He wiped a hand across his face, his expression a heartbreaking combination of confusion and devastation. Tears left clean rivulets from his eyes to his jaw.
“I’m sorry,” Morgan called. “If you promise not to shoot, we’ll leave now, and we won’t bother you again.”
“Go!” he screamed, and then he began to beat his head against the tree trunk at his back.
The thin sound of a siren floated through the air. Damn it! Why hadn’t they come in quietly? Morgan might have talked the man down. There was no chance of that happening now.
The siren shut off, but it was too late. Fear lit the shooter’s eyes. He jumped to his feet, fumbled in his panic, and dropped his rifle. He scrambled toward it. Lance took the split-second opportunity to holster his gun and dive for the man’s midsection. They went down in a tangle of limbs and rolled across the ground. Lance kicked the rifle away.
Expecting a feral response, he was shocked when the shooter shifted into hand-to-hand mode. The shooter performed an instinctual, textbook sweep, tossing Lance off his body. Lance landed on his back. A forearm to his throat pinned him to the ground.
Lance wheezed. Stars peppered his vision. Bucking to upset the shooter’s balance, Lance grabbed the forearm with both hands. Trapping the man’s foot, he bridged over his shoulder and reversed their positions.
The shooter was malnourished and shaky. Once his initial burst of adrenaline waned, his efforts weakened, and he was reduced to kicking and bucking under Lance’s body. His eyes took on a desperate light. Panic and bewilderment shone in his dilated pupils. The man obviously suffered from some mental illness.
But crazy was dangerous. Despite his pity, Lance needed the man immobilized to ensure Morgan’s safety.
“Freeze!” Morgan shouted. “Or I’ll shoot.”
Lance did. So did the shooter.
Less than ten feet away, Morgan held the rifle in a comfortable grip. She pointed it at the shooter. “Don’t even think about moving. I’m an excellent shot.”
Lance flipped the shooter onto his belly, brought both of his arms to the small of his back, and pinned him with a knee. “Do you see something to restrain him?”
“Do you have him?”
“I do.”
“Here.” Morgan stooped, fished in the shooter’s backpack, and came out with a piece of nylon rope.
Lance fastened the shooter’s wrists together, and then rolled him over and hauled him into a sitting position. Agitated, he immediately began to rock back and forth. He refused to make eye contact, staring at his boots instead.
Sirens blared louder. Car doors opened and shut.
“In here,” Lance shouted. “We have the situation contained.”
Bodies crashed through the brush. Carl Ripton and another uniform burst from the trees, weapons drawn. Lance didn’t recognize the second officer. New hire?
“Lower the rifle, ma’am. Both of you put your hands on your head. Interlace your fingers,” Cop Two ordered, pointing his handgun at Morgan.
She complied, and Carl took the weapon.
“On your knees!” Cop Two yelled at Lance.
“I know them,” Carl said. “You can stand down.” He turned to Lance. “What happened?”
Lance explained as he maintained his grip on the now-limp man on the ground. “He’s been saying odd things about a dead girl and blood. That little camp over there is his.”
“Let’s put him in the back of the car.” Carl pointed at his companion.
“He needs a bath.” Cop Two grimaced as he handcuffed the shooter and hauled him to his feet.
He held the man still while Carl patted him down. He emptied Camo Man’s pockets, tossing a folding knife, some loose change, and a wallet to the ground. Carl opened the wallet and skimmed through it. “His name is Dean Voss.” Carl turned to the man. “Dean? Want to tell me why you were shooting at these people?”
“The girl is dead, and it’s all my fault.” Dean stared at his boots. “They’re coming to get me.”
“Who is coming to get you?” Carl asked in a gentle voice.
Dean lifted his gaze. The eyes that swept over them were opened wide with terror. “You can’t lock me up. They’ll find me. They’ll kill me. I have to run. I have to hide.”
“It’s all right. We won’t let anyone get you,” Carl said.
But Dean wasn’t convinced. He turned and tried to pull away from the uniform. Carl took his opposite arm. Dean went ballistic, but his bound arms and weakened condition didn’t allow for much opposition. Carl and Cop Two held him steady until he stopped struggling and stood still, shaky, limp, and pathetic.
“Let’s get him out of here.” Carl accompanied the second cop and Dean back to the road. He returned in a few minutes. “He’s on his way to the holding cell, but I expect he’ll be transferred to a psychiatric facility. Doesn’t take an expert to see that he’s unstable.”
“Who’s the new guy?” Lance asked.
“Rookie.” Carl nodded. “This is his third day. He’s very enthusiastic. Sorry about him blasting his siren.”
“I remember those days,” Lance said. “We were all that enthusiastic at the start.”
Lance and Morgan gave Carl their statements, making sure to highlight Dean’s outbursts about the dead girl and blood.
Morgan brushed dirt and dead leaves from her skirt. Dirt and sweat stained her blouse. Her face was pale and her voice shaky. Scratches crisscrossed her calves.
Carl nodded. “I’ll call for a forensics team to go through his camp. Brody is on his way. He wants to talk to both of you.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Morgan and Lance stepped aside while Carl secured the scene. Morgan took her own pictures. Not that she didn’t trust the police, but . . . they were so sure they’d already caught the killer, she wanted to be sure no new evidence got “lost.”
Brody arrived before the forensics van. He gave the camp a thorough once-over before joining Morgan and Lance. Lance recapped what had happened.
Brody snapped shut his notebook. “I’ll let you know if I have any further questions.”
“Dean Voss is clearly connected to the Palmer murder,” Morgan said.
Brody offered a brief, noncommittal nod. “I’m going to attempt to interview Dean now, but from what you and Carl have said, he’s likely too unstable to give a rational statement. In that case, we’ll have to wait for a psychiatric evaluation, and we’ll see what the forensic team turns up.”
“Can we go?” Lance asked.
“Yes,” Brody said.
“You’ll call us if you find anything relevant to the Palmer case?” Lance asked.
“I’ll pass your request on to Chief Horner.” With a frown, Brody turned and left.
What the hell did that mean?
Carl was marking off the camp with crime scene tape. He directed Lance and Morgan to the outside of the perimeter.
This is what happens when you change sides. Lance was no longer one of them. And now that he’d joined Morgan, he was likely shut out of the loop forever.
But if he’d denied her request, she would have come to the scene alone. She could have been killed.
Morgan and Lance made their way back to the beach. The dropping sun hovered over the tops of the trees and cast golden light on the lake. Lance checked the time on his phone. Six-thirty. “Half hour until sundown. Maybe we should call it a day. You can clean up at the office before you head home.” He eyed the scrapes on her legs.
“Good idea.” She brushed at a streak of dirt on her calf.
“Are you all right?” he asked Morgan.
“Yes. I’m afraid I’m not feeling much in the way of trust in the SFPD right now.”
“Chief Horner is a pain, but Brody is a good cop. You can count on him.”
“I hope so.” She plucked a pine needle from her skirt.
“I’m going to call my mom and add Dean to her list of background checks. I’m sure she can dig up plenty of personal information.�
�
Morgan said, “From Dean’s ramblings, I’m convinced either he killed Tessa or he saw who did.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Morgan got out of the Jeep as soon as Lance parked behind her minivan in front of Sharp Investigations. Her scraped leg ached as she detoured to her van and removed a gym bag from the cargo area. The sun had set, and dusk settled over the quiet street. They went up the walk and climbed the steps of the dark duplex.
Lance unlocked the front door. “I didn’t know you went to a gym.”
“Two months ago, I bought a two-week trial membership. I went twice. The gym bag has been sitting in there since.” Morgan followed him into the office.
“Sharp must be out.” Lance closed and locked the door behind them.
“You obviously work out regularly.” She scanned his muscles on top of muscles.
He shrugged. “My physical therapy regimen is intensive.”
“It’s helped you recover?”
“Yes. It’s also good for releasing endorphins and purging stress.”
“That was my intention with the trial membership.” She had plenty of excuses about the kids taking up all her time, but in reality, she just hadn’t been motivated to exercise.
Or to do much else.
Lance steered her back to the kitchen. He took a first aid kit from the cabinet. “Sit down.”
“I can clean my cuts myself,” she protested.
“Fine.” He set the kit on the table and went to the fridge. Taking out a bottle of water, he put one in front of her, then retreated to the other side of the small room, leaned back against the cabinets, and watched.
Morgan sat down and bent over her knees. Blood and dirt caked the scratches on her legs. She squirted antiseptic onto a gauze pad and began to blot. There was more dirt than blood. A few superficial scrapes on her shins were already scabbing over, but a deeper abrasion on her ankle was bright red and still bleeding. She dabbed at it, wincing at the sting. The gauze caught on something. Several large splinters were stuck in her skin. She must have picked them up from the log Lance had jammed her behind, not that she was complaining. He’d put his body between her and an active shooter.
She’d held her act together during the moment, but now that she was safe, her hands trembled as she replayed the incident in her head. She flexed her fingers to steady them. Shaking the memory away, she focused on her ankle. Once she was home and alone, she could fall apart. She tried to get a better look, but she couldn’t get her ankle closer without hiking her skirt up to her hips.
And thinking about doing that . . .
Her gaze flickered to Lance, leaning on the counter, his thick arms crossed over his thicker chest. He was not the sort of man who could blend into the background. His body—and personality—took up too much space. So much that her eyes were drawn to him whenever he was in the same room.
He was so different from John. Her husband had been tall, thin, and dark, with an easygoing personality. Lance was blond, heavily muscled, and intense.
Very intense.
She blinked and looked away.
What was wrong with her? It must be the aftereffect of being shot at. Her emotions were all over the place.
“Is there a pair of tweezers in that box?” she asked.
She wanted to be blood- and dirt-free before she went home so she didn’t frighten her girls. They didn’t need to know she’d been in danger.
“Let me look.” Lance set his water bottle down and crossed the kitchen.
But instead of searching the kit, he sat in the chair next to her and lifted her legs onto his lap, turning her sideways in her seat.
“Oh,” she said, surprised. His legs were twice as thick as hers and ten times more solid.
“It’s probably easier for me to get these for you.” Taking tweezers from the kit, he bent over her legs.
“It’s OK. I can get it.” A shiver in her voice belied her confident words.
He lifted his head, his gaze catching hers and holding on for a long second. Emotions darkened the blue of his eyes. Anger. Concern.
Heat.
She shivered.
“Just let me help you, all right?” His fingers wrapped around the sensitive skin of her calf. “I’m a little freaked out about us getting shot at today.”
“All right.” Morgan sat back. She took a drink of cold water and swallowed. “Thank you for what you did.”
The tweezers hovered over her ankle. “You’re welcome.” He plucked a splinter free.
“I’m serious. When I think of what happened.” And what could have happened. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. “I’m all my girls have left.”
His grip on her foot tightened. “I know. That’s all I could think about.”
So the man who already lost a career and ten months of his life to a bullet wound had been worried about her and her girls. Warmth rose into Morgan’s chest.
“I don’t know what I would have done if I’d been alone.” Her throat clogged.
“You wouldn’t have been alone. You would have hired another investigator.”
“A stranger wouldn’t have been willing to be my human shield. You were. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He cleared his throat, grabbed hold of another splinter, and gently lifted it free. “You handled yourself pretty well out there.”
He picked another splinter free while she tried to ignore the heat of his big hands on the sensitive skin of her ankles . . . and the heat building in her belly.
“One more,” he said. “It’s a big one. Hold tight.”
Morgan braced herself as he worked the splinter out. “Ow.”
Holding a gauze pad under her foot to catch drips, he poured antiseptic onto her ankle.
Morgan flinched at the bright sting. “That smarts.”
Bending his head, Lance blew on the cut for what seemed like a long time.
A really long time.
Finally, he straightened. “Let me put a bandage on that.”
He squirted antibiotic cream on the cut and covered it with two large Band-Aids. He turned to her and leaned closer, until their faces were inches apart. God, he smelled good, a little sweat and dirt layered over plain old soap. On her, the combination felt gross, but on him, it ramped up his masculinity until her ovaries practically swooned. Not that they needed any encouragement. He’d already achieved hero status with her hormones.
The pads of his fingers stroked her ankle. When was the last time a man had touched her bare skin? Years ago. So long that the sensation felt brand new.
She was almost sitting in his lap. But he didn’t seem like he was in a rush to move, and frankly, a big part of her wanted to crawl all the way into his arms.
“I should get up now,” she said.
“Oh. Right.” Lance released her ankles.
She lifted her legs from his lap and stood. “Thank you again.”
The adrenaline rush from the afternoon had long since faded, leaving exhaustion in its place. She was tired and lonely, and tired of being lonely. And being this close to Lance in such a state could be dangerous. If she didn’t leave soon, she was going to embarrass herself, because all she could think about was kissing him.
Actually, kissing wasn’t all that was on her mind.
He tossed used gauze pads into the trash. “You might want to consider wearing pants when you’re not in a courtroom. Or at least when you’re traipsing around the woods. Not that I don’t like looking at your legs . . .”
“Really?” Was she flirting? She remembered how? Must be like riding a bike, because with him, it felt totally natural.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Really.”
Oooooh.
But she was too chicken to follow through on that kiss.
For now.
“I’ll just go change my clothes.” She slipped out of the kitchen, went into the bathroom, and changed into a pair of yoga pants, a T-shirt, and white sneakers.
He smiled when she came out.
<
br /> “What?”
“Nothing. You look cute.”
“Cute?” Morgan was five nine. “I haven’t been called cute since I outgrew all the boys in my grade in grammar school.”
His grin widened as he closed the distance between them. “You’re small compared to me.”
He was nearly a head taller and twice as broad.
“This is true. You look like you’ve been bench-pressing houses.”
“Maybe I have.” He flexed his bicep.
Her ovaries responded with yum.
Annnnnd it was time to go.
“Thank you again for what you did today.” She retreated to her office and gathered some files. She still hadn’t made it through all the information from the DA’s office. She was determined to read every word on every page by Monday.
He followed her and stood in the doorway. “You’re welcome again. What’s your plan for tomorrow?”
“I’ll be spending the day with my girls. I’ll work before they get up and after they go to bed.” She had to draw the line between work and family somewhere. One positive of self-employment: she could work from home whenever it suited her. On the downside, she wasn’t getting paid.
He nodded. “I have to take my mom to her group session anyway. I’ll be busy all morning.”
“Monday then.” She agreed. “You’ll let me know if your mom finds anything juicy?”
He grinned. “I’ll call you.”
She tucked her files into her bag and lifted the strap over her head and across her shoulders. As she walked out of the office, her hip brushed his in the narrow hallway. He caught her by the arm. His gaze dropped to her lips.
Was he going to kiss her?
Though she had contemplated doing that very thing to him a short while before, the idea sent a shiver of warning through her already damaged heart. Beyond the undeniable physical attraction between them, she really liked this man. Everything from his courage and his kindness to his sense of humor appealed to her.
But tonight, with the combined weight of Tessa’s death and Nick’s future resting on her shoulders, her feelings for Lance—and the vulnerability they created—were more than she could handle.
Say You're Sorry (Morgan Dane Book 1) Page 21