Beckman watched him carefully, probably trying to figure out if there was a theory buried in that statement somewhere. There wasn’t. Not yet. But one of the things Scott had always loved about ballistics work was that it was based on the simple laws of science.
“What goes up must come down,” Scott said now.
Beckman nodded. They were on the same page. They were on the same page about Maddie, too. Not that Scott was fucking her. He’d never had the privilege. But he cared about what happened to her, and the prospect of her getting ambushed on the job was unacceptable. Scott wouldn’t stand for it.
And he could see Beckman wouldn’t, either, which was a big point in the man’s favor. Added to his military service, it made Scott inclined to trust him.
They trekked up the roadway now, scanning the shoulder off to the right.
“Shooter was on the ridge,” Beckman said. “At least, according to the report. You been up there?”
“No brass, no beer cans, no cigarette butts.”
“That would be too easy.”
Scott paused at a curve in the road. He studied the stand of oak trees, then turned back to look at the rocky outcropping.
“You got a laser kit?” Beckman asked.
“I’ll bring it out tonight, if it comes to that. Anyway, because of the rain, it might not be accurate. I was hoping I might find something hiding in plain sight.”
Beckman crossed the ditch with a long stride. He grabbed a tree limb and pulled himself to the top of the embankment, getting an impressive amount of mud on his shoes. Scott followed.
“Maddie reported three shots,” Beckman said, reiterating what was in the paperwork. “One sounded like it hit metal, she said. Since her car is clean, we can assume it hit the white hatchback, near where she was standing.”
“Makes sense,” Scott agreed. “She said the tow truck was a good twenty yards up.”
“So we can probably forget recovering that one. It’s probably in a junkyard somewhere, along with the car. That leaves two rounds.”
“One of the Clarke County deputies says he spent an hour out here with a metal detector right where Maddie says she was shot.”
“Never met the man. You trust him?”
Scott shrugged. “He’s pretty green.”
“You have a metal detector?”
“In the truck. I wanted to eyeball it first.” He did a slow turn, noting everything in the two-hundred-seventy-degree arc that he figured for the target area. Maddie had said it was the first shot that hit her, so he figured that was the most carefully aimed. The other rounds might have gone wild if the shooter panicked.
But Scott wasn’t counting on a panicked gunman. The attack had been carefully planned and orchestrated. It involved at least two people—a shooter and a driver—and three separate vehicles. And if Craig Rodgers was to be believed, it also involved the theft of a deputy’s cell phone.
Scott skimmed his gaze over the dirt, the leaves, the tree trunks. He looked at a tangle of mesquite and studied a nearby oak.
A yellow chip in the brown bark caught his eye.
“Look,” Beckman said, noticing the same thing. He walked over and crouched at the base of the tree as Scott reached into one of his zipper pockets.
“You have a knife?”
“Nope.” Scott pulled out a mini flashlight and aimed it at the wound in the tree. Embedded deep in the wood was a shiny bit of metal. “I’ve got a handsaw in the car. Better to remove the whole chunk, then dig it out at the lab. Metal tools could screw up the lands and grooves.” He paused. “I bet that’s a three-oh-eight. In wood like that, we might even get some rifling marks.”
“You’re thinking deer rifle.”
“Maybe a Remington 700. That’s what I’d use, anyway.” He looked at Beckman. “We’ve got a bullet. Now we just need to find the gun.”
Brian swapped with Sam to have the late shift at Maddie’s. He spent a few minutes getting an update from the agents parked in front of her house before knocking on her door. The peephole went dark, and he heard a few faint beeps as she deactivated her security system and pulled open the door.
She was in the jeans and black sweater she’d worn to work earlier, but her hair was pulled back now, and she’d stuck a pencil in it to hold it in place.
“What happened to your sling?”
“It was in my way.” She stepped back to let him in. “I don’t have a broken bone, so I don’t really need it.”
He glanced at her bandage and felt a fresh surge of frustration. Maybe she sensed his mood, because she turned without comment and walked into the kitchen. He followed her, glancing at his shoes to make sure he wasn’t tracking mud on the floor. He’d changed into ATAC boots and tactical pants earlier so he could hit the firing range.
“You hungry?” she asked over her shoulder. “Sam brought sandwiches. Meatball subs, I think.”
“I could use some food.” Brian peered into the white paper sack sitting on the counter, and the scent of Italian seasonings wafted up to him. Still hot. He pulled out a foil-wrapped sandwich.
“We need to change out that peephole,” he told her.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It goes dark when you stand behind it. They make ones that don’t.”
He glanced up, and she looked annoyed.
“How’s the arm today?”
“Fine,” she obviously lied. “Did you talk to Agent Hicks? He just left here about three minutes ago.”
Something in her tone caught his attention. “We connected on the phone. What’s wrong with Hicks?”
“Nothing. He tried to ma’am me to death, though.” She opened the fridge and pulled out a jug of cranberry juice.
“Beer?” she asked.
“No, thanks.”
He took a plate down from the cabinet. He set his sandwich on it, then got out a glass and filled it with water as she watched him.
Yes, he’d learned his way around her kitchen. He’d learned his way around a lot of things this week, and he could tell it made her uneasy.
He’d discovered that she wasn’t much of a housekeeper, but she kept her photo equipment meticulously arranged on a wall of shelves in her guest bedroom. The room also was home to a collection of gourmet cookbooks that didn’t seem to be getting much use. And Brian had noticed the rocking chair in the corner with the tattered Peter Rabbit sitting on the cushion.
She poured cranberry juice and added a splash of Grey Goose from the bottle she kept in her liquor cabinet. It wasn’t fully stocked, just vodka and a bottle of expensive scotch about two-thirds full. Maddie’s ex struck him as a scotch man, and Brian wondered if he was in the habit of dropping by.
“You can sit in the living room,” Maddie said. “My table’s a mess.”
“What’re you working on?”
“Framing.”
She returned to the dining area, where she checked the screen of the laptop that was open at the far end. The center of the table was blanketed with sheets of cardboard in various shades of beige. On the far end of the table was a large paper cutter and a metal T-square.
“It’s a service I offer my clients,” she explained. “Frame shops charge a fortune. I can undercut them and still make a profit.”
Brian set his plate down on one of the chairs that had been shoved back against the wall. He stood in the doorway and chomped into his sandwich.
She glanced at the computer again before pulling a sheet of cardboard from the stack. Taupe was the color, same as the walls in his apartment.
“It’s a time-consuming process.”
He eyed the ruler and the curls of cardboard littering the table. “Looks tedious.”
“It is. But it’s a good way to channel nervous energy. Mind if I keep going?”
“Nope.”
He ate his sandwich and watched her get to work. She tugged the sleeves of her sweater up, and he noticed the bandage again. He didn’t buy for a minute that the injury wasn’t hurting her.
“The matting part is the trickiest.” She leaned over the table and made a mark with her pencil. “It’s really all about measuring.”
“Measure twice, cut once.”
She gave him a startled look.
“Something my grandmother used to say. She liked to sew.” He popped the last bite of meatball into his mouth.
Maddie nestled the cardboard against the paper cutter, then slid the blade down. She turned the cardboard ninety degrees and made another cut. And another. And another. Then she removed the center rectangle and stepped back to survey her work. She laid the mat aside and pulled out a fresh sheet of cardboard.
“Want some help?” he asked.
She lined up the blade. “Your hands are big.”
“So?”
“This requires precision.”
“I can be precise.”
She glanced up at him, and her cheeks went pink. Yes, he was thinking about sex. No surprise there.
“Fine.” She stepped back. “Give it a try.”
He dusted his hands on his pants and then stepped up to the paper cutter and aligned the cardboard so that the edge was flush against the side. When he slid the blade down, it bit into the cardboard at an angle, making a sloped edge.
She leaned in to study his effort. “Not bad.”
She lifted her gaze, and he felt a pang of lust. She had that effect on him. It was the way she smelled, the way she talked. It was the way her sweater draped over her breasts.
It was the way she looked at him, as if she knew that right now, he was picturing her standing in his kitchen wearing only his wrinkled shirt.
He could see what she was thinking, too: Not happening. The expression on her face was crystal-clear. She expected him to put the moves on her, and she was braced to resist.
Brian suddenly felt determined. He wanted to prove something to her. He wanted her to take him seriously. He wanted that even more than another night of them burning up the sheets together, a night that would no doubt be followed by a morning in which she’d slap him with her regrets.
As he looked down into her dark brown eyes, he realized something else. He wanted a relationship with this woman. A real relationship, and he didn’t give a damn about any of the crap she seemed to think was an obstacle.
He didn’t believe in obstacles. Obstacles could be overcome. He planned to convince her of that fact. He also planned to convince her that he was capable of more than just a hot bout of sex after a few too many drinks.
Maddie cleared her throat, breaking the silence. “You smell like CLP oil.”
“How do you know about CLP oil?”
“My dad.” She stepped away from him. “He used to use it to clean his guns.”
He watched her as she busied herself cutting another mat. “I was at the range this afternoon.”
She looked up, and he nodded at the pistol sitting on the shelf beside her photography books.
“When was the last time you had some target practice?” he asked.
“It’s been a while.” Not meeting his gaze, she selected a print and positioned it carefully on one of the mats she’d cut. “You know, I’ve been thinking about this witness-protection thing.”
“What about it?”
“It seems pointless. I mean, why spend federal resources to protect a witness who didn’t really witness anything?”
“We’ve established that they think you witnessed something. That’s why they tried to kill you.”
“Maybe so, but the point is, I didn’t witness anything. I can’t testify at trial, so why would the government spend money to protect me?”
Brian gritted his teeth. It was the exact point Cabrera had made at a task-force meeting that morning. The prosecutor in charge of the case had made it, too. Maddie Callahan was a problem, yes, but not one the U.S. Marshals wanted any part of.
Which meant she was Brian’s problem. He and Sam had managed to convince everyone that they needed to keep a team guarding her, but that was an imperfect setup. Not to mention temporary.
“We’re working on a solution,” he said.
Maddie taped another photo, and he noticed the tension in her face. She was feeling the stress of this. It was weighing on her. It was weighing on him, too, and spending a second consecutive night not getting any sleep on her sofa wasn’t likely to change things.
“Well, could you work faster, maybe? I don’t know how much longer I can do this. My department’s shorthanded. I’ve been pulled off the call-out rotation. I’m running out of desk work, and my colleagues have been nice so far, but it won’t be long before they get sick of covering for me.”
“What’s the e-mail you’re waiting on?”
“What?”
“You’re waiting on an e-mail. What is it?”
She slid a look at her computer. “Ben. He said he’d get me something by tonight.”
“That new software program?”
“How’d you know about it?”
“Talked to him about it the other day. He thinks he might be able to bring those faces into focus, from the bank stakeout. We might ID our mystery accomplice.”
“Which might be the break you guys need to get a warrant for Mladovic,” she said. “Or possibly a lead on Jolene.”
Brian checked his watch. It was after eleven, and he was having a hard time picturing the Billabong kid spending his Friday in front of the computer. He was probably home by now. Or out with friends.
Or maybe, just maybe, he was about to send Maddie an e-mail that would be the break they’d all been waiting for. And maybe whatever it was would put an end to this suckfest of a week and give Brian a chance to make the arrest that had gone from being a goal to being a full-fledged obsession.
Brian glanced at Maddie’s computer, where absolutely nothing was happening. If he wanted a break in this case, he was going to have to find it himself.
CHAPTER 19
Scott awoke to a persistent tapping sound. He chalked it up to the woodpecker outside his window, but as the haze of sleep lifted, he realized it wasn’t outside his window but at his front door.
He swung his legs out of bed and glanced at the clock: 7:05. He’d meant to run this morning. But realistically, that plan was nixed last night, when he’d given some guy at the pool hall a chance to win his money back—which he hadn’t.
Scott pulled on some jeans and crossed his house.
Tap-tap-tap.
It was a woman’s knock, which meant either his sister had a bee in her bonnet or an ex-girlfriend had come by to see him.
Scott checked the peephole. Wrong on both counts. He pulled opened the door.
“I was about to give up on you.” Rae Loveland tipped her head to the side and crossed her arms. “I figured you were an early riser.”
“Why’s that?” He raked a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know. The Navy background? Aren’t sailors trained to get up early so they can scrub the decks and all that?”
“SEALs work weird hours.”
He regretted saying it the second it was out. He knew plenty of guys who used their SEAL status—or in his case, former SEAL status—to impress women, but Scott didn’t need to. He hadn’t used the ploy in years.
So why the hell was he using it now, at freaking 0700 in front of Rae Loveland?
“Would you like to have breakfast?”
Scott stared at her. Now that the shock was wearing off, he noticed her outfit. Instead of her typical business suit, she wore snug-fitting jeans, a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and loafers. Loafers.
He glanced down at his own feet. They were bare. So was his chest. And he noticed she was making a big effort not to look below his neck, as if she were completely immune to his half-naked body.
But he knew better.
And this conversation was a little surreal.
“Breakfast,” he stated.
“You know—eggs, bacon, orange juice?” She glanced at her watch. “It’s got to be quick, thou
gh. I need to leave at eight.”
“Gimme a sec.”
Five minutes later, he was folded into the passenger seat of her Honda Civic as she pulled into the parking lot of the Pancake Pantry. Scott had never been to the restaurant when it wasn’t jammed with people, but it looked as if they’d beaten the Saturday-morning hangover crowd.
An annoyingly chipper hostess showed them to a booth near the back and handed them sticky menus.
Scott sat down and flagged a passing server. “Two coffees. Black.”
“And we’re ready to order, if you don’t mind,” Rae said. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
They placed their orders, and the waitress rushed off. Scott leaned back against the seat and scanned the crowd.
“How’d you know how I take my coffee?” Rae asked.
“You strike me as the no-nonsense coffee type.”
“Hmm. Good guess.”
The word guess seemed loaded with meaning, and it took him a moment to get it. They’d never had breakfast together.
Christ, please tell him she wasn’t going to go there this morning. She was about six years overdue for an apology, but he wasn’t up for it right now.
“You’re probably wondering why I asked you here.” She leaned forward on her elbows, and he caught a glimpse down her shirt. White lace, just a hint of it. Scott wasn’t feeling sleepy anymore. And the apology was suddenly seeming very doable.
She watched him expectantly, and he dragged his attention back to what she’d said. “I figure you like the pancakes?”
“I do.” She smiled. “But there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. I went to Sherwood Oaks to visit a client last night.”
“Not alone, I hope.”
“If you’re referring to my safety, don’t worry. I was armed.”
Scott gritted his teeth. Armed. Yeah, right. He happened to know that Rae Loveland had a concealed-carry permit. He also happened to know that she’d gotten it less than a year ago, which meant she was probably a lousy shot.
“Next time, take someone. You shouldn’t be going out there by yourself. And I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
“Anyway,” she said, clearly annoyed. “I was meeting with a client in an apartment there. It’s a single-family dwelling, but a lot of different people seemed to be using it as a crash pad.”
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