Killer Focus

by Fiona Brand

  Rain was falling steadily now, pulling a misty gray curtain over the hills and soaking her hair and clothes. The background noise of cars on the main road into town registered, but beyond that the only sound was the wind gusting through the treetops and the flat detonation of shots being fired in the shooting range.

  She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes had passed, but it felt longer. In that time no one had entered the parking lot or left, and no one inside the shooting range appeared to realize that a rogue shot had been fired.

  A flickering movement drew her attention. She tensed then relaxed when Fischer detached himself from the dense shade of a clump of trees and loped across the parking lot. She was wet, but he was wetter.

  Fischer collected his gear bag and stowed it in the large lockable box he kept in the rear of the truck. “I found a casing and some trampled ground on the edge of the pines.” He took the brass casing from his pocket. “Looks like a .302 caliber, which is a hunting rifle. It could have been a stray shot from a hunter, although no one should be hunting this close to town.”

  Taylor examined the casing, her tension returning full force as she climbed into the passenger seat and Fischer pulled out of the parking lot. Fischer hadn’t found anyone, but he must have come close, because whoever it was had finally made a mistake and left the casing behind.

  Fischer extracted a towel from behind the driver’s seat and passed it to her. When she’d blotted the water from her face and hair, she handed the towel back.

  “You need those hands bandaged.”

  “I’ll clean them up when I get home.”

  Right after that, she was leaving town.

  Someone had just taken a shot at her, and the near miss had cleared her mind. She wasn’t paranoid, and she wasn’t wrong. Maybe it had just been a kid fooling around with his dad’s gun at the wrong end of the range, or a hunter getting in some free target practice, but she’d stopped believing in fairy tales and happy endings months ago.

  Setting the Glock down on the floor, she buckled herself in. She noticed Fischer had placed his gun down on the floor without removing the clip, keeping the weapon within easy reach, and the tension in her stomach increased. If Fischer believed there wasn’t a problem, he would have disarmed the gun and packed it away and told her to do the same. It was unlikely to happen, but if the highway patrol pulled them over and found they were traveling with loaded weapons, regardless of who they were, they would both be arrested.

  Minutes later, Fischer pulled over onto a grassy verge and cut the engine. Opening the glove compartment, he pulled out a first aid kit and levered off the lid. “Let me have a look at those hands.”

  She studied the metal first aid box as he swabbed her palms with disinfectant then smeared on antiseptic cream. “That looks military.”

  His gaze connected with hers. “The quartermaster liked me.”

  She glanced away from taut cheekbones and tanned olive skin. If the quartermaster had been female, she was willing to bet it had been a whole lot more than liking. “I bet you outranked him.”

  He motioned her to hold out her hands while he taped on wound dressings. He hadn’t answered her question, but the suspicion that he had held some kind of command grew stronger.

  It was possible that the fact that he was so closemouthed was a carryover from his time in the SEAL teams. He could also be an accomplished liar.

  He could be married.

  She would be crazy not to consider the idea. She hadn’t seen any indication that he wore a wedding ring, but some men didn’t. “So what was your rank? Lieutenant?”

  This close, his eyes were flecked with gold. She hadn’t noticed that last night, but then she had been more concerned with controlling her reactions than cataloging physical details.

  “Lieutenant commander. How come you know so much?”

  “I used to date a SEAL.”

  “Now you’re pissing me off.”

  As he replaced the first aid kit in the glove compartment, Taylor had to wonder just how annoyed he was. Despite her effort at cold analysis, and distance, she was hoping that he was big on understatement. “Hey, Fischer…thanks.”

  “The name’s Steve, not Fischer.” He leaned across and brushed her mouth with his.

  The kiss threw her off balance. When he would have pulled back, she cupped his neck and held him there, leaning into the kiss, part curiosity, part experiment. He adjusted the angle, her head tilted back and the pressure firmed. His tongue in her mouth sent a bolt of heat straight to her loins. Taylor’s heart slammed in her chest. It was sex, pure and simple, she decided…but that didn’t explain why Fischer was so damned irresistible.

  His mouth lifted and sank back onto hers and the half-formed notion of pushing free receded. Not for the first time she wondered what it would be like to stretch out in a bed with Fischer, to spend an entire night with him.

  Not that she would allow that to happen.

  For now, she would enjoy the fantasy and the kiss, secure in the knowledge that after today she wouldn’t ever see him again.

  The rain had stopped by the time Fischer dropped her off at her house, and watery sunlight warmed an afternoon that had become distinctly chilly.

  Fischer had offered to call the police, but she had turned him down. Even with the evidence of the casing, there wasn’t much the Cold Peak PD could do. Unless she broke WITSEC and supplied them with her real identity, the supposition that the shot had been aimed at her wouldn’t be taken seriously. Also, any approach to the Cold Peak police would generate a report that could reach Burdett. As it stood, she had half expected a response from Burdett over Letty’s murder. If her new name appeared in the police database again, her placement would be officially blown. Burdett would be knocking on her door within hours, and she wasn’t sure she wanted that.

  Despite WITSEC’s protection, her security had been breached—twice. She couldn’t think of any other way for the leak to happen but through WITSEC. This time, she intended to take care of her own security.

  Taylor strode through to the bedroom, placed the Glock on her bedside table, grabbed fresh underwear and a black T-shirt and jeans, then quickly showered and changed. Hair hanging in a wet curtain down her back, she shrugged into the shoulder rig, which disappeared against the black fabric of the tee, holstered the gun and pulled on a dark jacket.

  Pulling suitcases from her closet, she packed. Within minutes she had everything she needed. Zipping the bags closed, she carried them out to the SUV and stored them in the rear storage compartment. With her bedroom stripped, she walked through to the kitchen, her mind running over lists—what she needed to take, what had to be left…when, and if, to call Burdett. If she walked out on WITSEC she would be on her own, and effectively on the run from Lopez.

  Shoving basic food items—bread, butter, cereal and cheese—into an unused trash sack, she made another trip to the garage and wedged the food in the trunk, beside the cases.

  Walking quickly through the house, she gathered the few personal possessions she couldn’t bear to leave behind—jewelry, family photos and an antique sampler that had belonged to her grandmother. There wasn’t time, but she didn’t know if she would ever see any of her possessions again. When the items were safely stored in the backseat of the SUV, she walked through to the sunroom and stopped, for long seconds unable to comprehend what wasn’t there. Her computer.

  Her stomach hollowed out. She went hot then cold and for a dizzying moment she thought she was going to throw up. The last time she’d had a break-in, she hadn’t been aware of it for weeks and all the thief had taken was information.

  This time he had taken the entire computer.

  Glock held in a two-handed grip, she systematically searched the house, then the grounds. The only evidence of the break-in was the damaged lock on the sunroom doors.

  Her computer had gone, but it was an expensive model and clearly visible on the desk in the sunroom. If the appliance thief had been in Letty’s house, he would have
seen the computer. She had checked and nothing else had been stolen, but then the thief hadn’t had much time, just the hour or so she had been away with Fischer.

  It was possible the theft was just a lousy coincidence and unconnected to the Lopez case. As determined as she was to get out of Cold Peak, she couldn’t allow herself to give way to panic. She needed to report the theft, because any evidence collected could provide the break the police needed to catch Letty’s killer. If she did nothing else before she left town, she had do that.

  Instead of dialing the police, she found the card Fischer had given her and dialed his home number.

  He picked up almost immediately. “What’s happened?”

  “Someone’s been in the house.” Her throat closed up and for long seconds she had difficulty speaking at all. “My computer’s gone.”

  “I’m on my way.” The phone clicked, disconnecting the call.

  She dialed Muir’s cell. The conversation was equally brief; Muir would be there in five. Hanging up, she walked out to the SUV, stowed her jacket and the holstered gun, then walked back to the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. She was neither thirsty nor hungry, but she needed the physical activity. Over the passage of years, she’d studied and walked into countless crime scenes, some of them disturbing enough to give her nightmares. By comparison, the theft of her computer was innocuous, but it didn’t feel that way.

  Her hands shook as she plugged the kettle in. The distress was irrational, but they had taken the box.

  Whoever had stolen the computer must have watched her from Letty’s house and had seen her store disks in the box. Maybe they hadn’t wanted the information. Maybe they had just taken the box because it was attractive, or they had decided it might have contained programs they could sell. But the fact that the information she’d hidden had been targeted had shaken her.

  She heard Fischer’s truck pull up at the curb. Setting the mugs down on the counter, she walked through to unlock the front door.

  Fischer’s expression was calm. “Have you touched anything?”

  “Not in the sunroom. As soon as I saw the computer was gone, I backed out of the room.”

  “Have you rung Muir?”

  “He’s on his way.”

  Fischer stepped into the hall. “You’ve checked the house?”

  “It’s clear.”

  “I’ll take a look anyway.”

  Walking through to the kitchen, Taylor ignored the boiled water, found the coffee in the pantry and spooned it into the filter. They were going to need coffee, and a lot of it. Once Muir and his evidence techs arrived, the investigative process would take at least one, maybe two hours. She would be lucky to get out of town before nightfall.

  Seventeen

  It was dark by the time Muir and his people wrapped up the investigation. The interviews had been brief, because Taylor didn’t have anything more to tell them than that her computer and a box of disks had been stolen. The fact that her television and DVD player hadn’t been taken had been noted and seemed to support the theory that Taylor had arrived back home and disturbed the thief. When he had realized she was back, he had cut and run.

  The theory was plausible and chilling, because the thief could have been in the house while she was taking a shower. The only problem with Muir’s scenario was that neither Fischer nor Taylor could recall seeing a vehicle parked close to her place. There had been odd cars dotted through the neighborhood as they’d driven in, but nothing of any size, and definitely no vans or trucks.

  Muir hadn’t been put off. At this point they were assuming the robbery had been perpetrated by the same guy who had robbed Letty’s house and killed her. He had spent time in Letty’s house, scoping out Taylor’s place, therefore he must have had a vehicle parked somewhere. It was even possible he was a resident in this part of town and locals were used to seeing his vehicle.

  The evidence techs left first, followed a few minutes later by Muir. After collecting the coffee mugs, Taylor rinsed them in the sink, then stacked them in the dishwasher. As she loaded the carafe she noticed one of Buster’s dishes in the rack and comprehension hit. She hadn’t seen Buster since she had gotten home. She had been so absorbed with the events at the shooting range, then the break-in, that she had completely forgotten about him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Buster.” When Steve frowned, she added, “Letty’s cat.” Although, he was her cat now and already she had lost him.

  “I’ve got a flashlight in the truck. I’ll take a look out back.”

  Grabbing her own flashlight from the pantry, Taylor walked down the back passage, stepped out the door and began calling. To her left, thick trees pressed in on the narrow, grassed space. To her right, Letty’s house was bone white and elegant in the moonlight. The thought that Buster, who had probably been scared by the thief, was hiding somewhere on Letty’s property sent a shiver down her spine, although she didn’t think that was likely. She didn’t know much about animals, but she was willing to bet Buster wouldn’t go near the house, which to his acute senses must still be laden with the scent of death.

  She crouched low, sending the flashlight beam skimming at ground level, picking out the woody stems of the hydrangeas and rhododendrons against the boundary fence. Eyes gleamed. Something small and fast flitted sideways and streaked up the side of a tree trunk. Another squirrel.

  Following the squirrel with the beam of the flashlight, she searched the branches of a spreading oak. She’d assumed, because Buster was sturdily built, he preferred to stay at ground level, but if he were frightened enough, he would climb.

  The beam of Fischer’s flashlight swept the side of the yard that bordered Letty’s place. They double-checked the backyard, then either side of the house. While Taylor walked along the street, calling, Fischer did another circuit of the house then checked Letty’s backyard. When Taylor came up blank, she searched the house, checking under beds and in closets. Buster was gone, far enough that he hadn’t responded to repeated calling. She was packed and ready to go, and she had done all she could to make sure Letty’s killer was caught, but she couldn’t leave Cold Peak without making sure Buster was safe.

  Taylor was setting a dish of tuna and a bowl of water on the deck when Fischer materialized out of the darkness. As she straightened, he pulled her into his arms, the hold loose and meant for comfort, and she learned something more about Fischer. He was definitely comfortable with women.

  She tilted her head back and stared into his eyes. “You’ve been married.”

  “Briefly. A long time ago.”

  “What happened?”

  He released her and stepped back, and she drew in some much-needed air.

  “The job.”

  It was the answer she had expected. Beneath the surface cool, Fischer had a ruthless streak. She was willing to bet that when it had come to his marriage he hadn’t given an inch.

  He propped himself against the deck railing and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re staying at my place tonight. Or I sleep here.”

  From the point of view of security, Fischer’s offer made sense, but for a brief moment she felt herded. “All right. Let’s make it your house. I’ll take my car and meet you there.” That way Fischer wouldn’t find out that she was already packed and ready to leave. In the morning all she would have to do was find Buster, and drive.

  The weather had closed in again by the time Taylor pulled out of her driveway. Instead of turning left and heading for Fischer’s house, she took a right and drove into town. Minutes later, after threading through the complex weave of inner suburbs, and keeping an eye on her rear-vision mirror, she doubled back and parked beside Fischer’s truck.

  If anyone had been tailing her, the steadily drumming rain and reduced visibility should have forced them in close enough that she would have spotted them.

  The rain thickened as she sat in the driver’s seat, watching the road to see if anyone cruised past. When the street remained empty, she collect
ed her overnight bag, locked the SUV and walked inside.

  Fischer’s house was neat, but spartan: stained wood floors, basic furniture, a television and a stereo. The only luxury was the bed in the master bedroom, which was king-size. In terms of stamping his personality on his home, Fischer had succeeded in creating a blank page.

  Fischer indicated that she should take the bed.

  “You don’t have to give up your bed.” She dropped her bag beside the couch to underline her point.

  Feeling edgy after the drive around town, her nerves strung tight by the fact that she was forced to spend another night in Cold Peak, she followed Fischer into the kitchen. He had already started to assemble dinner: two steaks ready for the grill, fresh bread rolls he must have bought earlier in the day and a salad. With a kitchen towel slung over one shoulder, he was an odd juxtaposition of domestic and dangerous.

  He opened the fridge door. “Beer or soda? Sorry, I don’t have wine.”

  She blinked, abruptly disoriented. A drink before dinner. It was a civilized ritual, something taken for granted in any number of households, and it hammered home how far she’d stepped away from normality. “Soda. Thanks.”

  He took a frosted can from the fridge, ripped the tab and poured sparkling lemonade into a glass. While she sipped, she listened to the rain and watched Fischer cook and periodically take a pull from a beer. The label was Jax. The only touch of the South she’d seen so far in his house.

  He slid steaks onto warmed plates then rinsed the pan, his movements economical and ordered as if nothing dangerous or unusual had happened that day, and suddenly the reason Fischer had gotten beneath her skin hit her.

  He made her feel safe. Not sexually or emotionally, but in every other way that mattered.

  In the middle of the chaos that was her life, he was as solid and dependable as the proverbial rock. Nothing appeared to shake him. As hard as she’d fought against trusting anyone, on a primitive, instinctive level she trusted Fischer, and with good reason, because every time she’d called on him, he had come through.