Deadly Target (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 6)

by Renee Pawlish

  Spats sat quietly while she read the rest of the document. He couldn’t hear anything, and the room was so silent he felt he could doze off. He hadn’t slept well last night, with the few hours that he could get. Trissa had been more than understanding, had wrapped her arms around him when he did come to bed. She asked a little bit about the case, and he told her in the briefest of terms. She had fallen back asleep, but he’d laid awake for a while, then tossed and turned. Adrenaline would keep him going for a lot of the day, but right now, sitting still and quiet wasn’t helping. He slowly turned his head from side to side, and took some slow deep breaths, making sure not to distract the judge. He noticed her robe on a clothes hanger on a rack in the corner of the room. She had some interesting desert paintings on the walls, and one wall full of bookcases. She finally looked up.

  “You think this young man might’ve been involved in some illegal activities, something that might have led to someone shooting him?”

  Spats shrugged. “It’s certainly a possibility. I’d like to see if we can find anything that might give us a clue at his apartment.”

  She nodded and kept reading. Finally, she said, “Everything else in the warrant looks good.” She took a pen from a holder on the desk, signed off on the document, and handed the pages back to him.

  “Thank you,” Spats said as he folded the document and put it in his coat pocket. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Any time. I do hope you find the killer.” She glanced at the photo of her husband and sons. “How’s the family?”

  “They’re doing good. My little boy’s about to start walking.”

  “That’s a wonderful time. Treasure it.”

  Spats nodded. “I certainly will.”

  She stood up and walked with him to the door. Spats thanked her for her time. She smiled at him. “Be careful out there.”

  He nodded and left the room. He waved at the assistant, then headed out of the courthouse. He patted the warrant in his pocket as he walked to his car. He hoped he could find some clue to Cody’s killer at his apartment.

  Chapter Seventeen

  My left shoulder hurts, a kind of pain I’d not felt before. My eyes flutter open. I stare at a white ceiling. Then I hear a voice. Harry, is that you?

  “Hey, hon.”

  Yes, it’s Harry. He’s looking at me, but he looks different. His expression is so … vulnerable? And there are tears in his eyes. I feel him gently take my hand and kiss it.

  “I thought I might lose you.” His voice is husky. I hear him draw in a ragged breath. “Sarah …” He doesn’t finish.

  Lose me? What does he mean? I can’t keep my eyes open. Just want to go back to sleep. Except the pain is waking me up. My throat is dry. I swallow a few times, but that doesn’t help. “I’m okay,” I mumble.

  Strange, but I hear Harry give a little laugh. Why would he laugh? “You damn near died, and you say you’re okay.”

  I lay there for a moment, puzzling that, trying to get my bearings. He said I nearly died. But I’m alive, here in this room. With Harry. The room is cool. My body aches. I try to squeeze Harry’s hand. It’s so good to see him. I turn my head, blink my eyes open again. Hospital equipment, machines beeping, screens flashing.

  “Water.”

  “Sure.”

  Harry disappears. Then I hear water running, then pouring water into a glass. He helps me sip from a straw. So much effort, and my left shoulder hurts. Something on my shoulder. It’s bulky. A bandage? I look around the room. A man with dark hair and swarthy features sits on a chair near the window.

  He says he’s a detective. Esposito. I don’t know him.

  “What happened?” I whisper. My mind’s foggy. I was taking a walk, and then … what?

  Harry pulls his chair closer. He looks more like himself now, except so tired. He says I went for a walk before he came home. Do I remember? What is Harry talking about? Do I remember a walk? Maybe, not sure. I see that detective move closer to listen, and he’s texting on his phone.

  A walk. Yeah. I remember going for a walk. Harry wasn’t home. I close my eyes and let my mind wander to something I do remember clearly: Harry. And home.

  Harry and I are going to be married. Surprised at how much I want to be his wife, how right it finally seems. After ten years together, I’m finally ready to commit, giddy at the thought of marrying him, also scared to death. It’s not easy being around me. My work hours, long and erratic, my moods erratic, too. And now, the thing I’d feared the most, well, I guess maybe that’s happened. I guess I’ve been shot. But I’m still alive. And with that thought, I’m pulled back to the present.

  “I was shot,” I mumble. I looked at Harry and try to focus.

  “Yes.”

  I hear that detective, Esposito, ask something. Do I remember anything about it?

  I try to think about that, but can’t recall anything. Then I realize I’m just like most people I’ve ever interviewed. Nobody pays attention to what’s around them. Neither had I. It’s quiet for a moment, machines clicking and whirring, telling me I’m alive. I feel the stitches in my shoulder, telling me how close I must’ve come to death. Well, death, you didn’t get me this time. I look at Harry again. He still looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, his hair a little ruffled. But he also looks a little happier and more relieved.

  “What happened to me?” I finally ask.

  I hear Harry say, “Do you think you’re awake enough to listen? Do you want to know about it now?” I nod and try my hardest to listen and comprehend. I feel briefly more awake and alert. Was the anesthesia wearing off?

  He’s talking very slowly, like he’s talking to a child. But he’s talking to me.

  “You took a bullet near the shoulder. It nicked your jugular vein, went through muscle, and it shattered your collarbone. They had to do surgery to repair the damage.” He stops again. “You’re lucky the bullet didn’t hit your heart.” Then he says something about weeks of recovery time and taking it easy. I don’t understand.

  I close my eyes and try to repeat to myself what he’d said, so I can remember it. All I’d been doing was taking a walk. And somebody tried to kill me?

  Then I feel the fog lifting, more suddenly this time, the pain becoming more intense, and my mind begins to race. All sorts of anxieties take over. Being hurt or killed on the job is my greatest fear. It always lingers somewhere at the back of my mind. I’ve never told anyone that, for fear that saying it out loud would make it come true. It hadn’t mattered. I’d been shot anyway. I feel horrible, not just physically. I’ve never wanted anyone to worry about me. But it’s not just that. There’s something else: Even though I know Harry loves me, I’m terrified that if an injury disabled me, he’d leave me. And so, I’ve acknowledged it. Of course he’d never hinted or suggested anything remotely like that, but that didn’t stop me from thinking it. The irrational belief sometimes just rears its ugly head: that I’m not worth taking care of, that I’m not good enough, not worthy of his devotion.

  “Any leads on who did this to me?” I hear myself blurting out to the detective. I had to get into cop mode. I didn’t want to think the thoughts I was thinking, feel the things I was feeling. I didn’t want to be that vulnerable.

  “You shot a cop.”

  The voice on the phone sounded exceedingly angry. The shooter sat back and stared at his laptop. He was in his home office, safe from the things he did out in the real world. The room was quiet, no sounds from anywhere in the apartment. A glass of vodka on the rocks sat on his desk, and he took a sip, at the same time giving himself time to collect his thoughts.

  “I didn’t know,” was all he said.

  “Obviously.” The voice on the phone dripped with sarcasm. “How could you be so careless?”

  “There was no way I could know about the cop. None at all.”

  “I suppose not,” the voice finally said. “This is a most unfortunate turn of events.”

  That was an understatement, for sure. The man picked u
p his glass again and drank. He’d had things go against him in the past, but nothing like this. He would never let on to anybody, but when he’d heard about the cop on the news, he’d gotten really nervous. The police would look at that shooting particularly carefully, and they wouldn’t let the investigation drop until they’d done everything they could to find the shooter. And then they would still press on.

  He stared at the glass. He was certain that he’d been perfect in all his steps, but things happen. He didn’t like the answer to that.

  The voice on the phone interrupted his thoughts. “What are we to do now?”

  “You know I was careful,” he said. “I’m certain this can’t be traced back to us.”

  “You had better hope it can’t.”

  The man set the glass down and thought again. “The target was taken out, correct?”

  “Yes,” said the voice. “That part is moving ahead. But shooting a cop; they will not rest until they find who did this. It escalates everything.”

  The man stared out the window. “It’ll be fine. There’s no way they’ll be able to tie it back to me, or to you,” he repeated.

  It took a moment before there was a reply. When it came, the voice was sinister.

  “I hope you’re right. Your life depends on it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What do you have so far?” Spats asked Ernie.

  Ernie’s sigh through the phone was long and labored. “I talked to Harry and looked around Sarah’s home office. I didn’t find anything unusual. I poked around her laptop as well and didn’t see anything that made me suspicious. I took it, though, to have Tara go through it.”

  “I’ve got a warrant to search Cody Sheen’s apartment, and I’m headed over there now,” Spats said as he pressed the brakes and stopped for a red light. “You think her shooting is related to a past case? Maybe Pete Olinger?”

  “It’s possible,” Ernie said. “What I can’t wrap my head around is if all three of these shootings are connected. If so, and Olinger went after Sarah, why would he shoot Cody Sheen and Nick Armistead?”

  Spats nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s a good point. I’ll be looking for anything about why Cody might’ve been killed in the first place, and I’ll keep an eye out for connections between the three shootings.”

  “All right,” Ernie said. “After I drop Sarah’s laptop at the station, I’m going to talk to Cindy Olinger.”

  “That ought to be an interesting conversation.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll touch base with Oakley, too. He should be following up on interviews with the Armistead family. And I want to know if anyone near the gym where Nick Armistead was shot has surveillance video. We’ll see what he finds out.”

  “Any news on Sarah?”

  “Nope. If I hear, I’ll call you first.”

  “Right back at you. I’ll catch up with you soon.”

  The light turned green, and Spats pressed the gas and moved forward. A lot of things were whirling around in his head as he drove to Cody Sheen’s apartment. He thought about Sarah. He missed her working on the investigation. She had good insights. Then his mind went to Trissa. She’d acted pretty cool about the news of Sarah’s shooting, as if it hadn’t bothered her too much, but Spats knew it had. Spats knew she loved him, but he sometimes wondered if her worry and fear about him would eventually cause her to leave. His job had been everything to him, but would it be worth losing her? He didn’t think so. He pushed those thoughts aside as he turned onto Federal Boulevard. He had to focus on the investigation.

  Gray clouds were forming in the western sky as he parked in front of a four-story apartment building on Grove Street. He patted his coat pocket to assure himself that he had the warrant, then got out and walked down the sidewalk to Cody’s building. No one was around, but he heard the traffic from Federal, a steady hum in the background. He held the door for a woman exiting with two small children in tow, then he entered a small lobby with a stuffy smell. A bank of buttons to the left were labeled with apartment numbers, and he pressed on 303. No one answered the call from a little speaker, so he pressed again and waited. Leah Sheen had said that Cody’s roommate, Austin, had an erratic schedule, so Spats wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t getting an answer. He shrugged and tried the inner door. It was locked, so he scanned the panel and pressed the button for the manager. A moment later, a gravelly voice answered.

  “Yes?”

  Spats identified himself and waited. There was a clearing of the throat, then, “Who did you say you were?”

  “Detective Youngfield, Denver Homicide.”

  “Homicide? What’s going on?”

  Spats grimaced in frustration. “Sir, if you could come to the front, I’ll explain.”

  A sigh. “Okay, sure.”

  An audible click sounded through the tinny speaker. Spats stood back, straightened his tie, and waited. A minute later, a tall man with a big gut approached the glass door. He pushed it open and looked at Spats.

  “Yes?”

  Spats showed him his badge. “And you are?”

  “Walt McBain.”

  “Have you heard about Cody Sheen, one of the renters in 303?”

  McBain shook his head. “What happened?”

  “Sheen was murdered last night, and I’m investigating his death.” Spats pulled the warrant from his coat pocket. “This is a warrant to search Cody’s apartment. I rang the intercom,” he jerked a thumb toward the panel of buttons, “but no one answered.”

  McBain’s face fell, knowing the interruption might take a while. “Yeah, Cody lives with Austin O’Neil. They both work and go to school, so Austin’s probably one of those two places.”

  Spats nodded. “I need access to the apartment, please.”

  McBain’s head bobbed up and down. “Sure, sure. Let me see the warrant.” It was a perfunctory statement, as McBain didn’t take much time to read it. Then he nodded. “Let me get the keys to his unit.”

  Spats pulled the door open as McBain lumbered to an apartment at the far end of the hall, then returned a moment later with a set of keys. Spats followed as McBain climbed up two flights of stairs. The building was older, the carpet worn, and that same stale odor followed them up the stairs. By the time they reached the third floor, McBain was huffing. He gulped in breaths as he lumbered down a long hall to apartment 303. McBain fiddled with the set of keys, glanced at Spats, then inserted one into the lock. He hesitated as if he wasn’t sure what he might find on the other side of the door. Spats looked at him and waited until McBain turned the knob. He pushed it open and stepped aside to let Spats enter.

  “What you want me to do?” McBain asked.

  Spats glanced over his shoulder, then said, “Wait.”

  “Sure, sure.” McBain stepped into the room and pressed his back to the wall.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Spats ordered.

  “Sure, sure,” McBain repeated. He ran his hand through thinning hair, his eyes curious, then watched as Spats went to work.

  Spats surveyed the small living room. It had the feel of hand-me-down decorating, stuff acquired from the college students’ parents which, he realized, it probably was. Besides a brown couch with tape on an arm, and matching loveseat, there was a scuffed oak coffee table, a huge TV on a stand too small for it, and gaming equipment on shelves below. A few posters of skiers hung on the walls, and a pair of skis was propped up in a corner. Spats checked the drawers of the entertainment center, then peeked behind it. Wires and dust. He turned to the couch next, removed the cushions and felt in the cracks. Some dirt, a candy wrapper, and some change. He knelt down, shone his phone flashlight under the couch and loveseat, and looked around. Dust bunnies. He stood up, brushed off his knees, and glanced at McBain.

  “What’re you looking for?” McBain asked.

  Spats rubbed his hands together. “Will Austin be home soon?”

  McBain shrugged. “I don’t know his schedule.”

  Spats contemplated him for a second. McBain co
ughed and glanced away. Spats moved to a tiny balcony with two metal chairs. He looked out the glass door to a view of a higher building across the street, then moved on to the kitchen and opened the cupboard doors. Nothing but a few cans of beans, some ramen mixes, a few kinds of dry cereal, chips, and other snack items. He checked the refrigerator. Beer, bread and baloney, some takeout cartons, and a half-full gallon of milk. The freezer held some frozen dinners, things easy to cook. Spats hunted around the drawers, hoping for something that might tell him if Cody had been in trouble, something that might point to his killer. He came up empty, so he moved on to the two bedrooms.

  The first had a queen-size bed, the sheets tussled, some clothes on the floor in the room and on the floor of an open closet. Spats was careful not to disturb anything as he looked around. He found some notepads on a small desk in the corner, and as he flipped through pages, he saw Austin’s name on one. So this was his bedroom. Spats smelled cologne, and he turned to a dresser. Nothing was on top of it, no photos, nothing personal. In the top drawer he found a drug pipe and some small baggies he guessed held marijuana. He looked through the other drawers, and in the bottom one, Spats moved aside some T-shirts and smiled.

  “Hello,” he said quietly as he pulled out a stack of cash.

  He counted it. Over a thousand dollars in small bills. Spats smiled again to himself. Nothing illegal in having cash, but it was something to ask Austin about.

  Spats checked under the furniture, but didn’t find anything else, so he stopped at the bathroom. It was dirty, grime in the sink, water spattered on the medicine cabinet mirror. He frowned distastefully as he opened it and looked inside. If there were any illegal drugs, they weren’t in here. He resisted an urge to wash his hands, and moved on to the other bedroom. It was slightly bigger than the first one, similarly furnished with a queen-size bed and a matching dresser. A laptop sat on a small folding table in a corner. Spats went over to it and touched the mouse. It was password-protected, so that’s as far as he got. Two small framed photos of Cody and Caitlyn sat nearby. They were all smiles. Spats turned, and as with the first room, he looked under the bed, in the closet, and in all the dresser drawers. He found a similar stash of money, but no drugs or drug paraphernalia. Spats smelled the air and didn’t catch a whiff of anything smoked in the room. He stared at a poster from a Star Wars film on the wall as he thought. What was Cody doing with so much cash? He had ideas, and none of them were good, or legal. He heard McBain clear his throat.