Dead Shot

by Annie Solomon

  “Sorry,” Gillian said to Maddie. “Not going to happen.”

  “Oh, geez, and I was so hoping.”

  “So I’ll see you in about an hour?”

  “There’s one hitch. That Detective Burke called. You didn’t show up at the hoosegow to sign your statement about the museum thing.”

  “Hoosegow?”

  “I’m working on my vocabulary.”

  “Okay, we’ll make a detour. I wouldn’t mind talking to him myself.”

  Matthew Dobie sat behind his desk in the mobile headquarters of Citizens for American Values—a trailer parked in a lot between a pawnshop and a liquor store on Charlotte Avenue. There was a knock on the door, and a young man stepped in.

  “The woman’s here, sir,” he said.

  The young man was part of Dobie’s vanguard. Dobie couldn’t recall the name at the moment. Davis, maybe. Or Dallas. Something with a “D.” Not that it mattered. The vanguard did their duty, protected him and his work. Names were unimportant.

  What mattered was they were all tall, well-muscled white men, perfect American specimens. If he could find them, even a little pretty. He liked good-looking men. Liked the curve of a wide shoulder coming down from a thick neck. The tight skin, the power.

  Dobie encouraged them to exercise and avoid sugar and processed foods. It was all a matter of discipline. Of control. Of keeping the doors locked and barred against the baser urges. He was proud of his young men. He liked to watch them go through their paces in the morning. Group calisthenics, a run. A phalanx of beauty, like galloping stallions.

  This one seemed exceptional, and Dobie couldn’t help but take a moment to admire him, his fair hair skinned to the nub, chiseled jaw, Cary Grant cleft in his chin. But like all the others, his eyes were blank, waiting for orders, waiting for Matthew Dobie to fill them with direction.

  He gestured “come forward” with a wave of his hand, and the nameless man—Davis or Dallas—stepped back and let Ruth Gellico enter.

  Dobie rose, put on his warmest smile. “Come in, please. You must be exhausted. Here, sit. Sit.” He nodded to the guard, who led her to a chair. She sank into it, a pale, washed-out dishrag.

  “Can I get you something to eat, Ruth?”

  The woman shook her head. “I’d just like to go home.”

  She still wore the clothes she’d been arrested in, the black-and-white waitstaff outfit. Splotches of red spattered her shirt. And she smelled from her time in jail.

  “Of course you do,” Dobie said. He dismissed the young man with a silent nod, and Davis or Dallas disappeared through the door. “Of course. And you will. I promise. I’ll see to it myself. I’ll even pay your bus ticket.”

  Tears sprang to the poor woman’s eyes. “Thank you, sir,” she whispered. “You’ve been so kind. You’ve paid my bail, everything. I don’t know what to say.”

  But Matthew Dobie did. Ruth Gellico had worked out well. Better than he could have imagined. She’d generated the headlines he needed, kept the media attention focused. The world was falling into a devil’s pit. Whoring and killing was sport, and everyone wanted a piece of the action.

  “It is I who should be thanking you, Ruth.” He patted her hand. “For your heroic deed. We all owe you a debt of gratitude. You’re a brave woman,” he said sympathetically. Always be sympathetic. “A very brave woman.”

  22

  The familiar stench hit Ray the minute he walked through the door of the downtown police headquarters. Puke and disinfectant, the perfume of the criminal justice system.

  “Nice,” Gillian said, clearly meaning the opposite. “You miss this?”

  “Never been to night court?” He nodded over his shoulder to a door in the corner by the front of the building.

  “Haven’t had that supreme pleasure.”

  “Oh, well, and here I was thinking you’d done everything.”

  A black-skinned woman in a flowing orange robe came through the night court door accompanied by two small children dressed American style in jeans. They ran ahead, and she snapped at them in a language too exotic for Ray to place. Off to the side, two men and a woman were in a heated discussion in Spanish. Lounging against a wall was a lanky guy with a Unabomber beard. Skinny, pants drooping, layers of shirts under a shapeless coat. He smiled as Ray escorted Gillian past. One of his front teeth was missing.

  Outside the glass front doors over Gillian’s shoulders, more people congregated. Sitting on the concrete benches. Smoking. Waving court papers at each other.

  He kept his hand on Gillian’s back, weaving her toward the watch, who grinned behind his bulletproof glass window.

  “Look what the cat dragged in. Hey, Ray. What the hell you doing here? Wife let you out?”

  Ray looked over the watch’s shoulder at the familiar room behind him. Rows of desks, a few cops milling about. He geared himself up for what was coming, like crossing an open field in full view of the enemy.

  “This is Gillian Gray. She’s here for Burke.”

  They got their temporary IDs, and the watch buzzed the door open. “Third desk on the—”

  “I remember,” Ray said.

  He walked Gillian to Burke’s desk, enduring the ribbing.

  “Hey, look—it’s the wife lover.”

  “How’s the missus?”

  “Nice suit. Wife pick that out?”

  “Complicated,” Gillian murmured.

  “Very,” he answered.

  He threaded his way through the laughter to Jimmy’s desk just as his ex-brother-in-law came from the break room with a mug of coffee. Ray didn’t have to see the mug to recognize it. He’d given it to Jimmy one Christmas: HOMICIDE. OUR DAY BEGINS WHEN YOURS ENDS.

  Ray had called ahead, so it wasn’t as if the visit was a surprise. But still Jimmy gave him the cold stare, sipping coffee like he was playing bad cop as he sat in the swivel chair behind his desk.

  “Have a seat, Miss Gray.”

  He didn’t offer one to Ray, which was fine, because Ray wanted to stand anyway. Better view of the room. Not that Gillian was in danger in a room full of cops, but standing was what he was used to.

  “I’ve got your statement here.” Jimmy fished through a mess of papers. Ray laughed to himself. Jimmy never could find anything on his desk. Everything changed, yet nothing did.

  “Betty!” Jimmy barked across the room to the squad secretary. “Where’s that Gray statement?”

  “On your desk, James,” she called. She was a round, jolly-faced woman, brown-skinned, with a ready smile. She saw Ray and turned it on. Then rose and hurried over.

  “Why, Ray Pearce. What are you doing here?”

  “He’s with me,” Gillian said. There was something in her face. Some teasing mischief Ray didn’t think he was going to like.

  Betty raised a brow and a white-toothed smile split her face. “Well, that’s nice.”

  “Yeah, moving on is the best thing,” Gillian said a little too loudly. “He looks great, doesn’t he?”

  Betty examined him. “I believe he does look great.” She winked.

  “Don’t you have reports to type?” Jimmy snapped.

  “Not for you,” Betty said archly. “Good to see you, Ray.” She patted his arm and returned to her desk in the corner.

  Gillian gave him a sly smile, which Ray refused to commiserate with. “You find that statement yet?” he asked Jimmy.

  Jimmy pulled something out of a pile triumphantly. “Got it.”

  He settled Gillian in one of the interview rooms to go over her statement. Ray stood outside the door as Jimmy came out. He glanced at Ray, started to say something, then didn’t. So Ray did.

  “How’s your dad?” he asked.

  “Better.” Jimmy looked away. “Spoke to Peter. Thanks for what you did the other night.”

  Ray smiled, shook his head at the other man’s grudging tone. “Hey—Jimmy. Don’t go all mushy on me.”

  “Look, I said thank you.” Jimmy opened the door, stuck his head inside. “You l
et me know if you need anything,” he said, and came back out. “Bring her back when she’s finished.” He turned to walk away, but Ray spoke.

  “Is he going to be all right?”

  “Who?”

  “Your dad.”

  Ray gave him an irritated look. “He’s going to be fine.”

  “You talk to Nancy about assisted living? Maybe some kind of home health care?”

  “He’s not sick.”

  “He’s not well either.”

  Jimmy’s jaw tightened. “He’s my father, Ray, not yours. Not anymore. Appreciate what you did. Don’t need your help or advice. Don’t want it.”

  “Look, I’m just—”

  “What are you doing here, Ray?”

  Ray deadpanned him. “Trying to reach past your inner asshole to the real James R. Burke.”

  Jimmy gave him a barely tolerant look. “No, not here, in this building. Here. In Nashville. Why are you still here?” He said it as if it was the puzzle of the ages. “Nothing’s keeping you. No family. No connections. Why the hell haven’t you just”—he waved a hand—“blown away?”

  Ray shifted his feet. Those were questions he didn’t like asking let alone answering. “It’s none of your business. And I didn’t come here to talk about—”

  “You never did know when to cut your losses,” Jimmy said. He shook his head and took off.

  Ray called after him. “You remember Harley Samuels?”

  The other man slowed. Turned. “Yeah, sure. What about him?”

  Ray went through the cold case, describing what he’d seen in the Holland Gray file. During the recitation, Jimmy slowly walked back until the two of them were once again toe-to-toe outside the closed interview room.

  “You’re saying there’s a connection?” Jimmy asked.

  “It’s a possibility. Holland Gray’s murderer was never found.”

  Jimmy looked at him for a short, heavy beat. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll check it out.”

  Ray stared. “That’s it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was hoping you’d share the case notes.”

  “You’re not a cop anymore. I can’t do that.”

  “Yeah, you can. If you want to. You interview Dobie? What did he say? Alibi out? Did you check out news footage of the crowd outside the museum? Run faces through the system?”

  The smaller man gazed at him, hard and silent, and Ray could see he’d get nowhere.

  Calmly, Ray said, “You’re a prick, you know that?”

  “You’re a quitter, you know that?”

  “I just quit my job, Jimmy. Not my marriage. Can’t say the same for you.”

  “Yeah? Well at least I still got my badge.”

  “Right. Your badge.”

  “Better than nothing. Which is what you got.”

  Jimmy walked, and Ray fought to quell the anger shooting through him. By the time Gillian came out a few minutes later, he had himself more or less under control.

  He escorted her back to Jimmy’s desk, where she laid the statement on top of a pile of papers.

  “Signed, sealed, and delivered,” she said.

  “Good,” Jimmy said. “And just so you know, assailant made bail.”

  “Damn,” Ray muttered. “How?”

  “Dobie.”

  Ray thought about this. “She working for him?”

  “Says not. Can’t prove it one way or the other.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “Originally from Ohio. No priors. Not even a traffic ticket. Younger sister murdered when they were kids. Got involved with Dobie’s group a couple of years ago. Managed to sneak in with the waitstaff at the museum party.”

  Gillian grabbed the chair in front of Jimmy’s desk. Sat. Waved a dismissive hand in front of her. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “If you want to prevent more incidents, it does,” Ray said.

  “It was a prank. Some fake blood. There are more important things to worry about,” she said.

  Ray had a feeling he knew where she was going. “Don’t bother,” he said.

  She ignored him. Put all her attention on Jimmy. “The man who murdered my mother. He’s still out there.”

  “Yeah, Ray already mentioned that.”

  She shot Ray a swift look, then back at Jimmy. “And?”

  “And I’ll look into it,” Jimmy said.

  She frowned. “That’s not good enough.”

  “It’s the best you’ll get,” Ray said.

  She leaned in toward Jimmy, an intense expression on her face. “He’s out there. He’s doing it again.”

  “Maybe. I said I’d check it out. I will.”

  “You better do more than check it out. This department screwed up once; don’t make the same mistake again.” She scrawled a phone number in the corner of a report on his desk. “Call Harley Samuels.”

  Jimmy stared her down Dirty Harry style, but she didn’t back off. “Do it.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Soon as you have a lieutenant’s patch on your shoulder, I’ll jump to do anything you say.”

  23

  Ray phoned hotel security on the way back, alerted them that Ruth Gellico had made bond. Arranged to have a guy on the hotel doors keep an eye out for her. A guard named Mallory was already stationed outside the suite.

  When he and Gillian tumbled in, Maddie was elegantly sprawled on the floor of the suite’s living room facing the television, surrounded by cellophane snack bags and six-packs of soft drinks.

  Ray’s room wasn’t part of the suite proper but had a connecting door. He headed for it. “Let me know if you want to go anywhere,” he said to Gillian.

  “I will.” She held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.” And he took that for what it was worth. Not much.

  He turned to Maddie. Still dressed in expensive black, she looked out of place amid the garish colors of the junk food bags. “Keep an eye on her,” he said.

  She saluted lightly. “You betcha, Sarge.”

  But to make sure, he crossed to the suite’s main door and spoke to the guard—loud enough so both women heard him. “Miss Gray goes nowhere without an escort.”

  “Understood.” Mallory was a young guy, but his uniform was pressed, his manner professional and competent.

  “I get the feeling you don’t trust me,” Gillian said when he’d closed the door. She dipped into one of the bags and crunched on an orange Cheeto, looking at him all wide-eyed and innocent.

  “Just covering my bases.” He plunged into his own room.

  “Or his ass,” he heard Maddie murmur behind him. “He does have a nice one.”

  “Very nice,” Gillian agreed.

  They giggled, and the sound reminded him they’d been friends since high school.

  While he was organizing the move to the hotel, he’d arranged with Carlson to have Gillian’s file sent over. Now he shucked his tie, throwing it over the chair at the desk, stretched out on the bed, and took out the coffee table book of her photographs.

  In the room beyond, he could hear Maddie and Gillian still giggling like schoolgirls. But here, death stalked in weird, eerily lit photographs of ordinary places. A child’s bedroom. A paneled basement. All elaborately staged with precise, everyday details. A clown’s head night-light. A metal TV tray painted with flowers.

  And dead bodies. An entire book haunted by fragile, glassy-eyed dead women.

  He turned the page. Dusk in a backyard rimmed with a white picket fence. The wheel of a pink tricycle to the left. A pale blue kiddie pool under a tree. Draped over the edge, a green garden hose was filling the pool with water. But the hose had been forgotten, and the water had risen and spilled over the ground into light-bathed puddles. Above the pool, like a ballet dancer frozen in moonbeams, a blond urchin hung from a rope.

  His heart clutched at the photograph’s beauty and sadness. He thought about the trip to Harley Samuels and the crime-scene photographs. Unbidden, a reluctant respect rose up. What Gillian had done took great courage. Den
ial was highly valued by most people, but she refused to look away. Refused to deny her own pain. There was something brave about that. About reliving her tragedy over and over until she understood it. Until she could explain it to the world. Brave and dangerous. Because you never knew what you might find when you dug that deep.

  Himself, he was big on blinders. On not asking the hard question. Like the one Jimmy had asked earlier.

  Because who wanted to face failure every day in the mirror? Who wanted to admit that staying might not be the virtue it seemed, but only a vain, foolish grasping at the only life he had?

  He closed the book, shutting those thoughts with it. Best leave the introspection to those who could afford it. He lay back, placed his gun on top of the book, his hand wrapped around it, ready, if necessary. Then he closed his eyes. Breathed in through his nose to the count of four, then out through his mouth to the same count.

  He woke a few hours later, his inner alarm not letting him sleep too long. The place was quiet, dark. He got up, padded to the door, and stood in the doorway where he could check the suite’s spacious living room. In the dim light of a corner lamp the remains of bags and drinks were scattered on the floor like ash after a fire. One of the bedroom doors was closed, the other half-open.

  He peeked into Gillian’s room, expecting to see her asleep. But the light from the living room showed an empty bed.

  “Gillian?” He stepped in farther, checked the bathroom. Also empty. “Gillian!”

  The sound of his voice echoed in the stillness. A tight, wary feeling gripped his chest.

  Wheeling around, he strode back out and knocked sharply on Maddie’s door. “Maddie?” No answer. He shoved it open. She also wasn’t there.

  He pivoted, headed straight for the door. Wrenched it open. Fear flooded full force. The guard, Mallory, was gone, too.

  Gun drawn, he raced to the elevator, stabbed the down button but couldn’t wait for it to arrive. He bolted the few feet to the exit door, yanked it open, and flew down the stairs. Dug for his cell phone, fingers punching in numbers as his legs hammered over the steps.

  He thought his heart would stop by the time hotel security answered the phone.