by Karen Rose
Because Mallory was crying.
“I think she just needed to see that you’re okay,” Kate said softly. “I’ll take her back to Mariposa House later.”
“I am okay. But, Mallory, honey, you’re going to crack my ribs if you don’t let me go.”
Sniffling, Mallory immediately let go. “Why is someone trying to kill you? You?” she added, as if the notion was incomprehensible to her. Which was sweet, actually.
“I don’t know. But Detective Kimble and the team will find out.”
Isenberg cleared her throat meaningfully. “Dr. Fallon, the Vosses are waiting.”
“I know. I have my supplies now.” Meredith gave Mallory’s cheek a light caress. “Have a seat and wait for me. You remember my grandfather from yesterday?”
Clarke gave her his most cheerful smile. “Come on, Mallory. Let’s get some coffee and cake from the cafeteria. You gonna join us, Kate?”
“I can always eat cake. But first I want to check in on Shane and the Davises. We’ve found them a place where they can all stay together. Agent Triplett will be escorting them.”
Trip nodded. “And I’ve got a lot of backup this time, just in case.”
“That’s good to hear,” Meredith said fervently.
Kate petted the dog’s head. “Cap, with me. You, too, Clarke, if you want to come along and say good-bye to Kyle and Shane.”
Meredith watched them go, then turned to Isenberg. “Can you have an officer escort Corinne home?”
“Absolutely. I’ll take care of it after we get this interview rolling. Here are the pictures we’d like you to show the child.” Isenberg gave her three photos, then took one of the boxes of art supplies and started walking.
Meredith flipped through the pictures. There was one of a large man with dead eyes. Probably the Neanderthal who was looking for Shane, she thought. One was the grainy surveillance photo of Linnie. And the third was a laughing young woman from her Facebook page. Her name was cut away.
Meredith looked up to see Isenberg was already halfway down the hall to the interview rooms. Grabbing the other box, she rushed to catch up.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, December 20, 6:10 p.m.
Adam was waiting for CSU to begin processing Bruiser’s murder scene when his cell chimed with a generic ringtone. But this call he’d take because the caller ID showed him it was from Chicago PD. Adam had been trying to reach Detective Reagan or Mitchell since he’d finished updating Isenberg. “This is Kimble.”
“Abe Reagan here. I have Detective Mitchell with me on speaker. Our CSU guy was able to get blood prints off Tiffany Curtis’s clothing. Her killer left them when he grabbed her pajama top to . . . well, when he gutted her. We sent you a copy of the prints.”
The image of Tiffany’s body flashed into Adam’s mind, making him glad he hadn’t eaten recently. “Anything pop on AFIS?”
“Not a thing,” Mitchell said with disgust. “But there’s no way this was his first kill.”
Adam sighed, frustrated. An ID would have been too easy. “Your suspect is dead.”
A beat of silence. “Well, can’t say I’m sad to hear that,” Mitchell said dryly.
“Are you sure?” Reagan asked.
“I’m looking down at his body right now. He was shot by a sniper. May be the same one who tried to take out a van in which Shane Baird, his friend Kyle, and the original target—our child psychologist—were being transported this afternoon.”
“So he was taken out by one of his own?” Mitchell asked. “This is a cold crew.”
“Looks that way. One of the Feds on loan to our task force was hit, but he’ll be okay. A few hours later, Bruiser here was trying to snatch the only witness who can describe the shooter. She shot him, then the sniper took him out. Thought you’d want to know.”
“Do you have a name for him other than Bruiser?” Mitchell asked tartly.
“Not yet. We’ll pass it on to you when we do. In the meantime, we’ll send you photos once CSU’s taken them.” He spotted Quincy Taylor making his way from the CSU van. “Which should be soon. Our CSU guy just arrived. I need to go.”
He ended the call as Quincy set his forensic kit next to Bruiser’s body. “Trouble just finds you, Adam.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Scarlett drawled.
Adam started to roll his eyes, but there was something in Quincy’s tone that had him frowning. “What do you mean by that?”
“I just finished processing the van. The only part of the van that appears to have been purposely targeted by gunfire was the front passenger door and window.” Quincy narrowed his eyes. “This doesn’t surprise you.”
Adam shook his head. “Not really, no.”
Scarlett froze. “You didn’t tell us that, Adam.”
“I didn’t get a chance. Dani came in with Linnie’s location before I got to that point.”
“Bullshit. You were leading the damn meeting. You could have covered that first.”
“You were waiting to see what I found out, weren’t you?” Quincy asked.
“Yeah,” Adam admitted. “I mean, I thought the same thing. That the only one who should have died in that attack was me, but that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Not yet,” Quincy said. “Let me get to work here. I need to find the bullet. I’m betting it’ll match Andy’s and the van’s.”
“Shit,” Scarlett muttered. “Why would you be the target, Adam?”
“I don’t know. I mean, Troy was the one who got hit.”
“He says that’s because you leaned back to tell the people in the back to get down,” Quincy said.
Adam pinched the bridge of his nose. “How is Troy?”
“He was admitted to the hospital,” Quincy said curtly. He sounded almost angry.
Adam stared. “What? He said it was a flesh wound.”
“And you believed him?” Quincy snapped.
“Well, yes,” Adam said. “I didn’t see any other wounds.”
Quincy pinned him with a glare. “Did he let you look?”
Adam tried to remember. “No. I don’t think he did. I took him at his word. Why was he admitted? He should have needed just a few stitches in the ER.”
“He took two bullets. One in the arm and one in the side. He’ll be okay, but it was much worse than he let on.” Quincy huffed out a breath. “Sorry. Not your fault. You should be able to take the word of a federal agent as truth.”
“Why did he lie?”
Quincy rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t like ambulances.”
“Holy fuck,” Adam grumbled. “He could have just said so.”
Quincy gave him an oddly knowing look. “Would you have admitted a weakness?” Adam remembered Quincy watching him as he’d turned from Buon Cibo’s bar yesterday. He knows. Or at least suspects. But he couldn’t worry about that now. “No.”
“Didn’t think so. Troy only told me because I found the bullet embedded in the driver’s seat. I matched its trajectory to the first bullet hole put in the windshield.”
“Which was on my side of the car,” Adam said quietly.
Quincy nodded. “The shooter was aiming for you. It didn’t hit you because Troy swerved.”
“Because I warned him,” Adam said grimly.
“Which was a good thing,” Quincy insisted. “Troy swerved and the bullet hit the windshield at an angle instead of front-on. It was the difference between a moderate wound for Troy and a fatal one for you. Troy seems to think it was worth it.”
Adam shook his head. “When he’s recovered, I’m gonna kick his ass. Idiot.”
“We’re agreed on that. I would have wasted valuable time testing the blood for DNA only to find it belonged to him.” Quincy paused then. “There is another odd thing.”
Adam rubbed his stiff neck. “Of course there is. Pleas
e go on.”
“You’ve had a rough day, too,” Quincy said, “so sorry to dump this on you, but I think the shooter purposely altered his aim to hit the top of the van. You were right about where he was, by the way. I found where he waited. No cigarette butts or anything actually helpful, but he cleared an area of snow. It looks like he used a tripod for the rifle. He started firing straight and low, and as you passed by his location, Troy sped up. The bullets that hit the side should have hit low.”
“They all hit high,” Adam said. “I wondered about that, too. It was like he wasn’t trying to hit anyone in the back.”
Quincy nodded. “That’s my take.”
“So he—whoever he is—tries to kill Meredith at Buon Cibo, but when he gets the chance today, intentionally misses. Shane was with her today. That’s the difference.”
Scarlett pointed to the body. “And we think Bruiser tried to find Shane in Chicago, because he wanted Linnie. Shane can’t tell him where Linnie is if Shane is dead.”
Adam grunted his agreement. “And then Linnie shoots him. Ironic.”
“Bruiser?” Quincy shrugged. “Good a name as any, I guess. Why would his cohorts kill him?”
“My best guess is because his photo’s all over the Internet,” Adam said. “Chicago PD sent it out as a person of interest. Whoever killed Bruiser is snipping off loose ends.”
“But how are you a loose end?” Scarlett pressed. “I mean, I can see if they tried to take out Troy, because the van would stop and they could get Shane. Why shoot at you?”
“If they’d taken out Troy, Adam still would have been armed and dangerous,” Quincy said, his voice very quiet. “Maybe they figured that Troy would stop if Adam was shot.”
“Troy would have been armed and dangerous,” Scarlett argued.
“Troy’s not a sharpshooter,” Quincy replied, then quirked a lip at Adam’s surprise. “I make it a point to know who I’m working with. Their skills and their weaknesses. Adam could have taken out the sniper before he got close enough to take Shane.”
“And if they’d shot Troy, we might have crashed,” Adam added. “And then no Shane.”
“How did they know you were coming?” Scarlett demanded. “This was planned.”
Adam shrugged. “The Davises were here. Whoever planned this must not have known where we took Shane, but knew we’d be bringing him to the station.”
Scarlett didn’t look convinced. “But you could have gone different ways.”
“They might have more than one gunman, Scar,” Adam said. “They may have had snipers posted on multiple roofs.”
Quincy sighed. “And who knows? Maybe the shooter was trying for Troy and is just a bad shot.”
“But you don’t think so,” Adam said.
Quincy shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
Chapter Twenty
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, December 20, 6:10 p.m.
Candace Voss and Penny looked up from the movie they’d been watching on Candace’s phone when Meredith and Isenberg walked in with the boxes of art supplies.
Penny ignored Isenberg, studying Meredith with wide eyes. “You got shot at.”
Meredith stifled her surprise. “You heard about that?”
“I heard my mama and Aunt Dianne talking about it. What’s in the boxes?”
Unsurprised by the little girl’s quick change of topic or curiosity, Meredith replied, “Crayons, coloring books, and . . .” She opened one of the boxes. “Play-Doh! It’s the twenty-pack. And the Fun Factory. What do you want to play with? Crayons or Play-Doh?”
Penny regarded her owlishly. “Why?”
Meredith sat down at the table. “Fair question. Why what, specifically?”
“Why am I here? Mama won’t tell me anything. Like I’m a baby.”
“You’re six,” Candace said.
“And a half,” Penny insisted. “Well?”
Meredith set the cans of Play-Doh on the table. “First things first. What color?”
“Red.” Penny took the blob of dough from the can and gave it a good, long sniff.
“I used to do that when I was a kid,” Meredith told her. “But it doesn’t taste good.”
“I know,” Penny said. “But it says nontoxic. That means it won’t kill you.”
“You’re right.” Meredith picked the cream-colored dough. “So, to answer your question, we’re here to talk about that night when your father had a party.”
Penny pinched off a hunk and started to roll it into a snake. “I don’t wanna talk about that,” she said sullenly. “You can’t make me. The other ladies tried.”
“You’re right. I can’t make you. I think I saw a rolling pin and cookie cutters in here.” Meredith emptied the contents of the box onto the table with a clatter. “Aha! I was right!”
“You’re trying to trick me into talking to you,” Penny grumbled.
“You’re too smart for me to do that,” Meredith said, rolling out her dough.
“Yep,” Penny said with a hard nod.
That Penny was too smart was the reason it had taken this long to get her to open up. And having two therapists already didn’t help. Penny was wise to Meredith’s moves.
“These things must be done delicately,” Meredith murmured as she cut shapes, assembling them into a face as she surreptitiously watched Penny, who was poking her finger into the dough, a frown bending her lips.
“The witch said that. In that movie.” Penny’s brow scrunched. “The Lizard of Oz.”
“Wizard, Penny,” Candace said quietly from the other end of the table. “Wizard.”
Penny shrugged. “I like Lizard better.”
Meredith’s mouth quirked up. “So do I. Can I borrow some red?”
“Why?” Penny asked.
“I want to make her hair.”
Grudgingly Penny gave her some red dough. “Your hair is red.”
“It is indeed.”
“I like red hair,” Penny said, then went back to poking holes in her dough.
“I’m glad. There were times that I didn’t like it and tried to dye it. Didn’t end well.”
Penny looked up. “What color?”
“What color did I dye it? Purple once. Pink once. That worked better.” She put the red dough through the Fun Factory and used the spaghetti shapes for hair. “How’s that?”
Penny gave her an intense look. “Not bad. She needs eyes.”
“True.” Meredith added green circles for eyes. “I think she should also have jewelry.” Meredith added white dots to the dough girl’s ears. “Pearls.”
“That’s you,” Penny said, no longer poking her lump of dough.
Meredith smiled, pleased. “That’s what I was going for. Should we do you?”
“Yes.”
Meredith rolled dough for two more dough girls, gave half to Penny, then proceeded to quietly make a pink-haired dough girl. Following her lead, Penny made her own face, adding brown hair and black eyes. “No earrings,” she said glumly, glancing at her mother.
“I was eighteen when I got my ears pierced,” Meredith confided.
“See?” her mother said.
“Sucks,” Penny grumbled. “Sorry, Mama. I know you don’t like that word.”
Meredith pulled some pink dough from its can and put it through the Fun Factory, arranging the hair on her second dough girl, giving her long locks. “What do you think?”
Penny’s mouth tightened. “It should be shorter. You’re doing it wrong.”
But you’re talking to me. Meredith gave a subtle shake of the head to Candace Voss when she opened her mouth to reprimand her daughter for rudeness.
“Okay,” Meredith said mildly. “Can you show me?”
Jaw compressed, Penny chopped at the pink noodles with the plastic knife that came with the kit,
making the cuttings into ponytails. Throwing Meredith a glare, she added dark eyes and red dots for earrings. Surveying her work, the child shook her head, removed the red dots, and flattened them. When she reapplied them, they were bigger than the ears.
Gauges. And Meredith had seen those. Recently. From her bag, she drew the Facebook photo that Isenberg had given her. No pink hair. But gauges in the ears. Red ones.
Saying nothing, Meredith watched as Penny, biting at her lip, put a small white dot on the dough-girl’s nose. “Should be silver,” Penny muttered.
And one silver nose stud on the Facebook photo. Check.
Still saying nothing, Meredith sat back and observed. Penny took more of the cream-colored dough and rolled two fat cigar shapes and pressed them at angles to the girl’s chin. Arms. So far so good. Then she rolled some white dough in the shape of a cigarette.
Meredith glanced up at Candace, giving her another subtle shake of the head.
Penny continued to work, focused on whatever she was constructing. She rolled a toothpick shape from the white dough, pressed it to the middle of the arm, and then pressed the cigarette shape to it.
A needle.
Penny glanced up at Meredith defiantly. “She told me not to tell.”
“I understand,” Meredith said calmly, but inside fury was roiling. “What else did she tell you?”
“That I was cute.” Penny looked away. “And did I want some?”
Candace sucked in a breath, covering her mouth with her hand.
Penny looked at her mother with a seriousness no child should ever experience. “I said no, Mama. Then I ran to my room and locked the door.”
“What did the pink-haired lady do?” Meredith asked, fighting like hell to keep her voice level and soothing.
“She laughed. I could hear her when I ran.” Penny’s eyes filled with an abrupt, intense fear. “She knocked on my door. Laughing. I hid under my bed.” She looked down at the table. “I needed to use the potty, but the lady was still out there. So I . . . I had an accident. On the floor.” Her little cheeks reddened with shame. “I cleaned it. I tried.”
Meredith smoothed a hand over Penny’s hair. “It’s all right. You were very brave. Nobody’s angry with you, Penny.”