by Dani Pettrey
Gunny actually chuckled. Amazing how Finley had that effect. Even on the hardest of men.
He had a reputation of his own and he preferred it that way, but somehow, in some inexplicable way, Finley had seen past all that.
“A word of advice?” Gunny said.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t tick him off. You don’t want to see Vern mad.”
“Great . . .” This ought to be fun. He opened the door, unsure of what to expect as he and Finley made their way to lane three.
Vern Michaels was six-three, two hundred and thirty pounds, with burly tattooed arms and a thick neck.
Griffin sat back and watched him hit the bull’s-eye three hundred yards out with his Mosin.
“That weapon,” he said while Vern dropped the empty mag and pulled the plugs from his ears, “is the precursor to our killer’s Dragunov.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know anything about a killer,” Vern said, turning to face them, “but Griffin is right. Dragunovs are basically new generation Mosins.”
“I didn’t realize we’ve met,” Griffin said at the man’s use of his name.
“We haven’t, but your reputation precedes you.”
Griffin wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing, considering the information they needed.
“Finley Scott,” she said, stepping up onto the shooting platform as Vern lowered the gun into his case.
Griffin waited to see how Vern would react. He hadn’t invited them into his space, and after Gunny’s warning . . . But if anyone could ease a man’s hardened defenses, it was the charming Finley Scott.
Vern’s assessing gaze raked over her as he shook her hand. “Vern Michaels.” He looked past her at Griffin, lifting his chin. “I heard you two were asking questions about a certain gun here yesterday.”
“That’s right.” Word did travel fast.
“We were really hoping to ask you a few questions,” she said.
He shut his gun case. “Why me?”
“Word is you’re the guy in the know,” Griffin said.
“So what is it a U.S. gold medalist in the 600 meter rifle event and a forensic doc want to know about the Dragunov?”
Finley turned to Griffin, surprised.
He shrugged. It wasn’t something he touted.
“We want to know who owns one around here. Who shoots one?”
“Why?”
“A woman was killed,” Finley said.
Vern’s gaze narrowed. “So you are looking for a killer?”
Griffin nodded, intrigued Vern Michaels had done some research of his own, finding out who they were before they showed up. No doubt he’d been tipped off to their arrival just as the killer perhaps had.
“You think he’s local?” Vern asked. It was a question every shooter hated. None wanted to think there was a gun for hire in their backyard.
“He could be. Any names come to mind?”
“How good a shot are we talking?”
“Fifteen hundred meters through more than one barrier.”
Vern whistled. “Well, that certainly narrows down the pool.”
“Bring any names to mind?”
“I know a couple guys who could pull off that distance, but they’re not for hire. The ones who are, they’re a different breed, and they certainly don’t go around advertising it.”
“What about the Dragunov?” Maybe if they focused on the weapon rather than pressing Vern for names.
“Haven’t seen one at this range.”
“What about other ranges in the area, the region?” Finley asked, clearly refusing to leave empty-handed.
Griffin bit back a smile. He admired her persistence.
Vern mulled it over, his lips pinching, his gaze fixed on Finley.
“Please,” she said. “We’re just trying to bring a killer to justice.”
He relented. “I suppose I could ask around. Seems I recall a friend telling me about a cool semi-automatic he saw.”
“This friend have a name?”
“Not one I’m going to share, but I’ll give him a call. See what details he can recall. If I think I’ve learned anything helpful, I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you so much.” Finley handed him her card.
“Any word of a shooter visiting town?” Griffin asked, wanting to be completely thorough, searching every option.
“When are we talking?”
“Last winter. March, most likely.”
“I’ll check.”
Clearly that prospect sat better with him, and Griffin understood. A killer in their backyard was infuriating and unsettling.
Minutes later they were back in the parking lot. “Well, he was a teddy bear.” Finley tugged off her gloves as Griffin started the engine and turned up the heat.
He chuckled.
“What?”
“Pretty positive Vern Michaels has never been referred to as a teddy bear before.”
“Men can be strong and tender too. It’s the combo that’s enticing in the right man.”
He wondered what other qualities she found enticing in the right man.
“You still think it could be someone local or regional?”
Griffin shifted into drive. “If it is, he’s done a good job keeping his profession a secret.”
“Sniper?” she asked, her brows pinching.
He shook his head. “Assassin.”
“So you’re an Olympic gold medalist?”
He exhaled. “Yeah.” For a skill he’d failed at.
Finley entered her office at Towson University. Griffin wouldn’t be pleased she’d left the lab on her own after their visit to the gun range early this morning, but she needed to grab some papers to grade over break along with a book on bone density analysis.
Besides, they were all waiting on Dr. Kent to give them their next step. She prayed the dentals would match Marley Trent so her mysterious disappearance nearly eight months ago could finally be laid to rest and her family brought some amount of closure—even though that closure would bring with it a terrible finality and the realization their daughter had been killed in cold blood, no doubt with a cold shot.
As Griffin had explained to her on the drive back from the range to her lab, a cold shot was the first shot out of a sniper’s rifle. No practice, no warm-up. Just a “cold” shot. The term added an extra sense of brutality, lack of all compassion, just as the term in cold blood did.
She strolled down the nearly empty university corridors. Most students were home with their families for fall break. She pulled her keys out to unlock her office when Dr. Leonard Cooper rounded the corner.
“Finley.” Her colleague and friend, Dr. Cooper, smiled. “I didn’t expect to see you in here over break.”
“I needed to grab a research book along with some papers.”
“Working a new case?”
“Yes, and it’s a doozy.” She stepped into her office and he followed. “I may need to call on your expertise at some point.” He ran the pre-law department and had a vast background in criminal justice, focusing on the sociological and psychological effects of crime on its victims and society. He was a distinguished member of their academic community, a tenured professor on the board, and someone who’d become a close friend since her attack. It was no wonder he’d been so proud of Marley Trent’s accomplishments. She was fighting causes he was personally and professionally passionate about.
“Of course. I’m always happy to help,” he said as she dropped her purse on her desk, quickly wondering if this office had been tapped too. She should mention that possibility to Parker. He could run a sweep.
“This case wouldn’t have anything to do with the body discovered at Gettysburg, would it?” Leonard asked as she retrieved the pile of papers sitting on her desk. “I know your dig is up there. I wondered if you got called in.”
“Yes. You saw it on the news?” She stuffed the papers in her bag and stepped to the bookcase.
“All over it. Not
every day a modern body is found at Gettysburg.”
“How’d you know it was modern?”
“Feds wouldn’t be involved if it wasn’t.” Reporters had quickly mentioned Declan by name as head of the investigation.
“It’s amazing how quickly news spreads.” To the reporters and the killer, or whomever had swapped the dental records. She found the book she was looking for and snagged it off the shelf. “It appears the dental records were compromised before they made it to the lab.”
“What?” Leonard’s face crimped. “Are you certain?”
“The investigators are looking into it as we speak.”
“Who would . . . ?” His face slackened. “Is there a chance the killer is still involved? I hate to think of you in any danger again.”
“Unfortunately,” she said, adding the book to her bag, “that’s exactly what I think. The killer is trying to prevent Jane Doe’s ID.”
“Any chance it was a mix-up? That would make me feel a whole lot better.”
“It’s possible, I suppose, but considering someone tried to steal Jane Doe’s remains and killed one of our lab techs in the process, I’d say something more serious is afoot.”
His dark brown eyes widened. “Killed a lab tech?”
“Leonard, I know this goes without saying, that everything I’ve shared is confidential.” Clearly he knew that.
“Of course, but I do worry about what kind of case you’re dealing with.”
As did she. She couldn’t tell him Marley was a possible match. Not yet. There was no sense upsetting him when Jane Doe might be someone else. Leonard had cherished Marley. Rumor around campus was she’d been his star student, and Finley could see why—they both stood as stalwarts in the battle against injustice.
“Seriously, Finley. Be careful on this one. I don’t want to see it turn out—” He cut himself off, but she knew precisely where he was about to go. He cupped her right hand in his. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, dear.”
“I promise.” At least she wasn’t alone on this one. She had Griffin. Okay, had might be too strong a word, but he’d be there for her until this case was over, and the knowledge brought a measure of peace she hadn’t experienced in over a year. “I have faith the right man is on the job.”
Declan was clearly adept at his job, but something told her it was Griffin who had a distinct and vital role to play—both in the case and, she was quickly coming to believe, in her life.
Finley walked back to the parking garage, her bag loaded down with papers and books. She’d ended up finding several more that might be helpful. So many more, in fact, her arms were piled high. Good thing she thrived on research. Loved it, really.
Her heels clicked along the steps as she made her way to the bottom level, the concrete building sheltering her from the brisk wind. Rounding the final set of steps, she collided with someone—her heart pounding in her throat at the sudden impact.
She looked up to find a poor woman drenched with coffee—all over her tan coat.
Relief and embarrassment replaced her momentary fear. “I’m so sorry. Was lost in my thoughts, I guess.”
“No,” the woman said, brushing off her coat. “I wasn’t paying attention. Hey,” she said, smiling, “you’re Dr. Scott, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m hoping to take your 304 class next semester.”
“Oh. Unfortunately it’s already full, but I’ve got a wait list going. What’s your name?”
“My name?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, sorry, Megan.”
“Well, Megan, if you head over to registration and ask for Teri, she’ll get you on the wait list. Tell her I sent you.”
“Great. Thanks. I’ll head over there now.” She turned in the wrong direction.
“Registration is that way,” Finley said, discomfort mounting.
“Oh, right.” Was the woman feigning embarrassment? “It’s my first semester, and I still get all turned around.” Her gaze flashed past Finley and she swore panic set in the woman’s eyes.
“First semester . . . Are you a freshman? 304 is for upperclassmen only.”
“I’m a transfer student.”
That didn’t sound right. “That’s funny. I don’t remember approving a transfer student named Megan for my program.”
“Oh, I’m not officially in your program. Just interested in the class,” she said, backing away. “Heard it was awesome.”
Now something was really wrong. “I haven’t taught it before.”
“Then I must be thinking of something else.” She hurried her step, moving toward the quad. “Thanks for your time. I really gotta go.” She turned and bolted.
“Hey,” Finley called, but the woman rounded the corner and was gone. Griffin would be livid if she followed the woman—but something was off, and she wanted to know what.
Her phone chimed. Great. Shifting the heavy weight of the books to one arm and shoulder, she managed to fish out her phone and glance at the number.
She picked it up. “Hello, Dr. Kent. I hope you have good news for me?”
“If you’re looking for a match, then I do. Dental records confirm your victim is Marley Trent.”
Griffin sat across the table from Declan at Jimmy’s—their favorite short-order diner in Fell’s Point. Declan had retrieved Marley Trent’s dentals from her childhood-through-college dentist in Ocean City, where her father still lived, dropped them off at the lab, and twisted Griffin’s arm into joining him for lunch while they waited, yet again.
His and Finley’s early morning visit with Vern Michaels at the range had gone well, Vern no less enamored with Finley than all the men had been. It had taken a little finagling and some “Finley charm” to get Vern to open up even a smidge, but in the end, he’d promised to ask around.
Griffin bit into his crabs benedict—a Jimmy’s specialty—the creamy sauce slipping down his lip. He took another bite, then wiped his mouth. He was waiting for Declan to bring up Parker. A lunch between them never went by without Declan’s attempt to fix matters. But sometimes things were frayed beyond fixing.
Declan took a sip of his Coke and lifted his chin. “It’s nice working together again.”
And here we go . . . “I’m just in to make sure Finley’s safe until an ID is made.” After that it made no sense for someone to come after her. “Speaking of ID . . . how long do you expect the tooth doc to take?”
Declan glanced at his watch. “Anytime now. Hoping it’ll confirm Marley Trent as the victim so I can dive into the case. Although . . .”
Griffin arched a brow. “Although . . . ?”
“When her name came up as a possible match, I got a visit from my boss.”
“That was quick, but you did say he wasn’t fond of cold cases.” Griffin ignored how much that irritated him.
“I think there’s more to it. When I mentioned I was running to Marley Trent’s hometown for dentals, he reacted in a way that . . .” He dabbed his fry in ketchup.
“That . . . ?”
“It seemed like he’s familiar with her or her case, and not a fan.”
“Was he one of the officers on record?”
“No, but he would have been supervising them, just as he is with me.”
“You think they dropped the ball on Marley’s case?”
“I don’t know. It was like her name alone irritated him.” His cell rang. “Hang on.” He lifted the phone to his ear. “Agent Grey. Oh. Hey, Finley. Uh-huh. Okay. Thanks.”
Griffin waited with anxious interest. “Well?”
“We got our vic.”
“Marley Trent?”
He nodded. “Marley Trent.”
“I am guessing your boss will be thrilled. So what’s your first move?”
“I’ll go talk with the man who reported her missing. Work her timeline from there.”
“Good luck.”
Declan stood and lifted the check off the table.
Griffin reached for it. “I
got it.”
Declan tucked it in his shirt pocket. “You can get the next one.” He paused, turning back to Griffin. “Why don’t you come with me?”
He frowned. “To interview the co-worker? Why?” While still law enforcement, he certainly wasn’t a Fed.
“Because my boss said I’d be on my own for the cold case.”
“But you’ve positively ID’d the vic.”
“Which I doubt will change anything. Give me five while I make a call.”
Griffin agreed and strolled across the cobblestone street to the harbor, his gaze shifting to Finley’s place only a couple blocks away. Waking up at her place had felt incredible, but now that Marley Trent had been ID’d, the danger to her would cease. It wasn’t like she was a threat to the killer or still pursuing the case.
“Told you,” Declan said, joining him at the water’s edge.
“Huh?”
“Talked to O’Neil—my boss—and I’m on my own for this one, so come with. Not only can I use another set of eyes and ears, but your ability to read people is uncanny.”
Exactly what he used to think, but he was two for two and both were dead. He slid his sunglasses on, the sun bright, the sky blue, and the air frigidly crisp. Wind gusts sheered across the water as they returned to their vehicle. “What’d you do to tick off this O’Neil?”
Declan smiled. “Just being myself.”
Griffin popped a piece of gum in his mouth as he opened his door. “That’ll do it.”
“We’ve got a big problem.”
“I’m listening.”
“They ID’d her.”
“How? I took care of the dentals.”
“It seems they figured that out and circumvented the problem by pulling her earlier records.”
A string of expletives spewed over the line. “It’s only a matter of time then.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Let me run containment scenarios and I’ll be back in touch.”
“We could sweep them all.”
“It’ll draw too much attention. I’ll figure out the right nerve to hit.”
“In the meantime?”
“Keep on them.”