Deadly Target (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 6)

by Renee Pawlish

  “Yeah.”

  “Something to think about.”

  “I talked to the two witnesses who saw Sarah when she was shot,” Ernie said. “Both of them saw a dark SUV parked on Grape Street, not far from where she was shot.” He told Spats about the conversations with Manuel Garcia and Michelle Irwin. “It may be a stretch, but someone could’ve been in that vehicle and shot Sarah. Did anybody at the restaurant notice a dark SUV?”

  Spats glanced up and down the alley. “Not so far, but I haven’t specifically asked anybody that. Any better description of the SUV?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Ernie swore.

  “I’ll circle back with the manager at the restaurant, and I’ll go through the witness reports, too. I’ll also get a crew together to canvass the neighborhood behind the alley. I’ll make sure they ask people in the neighborhood if they noticed that type of vehicle.”

  “Is the restaurant manager still there?”

  Spats started walking down the alley. “I think so. I’ll let you know what I find out. And I’ll ask if she’s ever seen Sarah in there.”

  “Good.”

  “I talked to Cody’s father. The kid was in some trouble in the past, petty theft, drugs. The father says he’s clean now, but I don’t know. I want to follow up with Cody’s mother and sister tomorrow, and with his roommate.”

  Ernie’s voice was tinged with worry. “Have you heard anything from Rizzo?”

  Spats swore. “Not a thing.”

  “Oh, speak of the devil,” Ernie said. “The commander’s calling me now. I’ll call you back.”

  With that, Ernie was gone.

  By now, Spats was back to Sixth Avenue. It was almost eight o’clock, but the traffic continued to rush by, and he waited for cars to pass, then trotted across the street. The only sign now that a shooting had occurred was a small dried pool of blood on the sidewalk. The manager had a hose that she was attaching to a spigot near the restaurant entrance. Dave Sheen was gone.

  She gestured at the blood. “I’ve got to get this off the ground before tomorrow. Nobody wants to see this.” Her voice shook, and she was struggling not to cry.

  Spats didn’t say anything to that; what could he? There was no explanation to give her.

  “I’m sorry to bother you with another question,” he said, “but I’m wondering if you noticed a dark SUV parked somewhere along the street this evening?”

  She bent down and turned on the water, then pointed the hose at the pool of blood and thought about the question. “Not that I recall. Mind you, most of my time is spent in the restaurant.” She put her thumb over the end of the hose to create a forceful spray that she focused on the sidewalk. “I did come out front once, but I was on my cell phone. I can’t recall seeing that kind of car.” She waved with her other hand at the street. “That’s a pretty vague description, you know? There could have been a lot of dark SUVs around here earlier this evening.”

  Spats nodded. “Yes, that’s true. But if anybody noticed one where the driver was watching the restaurant, we’d like to know that.”

  She continued to spray the walk and the gutter. “I’ll be sure to ask.”

  “I’ll be in touch.” He thanked her and walked back to his car, which he’d parked around the corner. He wondered why Ernie hadn’t called back yet. He was tempted to call him, but thought better of it, and instead called Trissa.

  “Hey, babe,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  An overwhelming sense of despair hit him, and he couldn’t say anything.

  “Rol?” she asked. She never called him by his full name – Roland – it was always shortened. And people at work called him Spats. He was fine with either nickname. He hated his first name. “You okay?”

  “Someone shot Sarah. I don’t know how she’s doing.”

  Trissa sucked in a breath. “Oh, hon, I’m so sorry to hear that. What happened?”

  Spats collected his thoughts and told her what little he knew. When he finished, he said, “I don’t know how long I’m going to be. I want to go by the hospital and see how she’s doing.”

  Spats and Trissa had had some friction over his long hours, how the job got in the way of their relationship. He wasn’t home a lot of evenings, and he missed caretaking for their year-old son, Demarcus. Although he loved being a homicide detective, he hated that the job was the reason for his divorce from his first wife, Shanice, and for his not seeing his eleven-year-old daughter, Jada, regularly. Every time he had to tell Trissa he didn’t know when he’d be home, he hated that, too. But her voice was full of understanding now.

  “You do whatever you need to. Demarcus is doing fine. He’s in bed. He misses his daddy, and he’s proud of his daddy. You know that?”

  “Thanks, love.”

  “I’ll say a prayer for Sarah. You let me know how she’s doing, okay?”

  The phone vibrated in his hand. “I will. Oh, Ernie’s calling me back.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” Spats swiped the phone screen and switched the call to Ernie. “How’s Sarah?”

  “Nothing new there,” Ernie said, his voice urgent. “But you’re not going to believe this. A man was shot in his car near a gym on Eighth Avenue. No one saw the shooter. It was likely someone at a distance, with a rifle.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Spats said. “Any witnesses?”

  “Rizzo didn’t have a lot of details, just that the wife was sitting in the car, too. She screamed and called 911. No suspects at the moment. The press is all over this last shooting – you know, three right in a row – so he’s been at that crime scene, and Chief Follett is at the hospital.”

  “Oh, Sarah will love that,” Spats said.

  Ernie laughed quietly. “Yeah, she’s not fond of him.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m going to head over to the third shooting scene now. Want to meet me there?”

  Spats put a key in the ignition. “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Nine

  “The couple was in that black BMW.”

  Ed Oakley, the homicide detective on the scene, spoke with a slight Boston accent, the occasional dropping of an ‘r’, the nasally voice. He was a few inches shorter than Ernie’s six-foot frame, not as stocky as Ernie, but not as trim as Spats. He was staring at the windshield of the BMW as he talked to Ernie and Spats. They were standing in a parking lot on Eighth, near Vibrant Strength and Fitness, a popular gym in the Capitol Hill neighborhood just southeast of downtown. The traffic was still heavy on Eighth Avenue, a busy east-west thoroughfare. A horn honked. Oakley looked to the street and grimaced.

  “Man, I can’t believe what happened to Sarah,” Oakley said. “I worked with her on another case. She was really good to me, treated me really well.” He didn’t have as many years on homicide, but Ernie knew him to be a good detective.

  “It was the murder of the homeless man, wasn’t it?” Ernie said.

  “Yeah, and I’d assumed I had my man, but I didn’t.” Oakley dropped his gaze, embarrassed.

  “You did okay on that one, got the killers in the end.” Spats narrowed his eyes. “And now we need to handle this one.”

  Oakley cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder. Commander Rizzo stood with a police officer near a pay kiosk at the parking lot entrance. Reporters had also made their way to the scene, and several stood nearby. A few spotlights lit the area. Oakley focused on Spats and Ernie.

  “Rizzo already gave the press a statement, but I guess some stayed around, hoping for more.”

  “Don’t tell the press anything,” Spats said.

  Oakley shook his head. “As you can see, the car was parked in the far corner of the lot, away from Eighth Avenue.” He pointed at the BMW. “A guy named Paul Tarkowski had parked a few rows away and was walking to his car when he heard a woman shriek. He rushed over to see the woman in the passenger seat. She was screaming at her husband, who was sitting behind the wheel. Tarkowski tried to talk to her, and tha
t’s when he realized the driver had been shot. He called 911, and a couple of squad cars came, then homicide got the call.”

  A spotlight shined on the BMW, and a screen was up to shield the car from the reporters, although Ernie knew they’d get pictures of the car somehow. He walked toward the back end of the BMW and saw a bullet hole in the rear windshield. Small cracks feathered away from the hole.

  Oakley pointed with a pen at the car. “The husband got a bullet clean through the back of his head.” He pointed with his pen to the spot on his own head. “Made a mess in the car. The body’s been removed, and two CSI techs just finished with the vehicle. They found a bullet on the dashboard, and they took it for analysis. We should know something tomorrow. It was a round-nose .22. If we ever find a gun we think might’ve been used to shoot the guy, we can do a ballistics test. We’ve about wrapped up here, but the commander said you two were going to head over here, so I waited.”

  Ernie nodded. He could see blood spattered on the front windshield and driver’s side door.

  “Who are they?” Spats asked.

  “Nick and Rachel Armistead.” Oakley pulled out his phone and showed them a picture of the couple he’d found online. “They’ve been married for eight years, no children. He works as a software engineer, and she’s in finance. We talked to some people at the gym, and the Armisteads come in three times a week to work out. They come together, both of them showing up after work. Everyone we talked to said they’re a nice couple, sounds like they make good money, and everyone is stunned by this.”

  “Where’s the wife now?” Spats asked.

  “After I interviewed her, a friend came and picked her up, took her home.”

  “Someone shoots the husband, but no attempt at the wife?” Ernie mused.

  “It looks that way,” Oakley said. “Mrs. Armistead was hysterical, but she didn’t even recall hearing a shot, let alone more than one. And there’s only the one bullet hole in the rear window.”

  Ernie was still staring at the car. “What the hell do we have going on?”

  Oakley shrugged and put the notepad and pen back in his pocket.

  “Was anybody around to see anything?” Spats asked.

  Oakley shook his head. “So far we haven’t found anyone. A clerk at the gym’s front desk says they left about six. Tarkowski called 911 shortly after that.” He looked at the dark sky. “It would appear they left the gym and came straight to their car.”

  Ernie glanced at a streetlight at the other end of the parking lot. “Any surveillance cameras?”

  Oakley pointed toward the gym. “They’ve got some cameras focused on the entrance, and we’re checking with other buildings in the area. Most of the businesses are closed now, so we’ll have to check with them tomorrow. If we get anything, we’ll scour the video good.” He scratched at his nose thoughtfully. “The thing is, our shooter could have been a good distance away.”

  Spats did a slow 360 to look around the area. Then he gestured to the south. “The shot came from that way.” He turned. “So he could’ve parked down the street.”

  “Or down the alley,” Oakley said.

  Spats nodded and went on. “If he’s a good shot – and it appears he was – he took the victim out in a second, then he could’ve easily sped south without being seen.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Oakley looked south. “He’d have a good view from the next block. That’s a good distance. I don’t know that I could make that shot.”

  Ernie had his hands on his hips. “You have people knocking on doors, seeing if anybody saw anything unusual?”

  “Of course,” Oakley said. “And we’re asking if anyone has surveillance video or doorbell cameras, too.”

  Ernie turned to look at him. “Have them ask about a dark SUV.”

  Oakley looked at Spats, then back at Ernie. “You think whoever shot that waiter and Sarah did this?”

  “We can’t rule it out, can we?” Spats held up three fingers. “Three people shot, same night, all at long distance with a rifle. I would wonder if they’re connected.”

  Oakley nodded. “Yeah, I see that. But why? Is there a connection between all three?”

  Ernie walked back toward him. “That’s what we need to find out.” He put a hand over his face and rubbed at his temples with his thumb and forefinger. “If we do have a shooter in an SUV, maybe we can get a license plate. Worst case we question the owner, and it’s not our guy.”

  “Right,” Oakley said.

  “What else do you know about this couple?” Ernie asked.

  Oakley shrugged. “Not a whole lot just yet. His parents are here in town, and I dispatched detectives to talk to them. Hers are in Kansas, so someone is contacting them. I haven’t heard back yet, so I’ll let you know what they say. Both Nick and Rachel are clean, no criminal record, not even a speeding ticket. We’re starting to interview family, friends, and co-workers to see if anybody has any idea if someone would’ve wanted to come after them, or, more specifically, Nick.”

  Ernie dropped his hand. “Let’s see what information you gather tonight, and we’ll talk in the morning, okay?” He looked to Oakley, and then to Spats. “Meet at the station at seven?”

  Both nodded. “I’ll let you know what forensics finds here, too,” Oakley said.

  “They won’t find anything,” Ernie said, more negative than he’d felt in a long time. He studied the car. He switched gears. “I need to talk to Harry.”

  “Harry?” Oakley asked.

  “Sarah’s boyfr – fiancé,” Spats corrected himself. “Isn’t he at the hospital?”

  “Yeah, and that’s where I want to be.” Ernie scowled. “I don’t care what Rizzo says.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Spats said.

  “We better tell Rizzo that’s where we’re headed,” Ernie said.

  “Let me know how Sarah’s doing,” Oakley said.

  Ernie said he would. He and Spats left Oakley standing next to the BMW and walked over to Rizzo.

  “Detectives, what can you tell us?” shouted Deborah North from Channel Seven, as she sidled down the sidewalk.

  Ernie’s shoulders tensed. “They already got a statement from Rizzo, right?”

  “Yeah,” Spats muttered. “Ignore them.”

  “Come on, Ernie,” Deborah pushed. “Who was the victim?”

  “No comment,” Ernie said.

  “Was it a robbery gone bad?”

  “No comment,” Ernie snapped.

  Ernie and Spats kept walking. Deborah kept pushing.

  “We’ll come up with something. And we’ll figure out who the other victims were. You know, those other shootings. I heard one was a cop. Can you confirm that?”

  Ernie turned on her, fuming. “Deborah, leave it alone.”

  Spats grabbed Ernie’s arm, and Ernie shrugged him off and started toward Deborah.

  “Deborah …” Ernie pointed a finger at her.

  “Detective!” Rizzo snapped.

  Ernie spun around. Rizzo’s eyes were narrowed, and he beckoned Ernie over behind the pay kiosk.

  “Take it easy,” Spats murmured as they walked toward Rizzo.

  “I’m sorry –” Ernie began.

  “Let it go,” Rizzo said. “They’ll get information from us when we’re good and ready.”

  “I don’t want reporters pestering Harry or Sarah’s family,” Ernie said.

  Rizzo nodded. “I understand, but you need to keep your cool. Let me handle the press.”

  Ernie drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “Yes, sir.” He cleared his throat.

  “Give me an update,” Rizzo said, a way to redirect Ernie.

  “We don’t have a whole lot.”

  Ernie and Spats shared the details of the two shootings, including the dark SUV seen by both Michelle Irwin and Manuel Garcia.

  “That’s an interesting point,” Rizzo said. “Something to follow up on with the other two shootings.”

  “Yes,” Spats agreed.

  Er
nie made an effort not to look at Deborah North. “Commander, if you don’t have an issue, Spats and I want to go to the hospital now, check on Sarah.”

  Rizzo glanced toward Deborah North, a disapproving frown on his face. “Sure, go over there. Then head home and catch a few winks. I’ll touch base with you in the morning.”

  “Thank you,” Ernie said.

  “Yes, thanks.” Spats tipped his head at Rizzo, then steered Ernie away from the reporters.

  Ernie glanced over his shoulder. Deborah North had an amused smile on her face. He wished he could wipe it off.

  Chapter Ten

  Chief Duane Follett, Harry Sousen, and Sarah’s family were sitting by themselves in the waiting room at Denver Health when Ernie and Spats walked in. The Chief was in his street clothes, a dark suit and tie. Stocky and over six feet tall, he quickly stood up when he saw the detectives and walked over to them.

  “We couldn’t stay away any longer,” Ernie said in a hushed tone before Follett could speak.

  “I understand,” Follett said. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell you. Sarah is still in surgery.”

  Spats glanced over Follett’s shoulder. “How’s the family doing? And how’s Harry?”

  “As well as can be expected.” Follett ran a hand through gray hair. “Harry had just come home from work and Sarah wasn’t there. He tried her cell phone a couple of times, and when she didn’t answer right away, he figured she’d gotten called to work, so he wasn’t too worried. Then Rizzo got a hold of him and told him what had happened. He rushed right over. He called her sister, Diane, and she told the rest of the family.” For once, Follett’s superior attitude wasn’t showing.

  “Let me talk to the family,” Ernie said.

  Spats nodded, and they both walked over to Harry, who was sitting with an older couple. Harry nodded at them.

  “Hey.” Harry’s face was tight.

  Before Spats could say more, Sarah’s sister, Diane got up. Ernie approached, and he was reminded how much she looked like Sarah, the same blond hair and brown eyes, although Diane might’ve been a bit taller and slightly thinner. He knew she was a family practice MD. However, he didn’t know if that would make this situation easier or harder for her to sit through, knowing enough to be worried about the specifics of Sarah’s condition, but helpless to provide any medical care herself.