Hearts in the Crosshairs

by Susan Page Davis

  Jillian paused in the doorway to her office. Her mother sat on the edge of her chair, glaring at Detective Hutchins, who gazed back rather sheepishly.

  She glanced at Stephanie Drake, who stood guard outside the door. Stephanie quirked her eyebrows slightly, but said nothing.

  Jillian leaned toward her and whispered, “What’s going on?”

  “Your mother’s giving Dave Hutchins what for.” Stephanie’s barely suppressed smile quickly disappeared and she straightened her shoulders and looked forward.

  Jillian pulled in a deep breath and walked into her office.

  Dave said to her mother, “I assure you, ma’am, the governor has the best possible—” He noticed Jillian and leaped to his feet, jostling a tray of dishes on the edge of her desk.

  She extended her hand and smiled. “Dave. It’s good to see you again. I appreciate your stopping by to brief me. I hope it’s not keeping you away from a family dinner.”

  His lips curved in a tight smile. “It’s just me, ma’am. No problem.”

  Jillian wished she had the freedom to invite him to join her family dinner, but that wouldn’t go over well in the upper echelon of Maine politics, she was sure.

  The words “It’s just me” echoed in her head. Was he single?

  She caught herself and turned to her mother, trying to get her focus back.

  “Mom, thanks for giving Detective Hutchins my message. I’ll be with you and Naomi in half an hour.”

  “I hope I’m not delaying your dinner,” Dave said.

  “Oh, no.” Vera chuckled as she stood. “They serve it too late here, anyway. Jillian, you should speak to that housekeeper about moving your supper up an hour.”

  Jillian managed to keep a smile on her face. “If you and Naomi would like an appetizer while you wait, feel free to ask the kitchen staff.”

  Vera sniffed and walked toward the doorway, but turned back. “Oh, Officer, you haven’t finished your cake.” She threw a meaningful look at Jillian. “He likes my blueberry cake.”

  “It’s fantastic,” Dave said.

  “By all means, feel free to finish it while we talk,” Jillian told him.

  He glanced at her mother. “Thank you again, Mrs. Clark.”

  “You’re welcome. I expect we’ll see each other again.”

  At last she was out the door, and Jillian closed it gently. “I’m sorry.”

  “Your mother obviously cares about you.”

  “Yes.” Almost too much sometimes, Jillian thought. She slipped past Dave and sat down in the chair her mother had occupied. “I do hope she didn’t pester you too badly.”

  He grinned. “I can take it.”

  Her heart fluttered. Again he reminded her of Brendon—the carefree exterior that covered a more pensive attitude. She had to stop staring into his alert brown eyes. Next she would be sighing over her protector. Wasn’t that a classic reaction from a woman in danger? She’d have to be careful to maintain protocol, despite his charming personality and striking features.

  “Please have a seat, Dave. Would you like fresh coffee?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks. Will your mother be staying here with you?”

  “She prefers her own home in Belgrade. It’s more private, and it’s close enough for her to see me whenever she wants. But I think I’ll ask her to spend a week or so here while I get settled in my routine.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Dave said.

  “Even with the staff, one person alone could rattle around in this big old house.”

  She realized she’d just told Dave she found the Blaine House lonely, and quickly changed the subject. “So, are you any closer to catching the shooter?”

  “We have some leads.” Dave picked up a leather portfolio from beside his chair. As he reviewed it, she studied his profile. Not bad at all. Again she caught herself. She hadn’t considered a romantic relationship since Brendon died, and she refused to think about one now. Even if she did, it couldn’t be with someone from her security unit. She knew how to stick to business, and she would, even in her thoughts. Period.

  He looked up and smiled. “I wish I could tell you we have a viable suspect, but we don’t. Not yet. We have several avenues we’re following, and you can be sure we’re being extravigilant regarding your security.”

  Reaching up to her cheek, she fingered the scrape that was now almost invisible. “Can you be more specific about the leads you have?”

  “Of course. I brought a few pictures for you to look at.”

  “Pictures?” She edged her chair closer to his.

  “These were taken on Wednesday during your press conference. Some are stills from news crews’ video footage. The others were submitted by newspaper photographers and people who took snapshots.”

  He passed the portfolio to her. Jillian looked down at the pictures arranged in plastic sleeves. Most were of her and the dignitaries who had stood near her that day: the previous governor and his wife, the state’s congressional representatives, the senior members of the Maine legislature.

  She flipped the page over. The next few were crowd shots, and she raised the portfolio, studying the sea of faces. “This one shows a group of volunteers who helped with the campaign. And these are my law partners.” She glanced over the last few photos and handed the folder back to him. “So who are you looking at?”

  “Well, the man you defeated, of course.”

  “Peter Harrison.”

  “Yes, and his staff.”

  “They wouldn’t stoop so low.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She shrugged. Politics was a tricky game, even in a small state, and she’d overcome her naiveté long ago. But still.

  “Peter and I are polar opposites on the energy issue, and he’s quite passionate about it, but I don’t think…No, I don’t. Who else?”

  He took a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket and consulted it. “How about Arthur Leeman?”

  “He wasn’t happy when I prosecuted him, but then I suspect he’s never happy. He killed his wife and her sister. He’s still in prison, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You think it was a hired hit.”

  “We can’t rule it out. What about Robert Vincent?”

  She thought back to the high-profile trial that preceded the embezzler’s all-too-short incarceration. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “So far, there’s nothing definite on any of the people you helped convict,” he said. “But we’re also looking at a couple of men you defended in private practice. Defendants who lose their cases sometimes harbor resentment toward the attorneys who represented them.”

  She inhaled slowly, knowing he was right. Two cases came immediately to mind. In both instances, she knew she’d defended a guilty man. “Are you looking at Roderick Tanger?”

  Dave nodded. “I sure am. And does the name Gerald Francis ring a bell?”

  “Yes. Check them both.” She shivered. Most of the time, she’d loved being an attorney, but there were days that still haunted her. “How will I know what you’ve found out?”

  “I’ll report to you at least once a week. More often if you’d like.”

  She looked down at her hands. A week seemed terribly long to go without an update on the search for a man who wanted her dead. She turned her plain gold wedding ring back and forth a few times, then raised her gaze to his.

  “I suppose every day is too often?”

  “Not if that’s what you want.”

  She sighed and tried to reconcile her fear with her love of efficiency. “I probably don’t need it that often, unless you have a breakthrough I should know about.”

  The lines of his mouth were straight and sober, though his eyes still radiated sympathy. “I don’t want to intrude on your schedule, but if you’d like frequent updates, I’m open to that. I can meet with you as often as you want.”

  “Thank you.” She hated the tremor in her voice. If Brendon were here, he’d know exactly what to do, a
nd how often to ask the EPU to brief them. But if Brendon were alive, he would probably be governor, not Jillian. And he certainly wouldn’t feel vulnerable and insecure right now. She straightened her shoulders. “Let’s meet twice a week. Tuesday and Friday.”

  “Sure. Is this time good for you? I could come to your office in the statehouse earlier in the day, if you’d prefer it.”

  Jillian shook her head. “I’d rather meet here, if you don’t mind. It’s more private. Of course…” She looked up at him, suddenly aware that she might be inconveniencing him. “I don’t want to prolong your workday. If it’s easier for you—”

  “Six o’clock will be fine, Governor. Whatever suits you best. And of course, we’ll notify you immediately if something important comes up.”

  She nodded slowly. “Thank you. Dave—” She stopped and looked away. It seemed wrong, all of a sudden, for her to call him by his first name. “I’m sorry. Detective.”

  “Please. Dave. I’m comfortable with that if you are.”

  “All right.” She inhaled in an effort to compose herself. He’d told her twice now, so she would use his given name and not feel guilty. “It’s good to have someone who’s not steeped in politics to discuss this with. Everyone at the statehouse is talking about it. They all have their theories as to who wants me dead.”

  “Who do they suggest?” he asked.

  Her laugh came out higher pitched than normal. “Oh, lobbyists, criminals I prosecuted, someone even suggested a jilted boyfriend from my past. But I don’t have any of those.”

  “Not a one?”

  “Brendon was my first and only love.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Genuine love, I mean.”

  Dave’s gentle smile drew another blush from her.

  “That’s nice,” he said softly. “But there could be an unbalanced man out there who imagines himself in love with you. Have you ever had anyone follow you? Maybe even while you were married, or when you were dating Brendon?”

  She tried to ease the eerie feeling away by smoothing down a wrinkle in her skirt. “A stalker? I don’t think so.”

  “Good. We think it’s more likely someone with a professional grudge—either political or legal.”

  Which could encompass hundreds of people. The field of suspects was wide open. Some people would think it was hopeless, but Jillian didn’t believe that. She’d never believed, as many people did, that the events of life were random. But would Dave understand that? She hesitated to mention it, but he needed to understand her mindset if he hoped to protect her.

  “Dave, there’s one thing you should know about me.”

  “What’s that?” He watched her closely, and she suddenly felt that his interest went deeper than just a professional curiosity. She pushed the thought away.

  “I believe in God. If there is someone out there who wants to kill me, he won’t succeed unless God lets him. And if my assassination is part of God’s plan, then there’s nothing you and the whole of the Maine State Police can do to prevent it.”

  Their gazes locked for a long moment, and at last he broke the silence.

  “I understand.”

  She relaxed, sinking back against the leather padding. “Do you? You don’t think I’m too fatalistic?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Some people do, so I’ve…I’ve stopped trying to explain it to them.”

  His eyes spilled compassion, and she knew she’d found an ally.

  “Can you consider me a partner in solving this case?” she asked. “I want to be more than a spectator, and certainly more than the victim.”

  “Of course.” He stood and extended his hand to her. She took it, enjoying the warmth of his strong grasp.

  “Thank you again for coming. I’ll see you Tuesday evening,” she said.

  “I’ll look forward to it, and I’ll call your office if anything comes up before then.”

  She watched him leave. His dark hair was cropped quite short in the back—shorter than Brendon’s preferred style. It suited him very well. He turned at the door and nodded with a quick smile.

  “Good night,” she said.

  If she were anyone but the governor…But she was the governor.

  FOUR

  A week later, Dave drove back to the office half an hour before his Friday meeting with Jillian. He just had time to shave in the men’s room before heading over to the Blaine House. He wished he had better news for her. The EPU’s lack of progress on the shooting case would soon become an embarrassment.

  He’d effectively ruled out her former law partners and most of her Senate colleagues. The unit’s list of people to check up on still included more than a hundred names, and the possibility remained that the shooter was an unknown who hadn’t even hit their radar yet.

  He hung his down jacket in his locker and took out his electric razor. A minute later, Carl Millbridge, an EPU detective with ten years’ seniority over Dave, came in and trudged to his locker. Carl never saw things eye to eye with Dave, but they usually gave each other a wide berth and went on with their duties effectively ignoring each other.

  “Howdy, Carl,” Dave said over the buzz of his razor.

  Carl glanced at him. “Got a date?”

  “Not exactly.” Dave suddenly felt self-conscious about shaving for his meeting with the governor. “I’m getting together with some buddies from my old Marine unit.” It was actually the truth. Two of the men who had served under Dave in Iraq would meet him at the Chinese buffet in a couple of hours. Let Carl think that was the reason for his careful grooming—though he’d never shave twice in one day for those guys. Dave shut off the razor and blew the whiskers from the blades.

  “You making any headway on the inauguration day shooting?” Carl asked.

  “Some. Not much.”

  Carl nodded. “Same here. Who’d you talk to today?”

  “Lobbyists, mostly.”

  “Lucky you. I got the cons and ex-cons.”

  “Sounds like fun. Have you filed your reports yet?” Dave wondered if he’d have time to scan them before going to the Blaine House.

  “Why do you ask?” Carl sounded annoyed.

  “No reason,” Dave said.

  “It’s late—thought I’d put them in the system tomorrow morning. But I can tell you right now, I didn’t get any breaks.”

  Carl slammed his locker shut and headed for the door. Dave watched him go, wondering if anyone got along with Carl. He stashed his razor in his locker and did a quick mirror check. What was he worried about? Jillian wouldn’t care if he arrived with mussed hair. If he could give her the news she wanted to hear, she wouldn’t care when he’d last shaved, either. He was a little surprised that he’d taken so much trouble with his appearance. But part of him wasn’t surprised at all. Not one bit.

  “So, you’re not going home this weekend?” Naomi asked.

  Jillian looked up from the legal pad where she’d jotted notes about next week’s schedule. “No, I thought I’d stay here.” Though she missed the house she and Brendon had bought together.

  “You’ve worked hard all week. It wouldn’t hurt to have a couple of days at home.”

  Jillian shrugged. “The EPU thinks I’m safer here.”

  “They can’t make you stay so that it’s easier for them.”

  “No, but I don’t like to cause them extra headaches.”

  Naomi made a face Jillian called her “froufrou face.” Usually it meant that Naomi thought she was being too picky.

  “Jillian! These people work for you, not the other way around. Their job entails keeping you safe wherever you go. If you want to spend a weekend at home, it’s their duty to pack up and go with you.”

  Jillian pulled out a smile for her old friend. “I have to disagree with you on part of that. I do work for them. I work for all the people of Maine. If my going home means they have to put in longer hours and spend time away from their families—”

  Naomi threw her hands in the air with a snort. “Listen to y
ou! They’ll put in just as many hours, whether you’re here in Augusta or fifteen miles down the road in Belgrade. And while we’re on the subject, I think you’ve skipped enough social events. You haven’t had any problems in the ten days since inauguration day. Will you be going to the reception at Fort Western next weekend, or is that scrubbed, too?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” Jillian leaned her elbows on her desk and rested her chin on her hands, eyeing her friend uneasily. “I’ll let you know after I talk to the EPU agent.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair that you won the election and now you have to give up your social life.”

  Naomi’s attitude surprised Jillian—she wasn’t usually so opinionated. When Jillian had entered private legal practice, she’d hired her childhood school chum as a secretary, snatching Naomi away from her job as a waitress. Naomi had soon learned to keep the office running smoothly, just the way Jillian liked it. And Naomi willingly stayed with her when she went into the Maine Senate, managing her home office. Jillian felt an obligation to Naomi. They’d gone through a lot together. Naomi might not be the most government-savvy secretary in Augusta, but she did the job and was loyal, supporting Jillian to the hilt. That was worth a lot.

  And now she’d decided to bring Naomi along as personal assistant, to live with her in the Blaine House and handle her social calendar. But Naomi had changed since they’d come to Augusta. In their schooldays, she’d been a mousy girl who never quite edged into the “in crowd.” She’d always seemed grateful and surprised that Jillian offered her friendship. Now she seemed more daring, less inhibited. Jillian wasn’t sure she liked her friend’s transformation. Was it because she’d always taken the lead, and Naomi had followed without question? If so, that certainly didn’t paint a pretty picture of her as Naomi’s friend.

  Naomi smiled. “Sorry. Guess I’m getting antsy. I take about a hundred calls a day from people wanting you to appear at their events.”

  “You’ll have to keep telling them no for the time being, I guess.”

  Movement at the doorway claimed her attention, and she turned to see Detective Browne on the threshold.