by Karen Rose
The camera wobbled wildly, then stabilized, the angle now changed. “Whoever is filming this just dropped to his stomach,” Ben murmured.
“Still filming,” Sandi said incredulously. “Tough guy. Or totally stupid.”
The dark-eyed woman stumbled out of the blurred area, away from the minivan, her face frozen in shock. Grayson’s shoulders abruptly relaxed. Not her. For a moment the woman stared, horrified, as shouts rang out around her. A uniformed police officer ran toward her, drawing his weapon when the dog lunged, teeth bared.
Bystanders were screaming and running and still the woman stood there, staring, motionless in a sea of chaos. Abruptly she blinked, looked at the cop whose gun was pointed at her dog. She grabbed the leash, bent at the waist, and ran to the passenger side of the van for cover, where she dropped to sit, the dog at her side. She draped her arm around the dog and closed her eyes, and again the camera zoomed in on her face.
Grayson couldn’t tell if the moisture on her face was rain or tears. Probably both. But there was no more time to stare as the screen changed, splitting to show both Radcliffe and the morning anchor, who was still flinching, her reaction sincere.
“Amazing footage,” the anchor said soberly. “That poor woman. Do we have any more information, Phin? How is the Good Samaritan who stopped to help?”
“She appears unhurt,” Radcliffe said. “The police haven’t given the all clear yet and to our knowledge no further shots have been fired. When we’re able, we’ll move closer to interview the witnesses and the Good Samaritan who risked her own life.”
“And we’ll have that for you live,” the anchor said to the viewers. “While we wait, we have another video to show you, one uploaded to YouTube just minutes ago by one of the bystanders in which the events unfold from a different angle. Again, this clip is graphic and might upset some viewers.”
This video was significantly grainier, taken by a cell phone. The holder of the phone focused in on the snarling Rottweiler, grumbling that the dog was keeping him from getting a better view. The picture shifted to the victim. Once again the station had blurred her face and torso, but the abundance of blood was more than apparent as the Good Sam with the dark eyes struggled to stop the bleeding.
“Sonofabitch,” Ben said, shocked. “Look at the minivan. It’s shot full of holes. She was shot before she crashed. Somebody wanted that woman dead.”
But Grayson barely heard him. No. His brain tried to reject what his eyes were seeing as his heart began to beat hard and fast. It can’t be. But it was. The victim had grabbed the black-eyed woman’s arm, her hand just visible below the blurred portion of the video. Even covered in blood, the ring on the victim’s middle finger was discernible. Unique. It was a cross, flared at the four ends, a large stone in its center.
It’s not the same ring. It can’t be the same ring.
“I’ve gotta go,” Grayson said. Leaving Ben and Sandi staring at the screen, he went to the locker room and brought up YouTube on his phone.
Sniper in Baltimore, he typed in the search field. The video already had thousands of hits. As he’d expected, the videographer with the cell phone hadn’t blurred anything. The victim’s face was there, for her family and all the world to see.
“Oh God,” he whispered, staring at the victim’s face as she writhed in pain.
He knew this woman. He’d seen her not even a week before—when she’d come to his office to beg for a new trial for her convicted husband.
As he watched the video, Grayson flinched again when the sniper’s shot came.
Elena Muñoz was dead.
Tuesday, April 5, 6:20 a.m.
“Miss? Miss. Are you hit? Do you need medical attention?”
Paige could hear the man, but kept her eyes closed tight. Her shoulder burned as memories churned, the images all jumbled in time. Yet each picture was crystal clear.
Her teeth were clenched to keep from replying. Yes, I was hit. Just not today. Nobody needed to know what happened nine months ago, that there were days she worried over her own sanity. Because this isn’t about me. It was about Elena.
Paige held her body motionless against the minivan’s tire, gripping Peabody for dear life. Her gun was pressing painfully into her back, but she didn’t touch it. The cops hadn’t called the all clear and she and Peabody weren’t moving a muscle until they did.
That cop had threatened to shoot Peabody. Because you were in danger. Paige heard the logical words in her mind and forced herself to grab on to them as a shudder shook her. She’d stood there, deer in the headlights, while a sniper had her in his crosshairs. But he wasn’t after me. Still, his bullet had come so close.
On its way to Elena’s temple. The bullet left a small hole. The exit wound wasn’t so small. The back of Elena’s head had simply disappeared, brain matter splattering.
“Is she hit?” a woman demanded.
“I don’t think so,” the male voice said. “Burke. Burke! Goddammit, stay here.”
“If she’s hit, she’s not gonna bleed out,” the woman said. “Not while I’m here.”
“Dammit, Burke.” The man’s shout was furious. “You’re gonna get suspended.”
Paige flinched, hearing a sound next to her ear. Whoever Burke was, she was here. She felt a vibration. Peabody, growling. Guarding me. Wearily, she leaned against him.
“Are you hurt?” Burke asked softly.
“No,” Paige murmured. “I’m not hurt.” Not today.
“Easy.” Burke spoke soothingly. “I’m not going to hurt her, boy. What’s your name?”
“Peabody,” Paige said dully. “He’s Peabody.”
“What’s your name?” Burke asked.
Paige had to think a moment. “Paige. Paige Holden.”
“Okay, that’s good. I’m Dr. Burke. I need to know if you’re okay.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like you’re hurt.”
Paige’s brows knit as she tried to think. “No. Why are you here if you’re a doctor?”
“Oh.” The woman sounded a bit surprised by the question. “Because I’m a resident, getting my field hours. Are you hurt, Paige?”
Paige drew a shuddering breath. “No. I’m okay.”
“Then why are you holding your shoulder?” Burke asked kindly.
Because it burns, Paige wanted to snarl. Except… it didn’t. She opened her eyes carefully to see her right hand clutching her left shoulder. Her shoulder didn’t burn. Not anymore. Not like it did when she woke from the nightmare in a cold sweat, the pain ebbing as soon as she realized where she was. Not Minneapolis. Not on the floor bleeding out, staring into Thea’s dead eyes.
This is Baltimore. And today the dead eyes belonged to Elena Muñoz. Déjà vu, baby, the voice mocked. When you fuck up, you do it right.
Paige forced her hands to relax. She dropped her hand from her shoulder, brushing it against her coat before resting it on her knee. The flash drive was still in her pocket, hidden. It would stay that way. No cops. Elena had made her promise.
Until I know what really happened. Paige drew a breath, steeling herself for what she already knew to be true. “Is she dead?” she asked.
“Yes,” Burke said quietly. “I’m sorry.” She was young, maybe a few years younger than Paige. Her eyes were calm. She wore a bulletproof vest over her Windbreaker.
Hell of a lot of good that would do against a bullet in the head.
“You shouldn’t have come to me. The man said you’d be suspended.”
“I can’t do anything for that poor woman, but I wasn’t going to lose anyone else.”
“What do we do now?”
Burke shrugged. “We wait for the all clear.”
Two
Tuesday, April 5, 6:40 a.m.
Paige let out an even breath when she heard the shout of “All clear.”
“Thank God,” Burke murmured. “Let’s go get you checked out.”
“No.” Paige felt a wave of panic grab her throat. “No hospi
tals.”
“Just your vitals,” Burke said. “Let’s clean you up, make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine. I just need to go home.” Grabbing Peabody’s leash, Paige tried to stand but her knees turned to rubber. “I’m okay. Really, just fine.”
“You keep saying that,” Burke said. “In a few hours it might even be true.” She helped Paige to the rescue squad, Peabody padding along next to them.
At least the rain had stopped. As they passed the minivan, Burke turned so that Paige couldn’t see, but it didn’t matter. The image was seared in her mind.
“You’re limping,” Burke said, diverting her attention from the van. “What hurts?”
“I fell on my knees when I jumped out of the way.”
Burke gestured for her to sit in the rescue squad’s bay. “You need an X-ray.”
“No hospitals.” Paige heard her own desperation. Breathe. “Please,” she added.
Burke checked her pupils, then probed her shoulder. “What happened here?” She looked up sharply. “Don’t tell me ‘nothing.’”
“I was shot. Last summer.” She scanned the crowd that had gathered. One out of three held out cell phones. Filming Elena, the bastards.
“They piss me off,” Burke said, shielding Paige with her body. She pulled Paige’s arm from her jacket to take her blood pressure. “At least they won’t see you.”
“Thanks,” Paige murmured. “When will the ME take her? I don’t want those assholes taking pictures of her. This is going to be hell on her family.”
“CSU will be putting up a tarp to keep the cameras away. The ME probably won’t take her for a while. I’m sorry. All that breathing you were doing while we waited worked. Your BP is almost normal. But you should get your knees checked.”
“I know my body. I don’t need an X-ray. If there’s a form I have to sign to cover you, give it to me.” She pushed to her feet and beside her, Peabody stood. She scratched behind his ears, waiting out the wave of nausea. “I’m going home.”
“Not just yet, miss.” A man walked up, his face sober. He wore a suit and tie and had a badge clipped to his breast pocket. “I’m Detective Perkins. I need to talk to you.”
Paige lowered herself to the ambulance. She’d known this was inevitable, but she’d hoped for a few minutes to herself. “I’m not feeling very well at the moment.”
“I’ll make it brief. First, name and address.”
“Paige Holden and that building, right there.” She pointed over her shoulder. “Three-A.”
“Did you know the victim?” he asked.
“Just to see her around. I—” She broke off, looking past Perkins to where a tall man was elbowing his way through the crowd. Clay was here. A piece of her settled.
The cop saw him, too. “Wait over there,” Perkins said sharply, pointing, and Clay’s eyes flashed fury.
“Please, let him stay.” She held out her hand and winced when Clay grasped hard.
“Are you all right?” Clay asked quietly and she managed to curve her lips.
“Shaken and stirred, but okay.” She turned to Perkins. “I’m ready.”
“Did you know the victim?” Perkins asked again.
“Elena Muñoz. She and her family do the maintenance here at the complex. Empty trash, mop the floors, clear sidewalks when it snows, cut the grass when it grows. Maria is their mother. She manages the business.” She’d been forced to work after Ramon’s arrest. This will break her heart. “The building super will have a number.”
“I’ll be sure to ask him,” Perkins said. “So what happened?”
“I was walking my dog when the van came at me. I jumped out of the way, the van crashed, and I tried to help. The EMTs had just arrived when the last shot was fired.”
Perkins gave her a long look that made her want to squirm. The steady pressure of Clay’s hand holding hers kept her focused. “Did she say anything?” Perkins asked.
Paige had thought this through while waiting for the all clear. There had been a small crowd behind her toward the end but, thanks to Peabody, probably not close enough to have overheard. “She begged me to help her, but that was about all.”
Perkins nodded, his expression unreadable. “Most people would have run.”
Paige shrugged. “It didn’t occur to me.” And that was the truth.
“What do you do for a living, Paige?” Perkins asked.
“Lots of things. I work part-time in a gym. I’m a personal trainer. I also work for a PI.”
Perkins’s brows rose. “What do you do for the PI, exactly?”
“Mostly take pictures of cheating spouses.”
“Could you have been the sniper’s target this morning? Maybe somebody who didn’t like you taking their picture?”
Paige blinked, startled. “No. Somebody shot her before she got here. I assumed whoever fired the last shot was… finishing what they’d started.”
Clay cleared his throat. “Can she go now, Detective? She’s pale as a ghost.”
Perkins took a notepad from his pocket. “And you are, sir?”
“Clay Maynard,” Clay said.
“Your relationship to Miss Holden?” he asked.
“We’re friends,” Clay said and squeezed Paige’s hand again. “If that’s all… ?”
“For now. Please stay available. We’ll have more questions as we investigate.”
“Thank you,” Paige said to Burke. “I hope you don’t get suspended on my account.”
“Just promise you’ll come to the hospital if you have any issues later on.”
“I will.” When hell freezes over. “Thanks again.”
“I’ll get an officer to escort you to your apartment,” Perkins said. “There are a lot of reporters who will want your story. I hope you won’t talk to them.”
“I won’t. That you can count on.” Keeping a tight hold on Peabody, Paige started for her apartment. The reporters began shouting for her attention and she ignored them.
Until one called, “Hey, Paige, where’d you learn to jump like that?”
“What does that mean?” she asked Clay. “What are they talking about?”
Clay urged her forward. “Keep walking, Paige.”
She held her tongue until they reached the door of her apartment. “What did they mean about my jump? The crash had just happened. Nobody was out there but me.”
“Somebody was taking a video of you when the crash happened,” the officer said, looking pained on her behalf. “It was on the news minutes later. You’re an Internet star.”
Paige closed her eyes, wondering what else the video had shown. “Shit.”
Tuesday, April 5, 7:30 a.m.
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
Adele Shaffer looked over to see her husband lifting their daughter from her high chair for a hearty hug that had Allie squealing happily. Adele’s lips curved despite the knot in her gut. “I never get tired of hearing her laugh,” she said.
Baby on his hip, Darren planted a warm kiss on Adele’s mouth. “Me either. And you didn’t answer my question. What’s wrong?”
Adele pointed at the television on the kitchen counter and gave an answer that would satisfy him. “There was a shooting this morning. They said it was a sniper.”
Darren frowned. “No way. Not again?”
“That’s what they said. You have to drive near there on your way to work.”
He kissed her again, then passed Allie into her arms. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“You always say that,” Adele murmured.
“And I’m always fine,” Darren said with a smile. “What are you going to do today?”
“I’m meeting a client this afternoon. I finally got her to narrow her choices from about a thousand carpet samples to five.” It was a lunch meeting, actually. After which she had an appointment with someone she hadn’t seen in years. Hadn’t needed to see.
Didn’t want Darren to know she’d ever seen in the past, much less now.
She�
��d put this off for as long as she was able. Hopefully one time would be enough.
Darren tipped up her face. “Don’t worry about me, okay? I’ll call you when I get to the office. You shouldn’t need to stop anywhere. I filled your gas tank last night.”
Guilt swamped her. He was always doing nice things like that for her. He didn’t deserve to be lied to. But she didn’t think she could stand the look in his eyes if he knew the truth. “Thanks. I’ll be careful if you will.”
“It’s a deal.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “What’s for supper?”
“Chicken and couscous, just how you like it.”
He waggled his brows. “I can think of things I like a whole lot more.”
She drew a breath, forced a smile. “Go to work, you lech. I’ll see you later.”
She waited until she heard the front door close before letting the tears fall. Cuddling her baby close, she rocked them both. Please, she prayed, make it stop. Please. I’ll do anything, I promise. Just don’t let it be like it was before.
Getting hold of herself, Adele turned the volume up on the TV. She heard the words “wife of convicted murderer Ramon Muñoz,” “execution,” and “probably not a random sniper” and let out a relieved breath. At least the city was safe.
Herself, not so much.
Tuesday, April 5, 7:30 a.m.
Silas was right, the man thought as he picked the lock to Denny Sandoval’s back door. Sandoval had long outlived his usefulness. Denny had to go. Especially if he’d had evidence that Elena had considered worth dying for.
He entered the bar through the back door and thought back to the night he’d last been here. Six years had wrought changes, both in the bar and in his own life. Sandoval had spruced up his bar. And I am now very rich.
He intended to stay that way. Whatever evidence Sandoval had kept here, he needed to get it back. He paused, listening. Sandoval was upstairs in his apartment over the bar. He crept up the stairs and stood outside Sandoval’s open bedroom door.
The television was on. It was the news. The shooting, of course. A video was playing. His eyes narrowed as he watched the footage. What the hell?