"Maybe it's someone on staff?" he suggested, speaking as softly as he could.
"No. The only person on duty is at the desk, and he wouldn't bother to get off his butt and come back here. Maintenance calls and such would go through me first and then I'd arrange for someone to come out." She paused. "Of course, it could be a late-night visitor."
That was possible, of course. But the feeling in the pit of Sloan's stomach said otherwise. He eased his gun from its holster.
Carley's eyes widened. "You think it's the killer?" she whispered.
"I don't want to take any chances."
Another nod. This one was choppy. He tried to give her a reassuring look and was certain he failed.
"Do you happen to have your cell phone with you?" Sloan asked.
Almost frantically she searched through the pockets of her robe. "No. You?"
He shook his head and tried not to curse out loud. Hell. How could he have forgotten something as important as that? Oh, yeah. He remembered. His brain was too occupied and too clouded because he'd had his mouth and hands all over Carley. Well, maybe this would teach him to keep the personal stuff away from a case.
Both waited.
Listening.
Sloan braced himself for more footsteps or something worse, but he hadn't braced himself for being plunged into total darkness.
Just like that.
The electricity went out.
Or, more likely, someone had cut the power.
He felt Carley move and he caught onto her arm to make sure she stayed put. Her cop instincts were probably screaming for her to investigate what had just happened. His instincts were doing the same. But Sloan had an even greater instinct for survival, and everything inside him was telling him to keep still until they could figure out what was going on. The darkness would cloak them.
Unfortunately it could cloak a killer, as well.
The thought had no sooner crossed his mind when he heard more footsteps.
Because Carley was so close, he felt her body tense. Her breath thinned. And Sloan knew why.
Those footsteps were headed up the back stairs to the third floor. And there was only one thing up there.
Carley's apartment.
Chapter Ten
Sloan's eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. Because this particular section of the hall didn't have any windows, there was no help from the streetlights. Still, he could discern inanimate objects from humans.
He hoped.
Just in case his night vision was off, he tightened his grip on Carley's arm and eased her behind him. She didn't protest, thank God, but then, she wasn't armed. It was a good thing he'd brought his weapon with him or else they'd have no way to protect themselves.
"Any idea who'd be going up to your apartment?" he whispered.
"No. I'm not expecting anyone."
He was afraid she would say that.
Sloan was about to suggest that she go back to his room, lock the door and wait there—just until he checked things out—but he doubted Carley would agree to that. Plus, it might not be the safe thing to do. After all, he didn't have any other weapons in the inn, and that meant he'd be sending her back alone in the darkness without any way to defend herself. At least if she stayed near him he would be able to take care of her.
Something Carley definitely wouldn't have liked.
Still, what choice did they have? If there was indeed a would-be killer headed up to Carley's apartment, it was their sworn duty to intercept and hopefully arrest the person. In fact, this could turn out to be a good thing. Once they got past the danger, that is. Sloan didn't like putting Carley in harm's way, especially since she was still recovering from her injuries.
"We can't just stand here all night. Let's go," she mumbled. "I want to catch this monster."
Sloan got moving when Carley nudged him with her elbow, but he made sure he stayed firmly in front of her. It earned him a huff, but he didn't care. Their positions were not negotiable.
He took it slowly, one quiet step at a time, and he kept his gun aimed and ready—just in case the person came barreling back down the stairs. However, with each step the adrenaline sped through him, his heart pounded harder and the questions came just as hard and fast.
For starters, how had the person cut the electricity?
Sloan figured there was a circuit-breaker box somewhere, but how many people would have known where it was? Of course, it wouldn't have been difficult to find the location in a town the size of Justice. Heck, the dull-witted desk clerk who seemed to have headphones implanted into his ears might have voluntarily given up that information.
The next question was why was this person here? It was something Sloan had already given some thought. If this was related to Sarah's murder, then it all came right back to Carley. Maybe she hadn't seen anything specifically, but the killer might not believe that.
Sloan felt Carley move to the side and, fearing she might be ready to strike out ahead of him, he nearly grabbed her again. Then he realized she was taking the fire extinguisher from the wall.
"Good idea," he whispered.
It might come in handy as a backup weapon. Too bad they might need it before this was over.
Sloan eased Carley closer to the wall until she was pressed against it, and they continued their trek through the darkness. He tried to listen for the sound of more of those footsteps, but all he could hear was Carley's and his movement. But then, it was entirely possible that the person was already in Carley's apartment.
That was a sobering reminder.
Because if this was the killer, once he or she realized Carley wasn't there, he or she would be coming back down those stairs.
Right at them.
Except Sloan would be ready. Still, things could go wrong, and both Carley and he had experienced that firsthand.
Sloan stopped at the foot of the stairs and he pulled Carley into a recessed area next to a huge fernlike potted plant.
She leaned closer and put her mouth right against his ear. "I could go to the front desk and use the phone to call for backup."
It was tempting, but Sloan immediately saw a problem with that suggestion. For Carley to get to the front desk, she'd have to walk through at least twenty feet of a pitch-black hall, go downstairs, turn down an equally dark corridor and then go another twenty feet or so to the desk.
"Too risky," Sloan mumbled. "Is there any way the person can leave other than using these stairs?"
"Only through the window."
And he doubted the killer was willing to jump three stories to the ground.
So that meant they had to wait it out. Not the easiest thing he'd ever done. Especially with Carley beside him. Because with every passing second he became more and more aware of just how much danger she was in. If they didn't make an arrest tonight, he really had to do something to put an end to this. It couldn't continue.
Just when he thought his stomach couldn't possibly take any more waiting, Sloan heard the sound.
Definitely footsteps.
He actually welcomed them. The person had probably already gone through Carley's apartment and was now trying to make a hasty exit.
Sloan wasn't about to let that happen.
"Stay put," he warned Carley.
He ignored her mumbled protest and stepped out of the recessed area so he'd have better position. The footsteps continued. Slow and cautious. This person obviously didn't want to be heard.
Sloan finally spotted the shadowy figure about a third of the way from the top of the steps. The person was still a little too far away for him to identify himself as a Texas Ranger and demand that the person halt. Sloan didn't want him or her to have time to turn and run. He definitely didn't need a chase through a dark inn, especially with an unarmed Carley in tow.
The figure took another step.
Then another.
Sloan made sure his aim was ready and dead-on and he opened his mouth to order the person to halt. But opening his mouth was as far as he got. He saw n
o shift of movement on the stairs, but he heard the sound.
A swish.
Like someone blowing out a candle.
However, the next sound followed a split second later, and it wasn't so soft. Something slammed into the wall only inches from where they stood.
A bullet.
Hell! The person had shot at them.
Sloan automatically hooked his arm around Carley to drag her to the floor. She went willingly, probably because she was familiar with that sound. The person had used a gun rigged with a silencer.
Another shot.
This one smacked into the stair railing and sent a spray of splinters in every direction. Sloan ducked his head to keep his eyes from being injured and came up prepared to fire. Unfortunately so did the other person.
There was another shot, and it came so close to them that Sloan could have sworn he felt the heat of the bullet on his cheek. This one tore into the plant.
He had no choice but to push Carley back against the meager protection of the stair casings and shield her with his body. It was a pitiful plan, mainly because it gave the shooter a chance to get down the steps.
And that's exactly what happened.
The footsteps were frantic now, and each one seemed to be punctuated with another shot. When the person reached the bottom of the stairs, Sloan knew he had to make his move.
But he couldn't.
The next shot missed his head by a fraction of an inch.
He stayed down, counting off the seconds and listening as the person ran out the back exit. Then he did what he had to do. Yelling for Carley to stay put, he hurried to the door. He had his wrist braced with his hand so he could control his aim and fire.
But no one was there in the tiny parking lot at the back of the inn. Beyond it, though, there was movement in the trees.
Sloan cursed. He couldn't take a blind shot and risk hurting an innocent bystander. He also couldn't go racing into the woods after the person. It'd be suicide, since the gunman could be hiding behind one of the massive oaks in the woods, just waiting for Sloan to appear so he or she could gun him down.
"What's happening?" Carley called out.
He really hated to be the bearer of bad news, but there was no way around this. "They got away."
With the papers and fire extinguisher still in her hands, Carley rushed toward him. "Are you okay?"
"Fine." That was close to the truth, anyway. "How about you?"
"I'm furious," she snarled. She practically threw the fire extinguisher to the floor. "And I'm sick and tired of this. I'm going to front desk to call for backup. I want those woods searched."
"And I'll call Zane. Whoever it was in your room might have left fingerprints." He kept his attention staked to the thick woods in case the person made a return visit.
"We have to catch this person, Sloan." She sounded desperate. And probably was. He was certainly to the point of feeling that way.
"We will." He tensed when a tree branch moved slightly but then felt the breeze. Hell. The man or woman who fired those shots was long gone. "We know more now of what we're dealing with. This person can shoot."
Of course, that didn't rule out any of their suspects. All of them could shoot. In fact, both Donna and Leland had permits to carry concealed weapons.
"Whoever did this knew the layout of the inn," Carley mumbled.
Sloan nodded, furious with himself that he hadn't thought of that sooner. "Yes. I'm sure Leland's visited the place enough over the years."
"He worked here when he was a teenager."
Sloan recalled people talking about that. But it wasn't Leland that concerned him the most right now.
It was Donna.
Since the inn was her childhood home. She would have known the location of the box for the circuit breaker, the safest place to enter and exit and how many steps to Carley's apartment. She would have known every creaky board to avoid on the stairs.
"Come on," he told Carley. "Let's check on the desk clerk and then make that call to Zane. I want Donna Hendricks brought in for questioning. One way or another, this ends now."
Chapter Eleven
Carley thanked Luis, the deputy, for the cup of coffee that he handed her. Once the deputy was out of her office and sight, she set the cup next to the still uneaten breakfast taco that Luis had brought in a half hour earlier. She wasn't interested in food or drink.
Or the uncustomary sympathy that Luis was showing her.
She was only interested in the latest phone conversation that Sloan was having with his brother, Zane. This call had to give them answers because heaven knows they were seriously lacking in that area. It's been more than eight hours since the attempt to kill them and she was tired of waiting. Heck, she was just tired, period.
Thankfully, no one had been physically hurt in the attack. Including the desk clerk. Sloan and she had checked on the teenager almost immediately afterward and found him practicing some dance moves to the music pouring through his headphones. In addition to being unharmed, he was also oblivious to the fact there'd been a shooting. He hadn't seen or heard anything, except his favorite group's latest lyrics.
Sloan slapped his phone shut and looked at her. "Zane says that unless we get a rock-solid confession from either Leland, Donna or both, we can't make an arrest," he explained, his voice weary with fatigue and spent adrenaline.
"So what do we do?" Carley asked, her own voice as weary as Sloan's.
"I know it's not what you want to hear—it's not what I want to hear, either—but we need to let the grand jury continue to do what they're doing. If they come back with a verdict that there's enough evidence, then we can do what we're both itching to do—get Leland and Donna behind bars."
Carley listened to Sloan's summary of the chat he'd just finished with his brother, and it didn't take her long to realize that it wasn't a summary she liked.
"Neither Leland nor Donna will confess," she concluded. "There's too much at stake."
"True. But one of them might slip up." Sloan sat on the edge of her desk, cupped her chin and lifted it to force eye contact. "The person who fired at us is as bold as brass. People like that make mistakes. And the biggest mistake of all was coming into the inn. It's hard to come into a place and not leave a piece of yourself behind as evidence."
Since the chin cupping and the softly drawled explanation seemed a little too close for comfort, Carley rolled her chair back a few inches to break the physical contact. "Have the crime-scene guys found any prints in my apartment?"
Sloan shook his head. "The doorknob was wiped clean. But that doesn't mean there aren't other prints," he quickly added. "Or fibers or hair strands or some other trace evidence that we can use to ID this person."
It was a long shot, though, especially since the shooter had taken the time to wipe away the prints on the doorknob. That meant the gunman had almost certainly taken even more precautions.
"What about gunshot residue?" Carley asked.
Another head shake from Sloan. "We don't know yet. Both Donna's and Leland's hands were swabbed last night, right after they were brought in. We should have the results in an hour or so."
Of course, gunshot residue could be nullified simply by the shooter wearing gloves and disposing of the clothing that'd been worn during the attack. Carley was betting that neither Donna nor Leland had kept that black robe lying around for the police to find. If either was the culprit.
"You're still shaken up about the shooting," Sloan commented.
She didn't even bother to deny it. "Don't worry, it won't affect my job."
He groaned softly. "Carley—"
"Don't." She interrupted because that groan sounded like the start of a lecture to convince her to skip this interrogation. She wasn't skipping anything—especially this. If Donna Hendricks was out to kill her, then, by God, Carley wanted to go face-to-face with the woman.
Carley glanced across the hall and into the tiny interrogation room where Donna was sitting with her back to the
m.
Calmly sitting.
As if she didn't have a care in the world.
That didn't mean she was innocent. Nope. It just meant she was cool under pressure, but Carley hadn't needed this incident to know that. Unlike the frequently hotheaded Leland, Donna was much harder to read.
"By the way," Sloan said, closing the door so that it cut off Carley's view of Donna. He kept his voice at a whisper since there was nothing soundproof about the police station and he obviously didn't want Donna to hear them. "Neither Donna nor Leland have alibis for last night."
Well, that was interesting, and Carley didn't know whether to be pleased or more riled at the two. "How did you learn that?"
"While the deputies were processing the crime scene, Zane called them both within a half hour of the shooting. Neither was home. Leland's maid said he'd gone out for a drive—alone."
"And what about Donna?" Carley asked.
"All Zane got was her answering machine. When he realized she wasn't home, he had one of the deputies stake out her house, and she didn't get back in until nearly 3:00 a.m. When the deputy asked where she'd been, she refused to answer."
"Well, she'd better have an answer this morning," Carley grumbled. And then it hit her. "Why did Zane have one of the deputies stake out Donna's place? That's something I should have done."
"No, you couldn't have because you were in my room resting."
Oh, that did not sit well with her at all. "I wasn't resting. You imprisoned me in your room and wouldn't let me leave. I should have been doing that stakeout. I should have been doing something to catch the shooter."
"If you had done that, what good would you be to me this morning? I need someone to help me interrogate Leland and Donna. That wouldn't be a piece of cake under normal circumstances, but it'll be even more trying since we're interviewing them together."
She felt her eyes widen. "Together?"
"Yep." He checked his watch. "Leland should be here any minute. If not, I'll send someone out to bring him in."
Carley leaned back in her chair. "Why did you decide to do it this way?"
"Because I want to see if I can rattle them." He flashed a sly smile.
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