Her eyelids felt heavy—too heavy to open. The past few days began playing in her mind like scenes from a movie, the images as vivid as they had been on Sunday morning. She saw herself following Billy into the warehouse and saw him raise his weapon. She brought up her gun and took aim.
In an instant the scene changed.
Angel was twelve. Billy’s age. Tears streamed down her face as she held the rifle across her lap. She didn’t want to learn to shoot anymore—didn’t want to use a gun ever again.
Angel sat up and pushed the blanket aside.
“It’s not helping. I remembered everything except the shooting.”
“It takes time. And you did remember some things.”
“I’m sorry. I feel like I’m wasting your time and mine. I thought it was going to happen. I remembered seeing Billy and raising my gun—then all of a sudden I’m a kid and I’m crying and I’m scared. I don’t understand what it’s all about. It’s almost like I’m afraid of guns, but I’m not. How crazy is that? I’m a police officer.”
Janet nodded. “Being a police officer doesn’t mean you can’t be afraid.”
“I don’t want to remember my childhood. I just want to remember the shooting.”
“Maybe the memories are somehow linked.”
“How?”
Janet shrugged. “We won’t know that until you remember them. Don’t try to force the memories or stop them. Let yourself drift through them.”
Angel fell back against the cushions. She hadn’t been truthful with Janet. She did have a fear of guns—maybe not a fear exactly, more like an aversion. But she had forced herself to use them. “This isn’t getting me anywhere.”
“Give it time. Would you like to make another appointment?”
Angel sighed. “I’ll think about it.”
On the drive home, Angel thought about her first encounter with a gun. She’d been ten years old when her father had finally taught her to shoot. She’d gotten a hunting rifle for her birthday, and she remembered being thrilled, thinking that now she and her father would have something they could do together. Frank had been happy for her; he’d wanted to go out right away and teach her how to shoot. Her excitement hadn’t lasted very long though. He helped her hold the heavy weapon up, placed the butt against her shoulder. When it went off, she screamed. It kicked hard enough to knock her down. Anna had said she was too small for a gun that size, but Frank insisted that if she was going to shoot, she’d do it right. He wiped her tears then made her pick up the rifle and fire again and again.
Angel hated the gun and the noise but determined then and there she would not complain. Her father didn’t want a crybaby. He wanted his kids to be tough.
Now she wondered if the pain of firing the rifle could have been enough to cause her stomach to tighten in knots whenever she had to shoot. She tried to remember more details about the shooting but couldn’t. Janet had told her to be patient—easier said than done. The OSP crime lab should’ve been able to determine exactly what had happened, but now with the stolen evidence, all she had was her memory—an apparently faulty one at that.
Angel bypassed her apartment when she saw the mob waiting in the parking lot and headed for the hospital. Peter and Paul accosted her in the waiting room. “We’re taking you to the resort,” Paul said. “No argument.”
“You need a break from all of this.” Peter hooked an arm around her neck.
“We all think it’s a great idea.” Paul seemed more animated than usual. Angel suspected it was because of a certain lawyer.
“We’ll even kidnap Brandon if you want.” Peter chuckled and released her.
“Don’t you dare.”
Paul shook his head in disgust. “We’re supposed to protect our little sister, not lead her astray.”
Peter grinned and shrugged. “Just trying to help.”
Angel surprised them by agreeing. “You’re right. I do need to get away.”
“Wow. That was easy. We didn’t even have to bribe you with our best suite.”
She hugged both of them. “I love you guys, you know that?”
“Yeah. We know. Now get in there and see Dad, then we’re leaving.”
At the resort, the twins treated her to a wonderful dinner of filet mignon and lobster. After dinner they escorted her to her room. “You should be safe here on the premises. We have a security guard on duty all the time.” Peter opened the door and handed her the key.
“Use your safety lock though,” Paul cautioned.
Peter clipped her on the chin. “The place is all yours. We’ll be heading for the pool and hot tub area in an hour or so if you want to join us.”
Angel yawned. “Thanks, but I think I’ll just curl up on the sofa and watch television for a while, then go to bed.”
She tried watching TV for about an hour, but nothing held her attention and she began pacing. Then she figured the best cure for nerves was a walk on the beach. From her window on the second floor, even the dark surf looked inviting. She slipped on her athletic shoes, pocketed her key, and stepped into the hall. When she got to the sand, she began having second thoughts about heading out alone, so she went back inside, thinking to track down Peter or Paul. Maybe one of them would run with her.
Since they’d mentioned something about swimming, she headed for the pool area. The lodge had two pools, one inside and one out on the patio area. Her brothers weren’t in the indoor pool, so she headed through the lobby, past the enormous fireplace, and outside where the underwater lights and blue tiles made the water glisten.
Passing the bar, Angel noticed several couples. At a table close to the wall she spotted two African-American men. One had his back to her. The other glanced up as she walked by and nodded as if he knew her. She couldn’t place him, but then again, maybe she’d never met him. He may have just recognized her from the recent television broadcasts and the papers. Then she noticed he was wearing a clerical collar, and suddenly she remembered where she knew him from. He was the minister who had officiated at Billy’s funeral.
She stopped, feeling a moment’s panic. What were they doing here? Had they come to confront her?
She shook her head. You have to stop thinking that way. The reverend didn’t seem angry or out for revenge. He merely turned back to the man he’d been talking to. She relaxed. Get a grip, Angel. Not every African-American wants you dead, for goodness sake.
She found her brothers in the outdoor Jacuzzi.
“Hey, Angel, come join us.” Peter waved her over. “We just got in.”
“Thanks, but no. I was thinking about going for a run.”
“Not by yourself,” Paul said, taking on a parental tone.
“Sheesh, don’t worry. I was hoping I could talk one or both of you into going with me.” She folded herself onto the chaise.
“Count me out. I’m going to veg in the tub and head for my room.” Peter leaned back, apparently enjoying the pulsing jets on his back and shoulders.
“How is your room?” Paul asked.
“Awesome. You two are spoiling me. How am I supposed to go back to my mundane apartment after all this?”
“We’re here to serve,” Paul said. “Speaking of service, why don’t you sign up with our massage therapist? She said she could work you in tomorrow if you’re interested.”
“She’ll whittle all your worries into toothpicks.” Peter rubbed his shoulder and winced. “Wish she were here right now.”
“Sounds wonderful.” Angel tipped back her head to look at the clear sky. Millions of stars glittered and winked against the inky black night.
“What are brothers for?” Peter flicked water at her. “Besides, you’ve had a rough time of it. We want to help.”
Paul ducked his head under the water and popped back up. The jets looked inviting.
“Hey, guys, if I go up and get my suit, will you still be here when I come back?”
“Sure.”
“Give me ten minutes.”
Angel made her way back
through the lobby. As she passed the bar, she noticed that the two men she’d seen before were gone. An odd feeling rolled around in the pit of her stomach. She put her uneasiness aside.
She hurried up to her room, changed into her swimsuit, and slipped on the thick white terry cloth robe the resort provided, then headed back out. The lobby was quiet when she went back through it, but then it was nearly 11:00. She followed the same path she’d taken before, meandering through the manicured shrubs and lawn. She had almost reached the pool area when she thought she heard something up ahead. Her heart leaped to her throat. She glanced around but saw nothing.
Angel went on, noting that one of the footlights was out. She made a mental note to tell the twins. Her foot hit something, and she pitched forward. Her arms shot out to break her fall. She expected to connect with dirt and gravel; instead, she landed on something soft and hard.
Fabric.
Flesh.
Her eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness. She pushed herself up and found herself looking into the wide, staring eyes of a dead man.
Angel rolled off the body and scrambled to her feet. Gasping for breath, she glanced around for the man’s assailant. When she saw no one, she swallowed hard and forced herself to look at the victim.
It was the man she’d seen in the lounge earlier. His throat had been slit. The small white square of a clerical collar was now stained red. She hunkered down beside him, trying to think and act like the police officer she was—or used to be.
“What’s going on?”
She looked up and saw Peter skidding to a stop. Paul nearly plowed into him. “Was that you screaming?”
Their disbelieving gazes shifted from Angel to the dead man and back again. She hadn’t realized she’d screamed. “I guess it was.”
Peter’s mouth hung open. “Angel. What have you done?”
“I haven’t done anything.” She straightened her robe and pulled the belt securely around her waist. Looking down, she could see splotches of blood on her hands and the white robe.
“You’d better call the police,” she said in as calm a voice as she could manage. “He’s been murdered.”
She started to reach inside the victim’s jacket for ID, then stopped. She had been relieved of her duties. The wise thing would be to wait and let the responding officer deal with it.
Brandy and Mike responded first; seconds later, Callen showed up. His hard gaze swept over the scene and caught Angel’s eye for just a moment. Then he took charge, asking Mike to begin the questioning process and Brandy to take the photographs. After securing the crime scene and ordering a crew from the crime lab, Callen drew Angel aside.
He glanced toward the body and the officer taking photos. “What happened?”
She stared at the darkening stains on her robe. “I’d just gone up to my room to change around 10:45—he wasn’t here then, but when I came out to join my brothers in the Jacuzzi, I, um... I tripped over him.”
“Any idea who he is?”
“I saw him in the lounge earlier with another guy. He’s the pastor who officiated at Billy’s funeral.”
Callen jotted something down in his notebook. “The victim’s name is the Reverend Todd Elroy Dixon,” he said. “What do you know about him?”
“Not much.” Angel swallowed back the lump lodged in her throat. “I remember reading about him in the paper. He’s a televangelist, well known, I guess, though I’d never heard of him before this. He flew in from Atlanta right after the, um, shooting to meet Billy’s family.”
“I read that too,” Callen said.
“He was probably advising the family to file a civil suit against me.” She glanced up to catch him studying her. Once again she looked away. She didn’t like him seeing her like this. “You’re probably going to want to talk to the guy I saw him with.”
Callen poised his pen above his notepad. “Can you give me a name?”
“No—not for sure. But I have a hunch it was Ray Broadman.”
“The Hartwell kid’s uncle.” Callen raised an eyebrow. “The guy who’s trying to turn the shooting into a racial incident?”
“Yeah. That’s him.”
Callen’s blue-green gaze penetrated hers, making her look away. “We need to get photos of you and take that robe and your swimsuit.”
She closed her eyes and nodded. This was the second time in less than a week she’d had to turn bloody clothes over for evidence. What was Callen thinking? Did he suspect her? She couldn’t blame him if he did. She had the victim’s blood all over her, and worse, the man was connected to Billy’s family. “Do I need to call my lawyer?” she asked.
“Have you done anything you need a lawyer for?”
“No. It’s just that with the relationship between Reverend Dixon and Billy’s family, I thought...”
He shook his head, his eyes catching hers. There was no condemnation there. Admiration, maybe.
“Hey, Riley.” One of the crime lab guys signaled to Callen. “We’ve got a weapon.”
Turning back to Angel, he said. “Hold on a sec.”
“Do you mind if I take a look?”
“Be my guest.” Callen took her arm and walked with her. He was strong, and though he had a kind face, she noted an edginess about him. He was a man you wouldn’t want to cross no matter which side of the law you were on, she decided. Each time she saw him, she felt more drawn to him. Maybe because they were both Irish and both in law enforcement. But he didn’t look Irish—except for those sea-green eyes. She looked at his back. Straight. Confident. She tried to rein in her thoughts. “I must be crazy,” she murmured.
He turned and fastened his gaze on hers. Her breath caught. Did he know what she was thinking? He smiled. “We’re all a little crazy. Have to be in this business.”
She pursed her lips and blew out a relieved sigh. He thought she was talking about wanting to see the weapon.
“Looks like a steak knife,” the tech who’d summoned Callen said.
“It is.” Angel glanced at Callen. “It’s the kind they use in the restaurant here.”
She’d used one just like it three hours ago.
“Prints?” Callen peered at the alleged weapon.
The tech from the crime lab dropped the knife into an evidence bag. “Some smudges. Looks like the killer either wiped it off or was wearing gloves. We’ll run some more tests on it at the lab.”
A light flashed. Angel glanced toward the lobby entrance. A photographer had his camera aimed in her direction. She ducked her head and turned as it flashed again. “Great. Looks like I’m going to be fodder for the media again.”
Callen stalked over to the periphery of the crime scene and barked at the officers maintaining security to get the onlookers and media out of the lobby area. Eric went up to the photographer, and after giving Angel a thumbs-up sign, led the guy away. They ducked under the crime scene tape and disappeared into the darkness. It was the first she’d seen of Eric tonight, and she felt a modicum of relief knowing he was here.
Angel watched Callen’s demeanor change as he came back toward her. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Tears gathered in her eyes as his tender gaze met hers. He motioned her away from the scene. “I hate to do this to you, but we need to get those photos of you.” He called Brandy over and gave her instructions.
Angel endured several minutes of embarrassment as Brandy snapped photos that would be used as evidence. But it helped some that a friend was the designated photographer. When she’d finished, Brandy said, “Angel, we’re going to need the robe and your swimsuit.”
Angel nodded. “I know. I’ll go to my room and change.”
“I’ll walk with you,” Brandy said.
Angel kept her head down and ignored the members of the press who had moved out of the lobby and were milling around just outside the expanded yellow crime-scene tapes.
Callen watched the two women get into the elevator, his mind spinning in a hundred different directions. While he waited for the C
SI guys to finish gathering evidence, he paced across the patio, then took the path to the beach and began walking. Three bodies in six days. All African-American, but that was as close as he could come to similarities.
John Monroe had been murdered first, obviously a drug-related incident. The investigation into J.J.’s death hadn’t taken high priority. The local agency was supposed to handle the investigation, but they had their hands full with routine stuff and hadn’t gotten far.
Then, in what looked like an unrelated case, two, maybe three, gangbangers hit the pharmacy, stealing all the narcotics the poor pharmacist had on hand. Drugs again. The perps had scattered, possibly abandoning the Hartwell kid, who was supposedly innocent of any wrongdoing.
According to Angel’s testimony, the boy had acted as though he was giving up at the pharmacy when his buddies opened fire on her. He rubbed his forehead, wishing he had some answers. So far Bergman hadn’t been able to tell them anything. The guy was barely hanging on.
Now a respected and internationally known reverend in the black community was dead, and Angel Delaney was in the middle of that one as well.
When Callen reached the end of the lighted beach area, he turned and began walking back. A fine mist had started to fall, and the wind picked up. He pulled up the collar of his OSP jacket and zipped it up.
“Detective!” Mike Rawlings hailed him and waited on the lawn while Callen slushed through the soft sand. “We’re about done.”
Mike fell in step beside him. “The victim was a guest here and had dinner with Ray Broadman.”
“Did you talk to the servers?”
“In the cocktail lounge, but the kid from the dining room left. I’ve got his address. According to the bartender in the lounge, they went their separate ways around 10:30. The valet verified that Broadman drove out of the parking lot a few minutes later.”
Callen listened to the report then asked, “Tell me something, Mike, have you guys got anything at all on the kid we found out on the dock Sunday?”
“Not much. I asked down at the youth center, and a couple guys admitted to knowing him. He hung out at the Dragon’s Den a lot. My take is that he was bringing in ecstasy and selling it to the kids during the weekend dances.”
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