Dead Shot

by Annie Solomon

  How could he hate her? He wanted to be her. Wave to the cameras. Nod to reporters. See his face on Entertain-ment Tonight.

  It would happen. He’d already got the whole city talking about him. Got them to take down her pictures. That was strength. That was power.

  Soon, he’d free her from her disgrace. Immortalize her, like he had the others.

  He smiled at what he was going to do for her, his eyes stinging from staring so hard. But it was like TV, watching the party through the window. Real and not real. If only he could reach out and feel her skin beneath his fingers. So pale. So soft. The thought of touching her sent a hot shiver through him.

  Soon, he would have her.

  Soon, he would know what she felt like.

  Mouth dry with anticipation, he felt an urge he couldn’t resist. Through his pants, he began to stroke himself. And watch the people in their pricey clothes yammer and fawn.

  He was always watching. It was what he did. What he liked doing.

  Thinking about them. All those useless pretty people who thought they ran things.

  But he ran things. He made it happen. Life. Death. It was in his hands.

  Excitement hardened him, and he reached inside, licked his palm, made himself wet, then wetter, and stroked harder.

  He would wait until she stopped kicking. Stopped struggling. They all struggled at first. Until they saw what a release it was to stop. That it was so much easier when they stopped.

  She would stop, and he would place her. Frame her.

  He stroked faster, panting at the images in his head.

  He would frame her in his own design.

  He would stand over her and shoot her. Over and over again.

  And then, when he couldn’t help himself, when it felt too good to help himself, then he’d come. All over her. All over that pale, soft skin. He gritted his teeth. Fuck, he said in his head. F-f-fuck her.

  And with a grunt, he climaxed in his hand.

  44

  In the shadows of the ballroom, Ray tensed as Gillian circulated around the room.

  Out of professional courtesy, or maybe for old times’ sake, he told Burke he’d be there. And when his ex-partner made the standard protests—you don’t work here anymore, you’re a civilian, you’ll get in the way—Ray called in his marker.

  “I never asked a thing from either you or Nancy when it came to taking care of your father. He shows up in the middle of the night, I drop what I’m doing and handle it. So I figure you owe me, Jimmy, and now you can pay up. If there’s trouble, I’ll be there. If there isn’t, I’ll still be there. You know damn well I won’t get in the way. And one more pair of eyes can’t hurt.”

  So he put on his spare monkey suit and drove to the hotel, parking three blocks away in a tight squeeze between a lemon-yellow Beetle and a van from a window-washing company.

  He arrived an hour before the gala’s scheduled start time and half an hour before Burke’s team showed. It would have been nice if this bash was at the same hotel he’d stayed in with Gillian. But it wasn’t. So he’d memorized the new hotel’s floor plan from blueprints Carleco had on file and used the extra time to scout the layout in person. He plotted escape routes from four different angles, then found a corner that gave him access to most of the room but would keep him hidden. And he spotted Burke’s people—two men and a woman. The guys in rented tuxes, the woman in a long blue thing with puffy sleeves. All three looked like rejects from last year’s prom.

  At some point they caught each other’s eyes, the only sign of acknowledgment or accommodation they made to each other. Truth was, they came at this from opposite sides of the same coin. They were there to catch the bad guy, and if Gillian got hurt in the process, they were still a step ahead. He was there to keep her safe, and if the bad guy got caught, that was gravy.

  When Gillian finally entered the room, she looked her own offbeat, sexy self, and despite his promise to keep the emotions at bay, he felt winded when he caught his first glimpse of her in a week.

  She looked healthy enough. Fuck it, she looked beautiful. The back of her hair was pinned up, as it had been that first time at the museum—blowsy and tangled, like she’d just got up from a wild round of sex. Like she’d looked after the wild round of sex with him. Eyes glittery, cheeks flushed.

  Not like she was pining away for him. No way, no how.

  He cursed under his breath and wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Not if he was going to ensure she survived the night. It sucked having to stare at her, sucked and took his breath away, but there it was.

  He maintained his post for the entire opening meet and greet, while the men drank their scotch and the women their white wine. He saw Gillian move to the room’s perimeter to check the art display and scuttled along the wall to keep her in sight. Saw the blonde bump into her, saw the interchange with Genevra. Moved back when the band stopped and people sat down for dinner. Kept a suspicious eye on the servers coming and going from her table. Salad. Entrée. Dessert. Someone he’d never heard of, but who was announced as a CMA newcomer of the year nominee, performed a half-hour set, reminding the room in between songs to bid, bid, bid.

  By the end of the evening, sweat was dripping down the back of his neck, but no one had approached Gillian or her table. He was beginning to think the night would be a bust when the MC for the evening returned to the stage to give the auction totals. She wore some kind of sparkled top with feathers at the neck, and he wondered about the rich and how they managed to walk out of the house like that. But the MC made a special point of introducing Gillian, who rose, a spotlight catching her.

  Ray groaned silently at the way the light pinpointed her. Anyone in doubt as to where she was would have no trouble finding her now.

  As if the universe read his thoughts, at that exact moment he spotted a blur of vertical movement among the seated crowd. He refocused his sight line and blinked for half a second, his mind telling him what he saw was impossible, but his eyes making it true.

  Maddie. Maddie Crane. Witch’s hair flying as she ran. Calling out.

  “Kenny! Wait! Kenny!”

  Heads turned, people muttered. The feather lady’s patter faltered, and Ray got a clear look at who she was pursuing.

  Kenny Post, dark hair long and straggly, eyes gleaming wildly.

  Gillian backed away. Kenny raised an arm, reaching out. Was that a weapon in his hand?

  45

  Ray bolted, legs hurtling faster than speed. He yanked Gillian backward, pushed her violently out of the way. Hustled her back, back, back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Burke’s team converge on the table. The woman in blue tackled Post, and he went down.

  “We got him! We got him!”

  More cries and gasps from the crowd. Someone screamed. Someone—Maddie?—shouted, “Don’t hurt him!” But it was all in the distance now. He’d dragged Gillian out a side door, down a short hallway, and into the steaming busy kitchen. Pans clanged, water swooshed. A chef in a high white hat scolded them for being there. Then they were out the back of the kitchen and into the night.

  “Wait! Wait a minute!” Gillian jerked away.

  He pushed her up against the building’s outer wall, shielded her with his body, and scanned the alley. Empty. Quiet. Safe.

  He released her. His hands were shaking, and he calmed himself by breathing. And by drinking her in. She was alive. Safe.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, anger and astonishment in her voice.

  “Getting you the hell out of there. Are you all right?”

  “No, I mean—what was that? Inside?” She shook her head, looked him up and down. “Why—what are you doing here? And Kenny. That was Kenny. And did I see Maddie?”

  “Are you all right?”

  She took in a breath. Nodded. He let a breath out, relieved.

  Before he could answer her questions, his phone rang. Burke, wanting to know where they were and if Gillian was all right.

  “In an alley on the northw
est back of the building. And she’s fine.” In the background a woman’s voice. “Let me talk to her. Let me talk to her!”

  Maddie. Her voice abruptly cut off.

  “What’s going on?” Gillian asked, but he ignored her.

  Jimmy said, “They’re taking Post and the Crane woman away as we speak. Bring Gray in, and we’ll retrieve the wire, get a statement.”

  But Gillian had already reached inside her dress and was yanking off the device. The tape didn’t release easily, and she cursed while she freed herself.

  “Gotta go,” Ray said quickly, and disconnected. “Hold on,” he said to her. “Hold on!”

  “I want this thing off me!”

  “All right. Jesus.” He spun her around, unzipped her dress, then peeled the tape off. His hands still shook a little, and as he turned her to the front, they brushed against her breasts. He looked up. Their eyes met.

  She licked her lips, and heat blasted him. Before he knew what was happening, their bodies leaned forward and their mouths met. The kiss was explosive and shivery. It seemed to rock the night. It sure rocked him.

  But when it softened, sweetened, and finally ended, Gillian looked down. She was breathless, shoulders heaving, but refused to look at him.

  He stared out into the night.

  Right.

  He stepped behind her, and, with a quick jerk, zipped her up.

  She lurched away. “My grandparents must be going nuts. And I want to see Maddie.”

  He pulled her back. “What are you talking about? You can’t go in there. Burke’s already informed your grandparents that you’re okay. And Maddie won’t be there.”

  “What? Where is she?”

  “She’s been taken into custody. Along with Post.”

  She squeezed her head as if that would make sense of the night. “Oh, my God. This is crazy. She can’t—”

  “She did, Gillian. A whole ballroom full of people saw her.”

  She yanked her arm away. “Saw her do what? All I saw her do was chase after that slimeball, Kenny Post. Not a crime as far as I know.”

  “What was she doing there? If she’s so innocent, why wasn’t she in New York like she was supposed to be?”

  “I don’t know,” she said grudgingly.

  “And if she’s such a great friend, why didn’t she tell you she was here?”

  “I don’t know! But I sure as hell want to hear the answer from her.”

  “She’ll only lie to you.”

  “She doesn’t lie! There’s an explanation. I know there is.”

  “Jesus, and whatever she tells you, that’s it? You just say, fine? Okay? Or is it going to be like Ruth at the museum— confrontation for its own sake.”

  “It’s not them.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not them. The maniac doing this killing. It’s not Kenny. And it’s certainly not Maddie.”

  He stared at her, understanding dawning, if slowly. “Why? Because you don’t want it to be them? Because then you’d have to give up on your life’s crusade?”

  She glared at him for half a second, then wheeled around and stalked off.

  He caught her in two quick strides. Wrenched her back until they were practically nose to nose. “That’s it, isn’t it? No matter who gets caught doing what, you won’t believe it unless it’s your—what did Maddie call him? Oh, yeah, your bogeyman.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Let me go.”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “Let me go!”

  He released her, and the shift made her stumble back a step. She straightened, glared at him with deadly intent. “I still want to talk to her.”

  “Fine,” he said sharply. “Burke wants you down at the station anyway.”

  “But first—my grandparents.”

  This recklessness was exactly why Carlson had declared hands off. And exactly why Ray had come back.

  So, against his better judgment, despite the first rule of protective service, which was to get the protectee the hell out of there, he escorted her back to the ballroom.

  When they got there, they found Genevra sitting in a lone chair at the back of the room. Chip and another tuxedo-clad man, who turned out to be a doctor attending the gala, were hovering over her. As Ray and Gillian walked up, the two men were trying to coax Genevra into taking a mild sedative.

  “It will just relax you.” Chip held out a glass of water.

  Genevra slapped his hand away. “I’m as relaxed as I care to be.” Then she saw Gillian.

  In all the time Ray had known the older woman, he hadn’t seen many of the softer emotions cross her face. But at her first glimpse of Gillian, she cried out, rose on wobbly legs, and threw her arms around her granddaughter.

  The surprise was that Gillian clung to her in return.

  “I’m all right,” she said, stroking Genevra’s back. “I’m fine.”

  He found himself sharing a mildly astonished look with Chip. Not that the softness lasted long. Not with the two of them.

  “Well, of course you are.” Genevra released Gillian and stepped back. She brushed a stray piece of lint from Gillian’s dress. “Even if you do look like a ragamuffin,” she said stiffly.

  Gillian smiled. “One woman’s ragamuffin, one man’s sexy muffin.” She leered at him, ice in her eyes.

  He recalled the kiss in the alley, and his face heated. Genevra stilled, as if seeing him for the first time. She shot her husband an accusing look, then turned it on him. “What are you doing here? I understood your company had dropped out.”

  “He can’t leave me alone,” Gillian said. “It’s the dress.”

  Genevra turned to Chip. “Was this your idea?”

  Ray didn’t understand the antagonism behind the question but interposed quickly anyway. “No,” he said. “It was mine. I thought you might need a little extra protection tonight.”

  “He was right,” Chip murmured to his wife.

  Genevra paid no attention to him. “Well”—she made the word sound like a dismissal—“I think we can take over from here.” She put an arm through Gillian’s.

  “I have to go down to the police station,” Gillian said.

  “That can wait until tomorrow.”

  “I want to see Maddie,” she said quietly.

  Genevra paused, frowned. Finally, she said, “We can take you, then.”

  Gillian gave her a gentle, knowing look. “I’m not going to let you do that. Much as he annoys me”—she elbowed Ray in the ribs—“Ray has a car and is familiar with the routine. I’ll be fine.”

  Genevra glowered at him, and he wondered what the hell he’d done to piss her off so much. Could she tell just by looking that he had a major jones for her crazy granddaughter?

  “I’ll bring her back to you safely,” he found himself saying.

  “Yes,” Genevra said tartly. “So you’ve said.” She sighed. Turned to her husband. “I’m tired. Take me home.”

  46

  Gillian sat on the edge of the chair in front of Detective Burke’s desk. She was breathing fast and trying not to. She’d turned over the contraption they’d taped to her. She’d made a written statement and signed it. But so far, she hadn’t been able to see Maddie.

  Ray had promised to talk to Burke about that, but he’d also made no guarantees. And he’d already been gone twenty minutes. Was it good news or bad that it was taking so long?

  Truth was, he’d been right in the alley. She didn’t want it to be Kenny. Or Maddie. It had to be the monster. She tightened her fingers around the edge of her seat. Had to.

  When Ray returned, his eyes were grim, his mouth taut—signs that Burke hadn’t gone down easy.

  “Okay,” he said, “you’re set.”

  She blinked. From the look on his face, she’d been bracing for the opposite. “Really?” A relieved smile broke out. “Great.” She jumped up and pecked him on the cheek. �
��Thanks.” Immediately, she felt a flush creep up her neck. Geez, what was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she keep her hands off him? She got very busy gathering her things. Purse, coat. Mind. Clutching her gear to her like armor, she said in as dignified a tone as possible,

  “Where is she?”

  “There’s a little catch.”

  She eyed him warily. “How little?”

  “You have to agree to let the meeting be monitored.”

  “Monitored? Why?”

  “In case she says anything to you she hasn’t said to them. Anything contradictory to her statement. Or incriminating.”

  Incriminating. The word made the night even more somber than it already was.

  “They didn’t put her in jail, did they?”

  “Not yet.”

  “And Kenny?”

  “He’s in a holding cell.”

  There was something in Ray’s eyes, something he wasn’t saying.

  “You know what she said, don’t you? That’s what took you so damn long.”

  “They let me listen in on the interview,” he admitted.

  She searched his face for clues. “And?”

  He shook his head. “One thing I’ve learned about you—you do better when you make up your own mind.”

  She hesitated.

  “Take it or leave it,” Ray said.

  What choice did she have? She had to hear Maddie’s story from her own lips. Gillian would never believe it otherwise. “Okay, I’ll take it.” Like he didn’t know she would. “But I see her alone. If Burke wants to eavesdrop, tell him to put on a headset.”

  Ray took her to an interview room. Burke and two other men she assumed were detectives were milling around outside. A one-way window allowed her to see Maddie, who was slumped over a table, back bowed, black hair almost blocking her face. Almost. Enough was visible that Gillian could see how drawn Maddie looked. Worn down. Tired.

  Despite everything, Gillian sent up a silent prayer. Please don’t let it be Maddie. Please.

  “Sure you want to do this?” Burke asked gruffly.

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged and opened the door.