming a small, viscous puddle on the asphalt as she answered questions.

  The operator’s voice was soothing. “Stay calm, ma’am. We’ll have someone with you shortly.”

  “I am calm.” But she wasn’t. Her voice sounded hollow, as if she were talking into a drum, and adrenaline kept kicking through in spurts, making her shake.

  A horrified gasp jerked her head up. She registered the wide-eyed stare of a slim, tanned woman wearing tennis whites.

  Unclenching her teeth, she motioned for the woman to get down. “It’s okay. I’ve been shot, but I think he’s gone.”

  But it wasn’t okay. Whoever had shot her had wanted to hit her. They had fired at least twice.

  She dialed Burdett, then hung up when she spotted one of his men crouched behind a car near the entrance of the parking lot, talking into a radio. She had been aware that he had followed her, keeping a discreet distance, but she hadn’t seen him since she had entered the mall.

  The woman, who was now huddled down by the back wheel of the car, stared blankly at her fa
ce. Taylor didn’t bother checking. She could feel the stiffening of her skin where the blood from the cuts had dried. If her face looked anything like her arm, she was a mess.

  Across the parking lot, she could see people strolling in the sun and loading groceries into their cars. Seconds later, the sound of a siren cut the air. The medics took a little longer, which was a crying shame.

  It was weird, but in contrast to being shot in the chest, the shallow crease across her forearm hurt like hell.

  Eleven

  Cold Peak, Vermont

  Two months later

  Cold Peak was a long way from Wilmington, North Carolina, both geographically and psychologically. The town was small to middling, with a population of twelve thousand that included the outlying farming district. It was cool, despite the fact that it was still technically summer, and the whole beach-resort thing that Wilmington had had going on just didn’t exist in landlocked Cold Peak.

  The peak for which the town was named hung suspended in the distance, almost blotted out by the bony line of the Green Mountains, its main distinguishing feature a broad, steep face popular with rock climbers. A few miles north, a ski resort attracted a steady stream of tourists in winter and provided Cold Peak with its main source of revenue.

  Taylor depressed the button on the garage remote and parked the secondhand SUV she’d bought the day after she had moved in. The SUV was both sleek and serviceable, with multipurpose tires for off-road use and four-wheel drive—something she was going to need, because before the end of the summer, she intended to climb Cold Peak. Right after that she was going to get a ski rack fitted to the roof of the SUV.

  Easing tired shoulder muscles that had stiffened up after a strenuous session at the gym, she unlocked her front door and stepped inside.

  This time, instead of an apartment, she had opted for a house—the first house she had ever rented. The fifties bungalow had three bedrooms and a sunroom and was a regular piece of suburban paradise, complete with its neatly cared for front yard, and a barbecue area out the back. To go with the respectable facade of the house and SUV, she even had a job as a personal trainer at the Cold Peak gym.

  It was a job Taylor had never envisioned having but which, weirdly enough, she was qualified to do. Over her years in the Bureau, she had accumulated all of the required medical passes. She also had a degree in physical education, which she’d gained at college while she’d been studying criminology. At the time, she hadn’t ever thought of becoming a personal trainer; she had done the papers purely out of interest.

  Dropping her purse on her bed, she changed into jogging clothes—dark blue track pants and a white tank—locked the house, zipped the key into her track-pants pocket and started out slowly, enjoying the warmth spreading through her muscles and the calmness that came when her body settled into a steady rhythm. She still struggled with the distances she had used to run, and her lung still threw some phantom pains at her but, combined with her regular exercise routine, she was getting there.

  She reached the end of the block, crossed the road and, out of habit, began studying houses and vehicles, checking out who was around her and what made them tick. One of the best indicators of personality she had found was the vehicles people drove.

  A car nailed three key areas: socioeconomic class, what the person liked to do in their spare time and personality. Houses did also, to a degree, but sometimes people rented, so that didn’t express their true socioeconomic status or personality.

  Her neighbor, Letitia Clayton, dressed like a sixties flower fresh out of Woodstock, but the Buick she drove told another story—old money and a solid portfolio of shares cushioning her retirement. Mr. Scanlon across the road was the complete opposite. Early sixties, balding, with weight issues. He drove a Corvette. In his case, the contrast between his vehicle and his house, which was badly in need of roof maintenance and a coat of paint, pointed out priorities that were markedly different from Letty’s. Scanlon might not make his mortgage payment, but that wasn’t going to worry him, because he had sunk all of his money into a car that would hold its value. If he had to make a quick getaway, he wasn’t leaving the majority of his investment behind.

  She rounded a corner and jogged into a street with a solid family feel. Some of the homes had swing sets out front, and the glint of swimming pools was visible in a number of backyards. She studied a two-story weatherboard house with a neat square of lawn out front, her attention drawn by the vehicle parked in the driveway. The gunmetal gray four-wheel-drive truck had tight suspension and off-road tires, and was as different from the mom-and-pop sedans visible in the neighboring driveways as a mountain lion from a bunch of tabby cats. A spattering of mud over the wheel arches indicated that it was used for the purpose for which it had been designed.

  A loud detonation, followed by a high-pitched shriek, sounded off to the left. A split second later, Taylor’s shoulder hit ground that was as iron hard as the sidewalk. She rolled out of bare, exposing sunlight, into the shadow of a hedge, wincing as a shaft of pain shot up one ankle. Another shriek, this time of laughter, and a second shot, made her flinch.

  A breathless giggle came from behind the hedge, followed by the sound of feet pounding on grass. Pulse still hammering, she lifted her head. Kids. Playing with cap guns.

  Since the shooting in Wilmington and another round of follow-up therapy, she had made gains. Bayard had been right about her obsession with Lopez; not having to deal with the case on a daily basis had improved her life. She was sleeping better and she had gotten past the anxiety attacks—mostly. She no longer considered that she had a phobia for needles and briefcases. The sound of gunshots, however…

  Rolling over, she pushed into a sitting position and gingerly rotated her foot.

  “Are you all right?”

  She hadn’t been aware of anyone behind her, but she instantly recognized the voice. Steve Fischer from the gym. He’d started a couple of weeks after her, taking care of the weights and running the training program for Cold Peak’s power-lifting team.

  He crouched down beside her. “Looks like you’ve hurt your ankle.”

  As she probed at the bone, she caught the sharp scent of fresh sweat. He was dressed in track pants and a washed-out gray tank top. If he had just been for a run, that would explain why he’d come up behind her so fast. “I’m fine, it’s just a twist.”

  This close, Fischer seemed a lot larger and edgier. His hair was dark and clipped close, his face tanned, with clean-cut cheekbones and a tough jaw. His eyes were close to black, which pointed to some kind of Hispanic or Native American heritage. He also had a couple of interesting scars, one across the bridge of his nose, one on his jaw. For the first time she noticed he had a pierced ear but no earring.

  “It got ripped out at football practice. I decided it was a liability.”

  And she just bet he hadn’t needed the prop of an earring, anyway.

  She felt herself grow warm that he’d noticed her looking. Football. That figured. And it would explain the scars.

  “Give me your hand.”

  He pulled her to her feet. She tested her weight on the ankle, wobbling slightly. He steadied her. The touch was firm and impersonal, but with the heat of his palm burning through the damp cotton of her tank at the small of her back, suddenly it was hard to reestablish that original low-key impression. Fischer might be a businessman who had recently moved to Cold Peak for the climbing, but he smelled like a man and, standing this close, she was reminded that he was taller than her by several inches.

  Still uncomfortably warm and aware that Fischer was watching her, she hopped away a half step and put weight on the foot. It was tender but nothing to make any fuss about. Ice packs and a quiet evening and she would be fit for work in the morning.

  “Are you okay to walk, or do you need a ride?”

  A graphic, flagrantly sexual image of Fischer naked and on top flashed through her mind and Taylor almost choked. The last date she’d had had been months before sh
e’d been assigned to the Lopez investigation, and it had been a lot longer than that since she’d let anyone get close enough for intimacy. “It’s okay, I live just down the road.”

  His gaze connected with hers for a split second and the fiction that Fischer was low-key, maybe even boring, vaporized. The look was blunt and sharply male, and the faint suspicion that he had deliberately phrased his offer of a ride in an ambiguous way grew stronger.

  “See you at work tomorrow.”

  Dazed, she watched as he crossed the road and walked into the house opposite. The four-wheel-drive truck she had been studying just before she’d panicked and hit the dirt belonged to Fischer. The vehicle was large and uncompromisingly male—like Fischer.

  Shaking her head, she limped past his house. She must be slipping. She couldn’t understand how she could have missed that about him.

  Letitia Clayton was snipping at her roses as Taylor walked past. Letty was gray haired, thin and birdlike, with large, worried eyes. A medallion swung from a gold chain around her neck, and she was wearing what looked suspiciously like a tie-dyed skirt. The remnants of sixties flower power aside, Taylor wasn’t fooled. On the only occasion she had been in Letty’s house, the sitting room coffee table had contained a neat stack of business publications. Beneath the charm and the “sweet old lady” facade, Letty was a Wall Street shark.

  She waved. “You haven’t seen Buster, have you?”

  Taylor resisted the urge to glance at her front gate. She had already spotted a tuft of fur, which indicated that Buster, a large tabby cat with white paws, was lurking beneath the thick arch of wisteria that hung over her front gate.

  “I think he’s in my front yard.” Lately, Buster had been spending his days sleeping on the deck just off her sunroom. A couple of times, he had even managed to get inside the house in the evening and make himself at home on her bed.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with that cat, the last few days. I’ve hardly seen him. Such a worry when I’m packing to go on holiday this week.”