Dead Shot (10 page)

She didn’t usually respond to the physical landscape, but something about the rich morning light caught her. As she framed her shots, she wondered what it would be like to place a body there among those deceiving petals. A small, thin, hanging girl, her feet bare, her hands tied, her neck broken.

Lost in the view, both inside and outside her head, she didn’t hear anyone coming.

“I thought I told you not to go anywhere without me.”

The masculine voice burst into the silence of the glade, and she whirled to find Ray Pearce approaching. She’d forgotten how big he was, broad-shouldered and towering. Solid against the delicate branches of buds and baby leaves. In a dark suit and tie, he looked competent and strong, but incongruous. Agent Smith among the flowers.

He stopped a few yards away as though he knew she was working and respected that. The branches of a half-pink redbud crept over his shoulder like tentacles.

She raised her camera, manually focused the lens. “I thought you didn’t keep diva hours.” She pressed the shutter button, committing the picture to film. Moved to grab another angle.

“I thought you weren’t getting up early.”

“Well, I surprised myself. But I haven’t gone anywhere.” She raised the camera again, found another shot, but in two steps he broke the invisible wall separating them.

“Leaving the house is going somewhere.” Gently, he pushed the camera aside.

“Don’t like your picture taken?”

“Not here to model.”

“So you say.” But she left him alone and turned back to the woods. For a moment, the scene from the night before flashed back—the chill of the blood, the thunk of ribs as Ray bodychecked her, the stony floor, unyielding as she hit the deck. “But Ruth is in custody, and Matthew Dobie hasn’t set up shop at the front gates.”

“He made the morning news, though.”

She lowered the camera so it hung between her breasts on a leather strap. “Really?” She rarely watched the news.

“Matt Lauer and all.”

A shiver hit her. She found herself clutching the camera as if it were an anchor in a roiling sea. But national news was good, wasn’t it? Maybe he’d hear. Maybe he’d come for her. “Not much I can do about that,” she said, reaching for calm and not quite achieving it.

“You can stay inside until I get here.”

“All right. All
right.
” She was as much irritated with the necessity of his presence as she was with his insistence upon it.

He held up protesting hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Fine. Whatever. Just stand over there so you’re not in the light.”

She spent the next hour absorbed by the glen and its denizens. Ray watched her work, a blond urchin in ancient overalls that were ripped at the knees, a black T-shirt whose long sleeves ended in frayed edges, and a paint-stained gray sweatshirt that was wrapped around her waist. Rags and tatters. Poor little rich girl.

Not that she looked like she cared much. She snapped pictures of the trees, often contorting into weird shapes to get the angle she wanted, sloshing in mud if she had to, and crouching low to get shots of things that looked like weeds to him.

He liked the way the work absorbed her. He’d had moments like that on the ice, pure, focused moments when the stick became an extension of his arm and connected with the puck like it was destiny.

He reached for that concentration now, sharpening his hearing and sight, reaching outward to maintain an uneasy vigil. No way could he preserve a secure perimeter with the wide swathe of open ground around them. He’d have needed at least three other men for that, but Chip Gray had weighed the limits of his granddaughter’s patience and settled for one. In Ray’s opinion it would have been overkill anyway. Unpleasant as the assault had been the night before, it was intended to hurt feelings and make a point rather than maim. But anything was possible, so he kept a keen eye on the surroundings.

A large part of executive protection was common sense. Keep the client away from crowds, in a small, manageable space. Control the environment, and you reduce the threat. Unfortunately, you couldn’t keep people locked up. They lived in a certain place, worked in a certain place. And most would only go so far to change their routine unless the danger was life-threatening and imminent. Neither one applied in this case.

So here they were. Outdoors. The small vulnerable blonde looking perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and him, towering over her, protecting her from the trees.

“Ridiculous” didn’t even begin to describe it.

Until the sound of footsteps crashed through the undergrowth.

In a second, Ray’s heartbeat skyrocketed and he leaped. Gillian was hunched over, aiming the camera up through branches to the sky. In one great stride, he pulled her up.

She unbalanced and screeched in surprise.

“Quiet.” He looked wildly around. No place to make a clean stance—they were open on all sides—so he shoved her against a tree and blocked her view from the intruder.

She pushed against his spine. “What is it?”

“Gillian!” A shout came at a distance. “Where are you? Gillian!”

A woman’s voice.

“It’s Maddie.” Again, she put a fist in his back. “Let me go. It’s just Maddie!”

The Crane woman came flying out of the woods, black hair streaming, a witch’s raven in black slacks and a black top.

“What is it?” he demanded. Behind him, Gillian was struggling, and he held her back with some effort. Something had terrified Maddie Crane, and he had no intention of letting Gillian go until he understood what. “What happened?”

Maddie bent over, braced her hands on her knees and panted. “Dead,” she said finally. “Someone’s . . . dead.”

16

“It’s a fake,” Maddie said, referring to the photograph Detective Jimmy Burke had placed in the center of the ornate marble coffee table in the Grays’ spacious living room. Maddie was standing over it. She reached out and touched the picture with a long, curved nail painted a purple so deep it was almost black. The picture moved slightly, and she stood back, studying the thing as if it were an insect under glass.

Silk drapes framed the windows on the east side of the house. A warm apricot color, they magnified the morning light. Ray stood in front of the window, the sun beating against his back. Across from him, Genevra Gray sat in a cream armchair. She looked plucked and drawn. It wasn’t just the thin neck and sharp chin that gave her the appearance of a chicken about to be slaughtered. It was the hard stare that was both resigned and defiant.

What she was staring at was Burke. Not the photograph that lay there among them like a little grenade waiting to explode.

“It’s not Gillian’s,” Maddie said.

Burke nodded. “We know. It’s been Photoshopped.” He had that line on his forehead. The one that meant he would single-mindedly pursue this no matter what. Ray looked at the white faces around the room, saw the withdrawal, and hoped Jimmy would notice and step softly. But he used to leave the deft touch to Ray. “Body’s real enough,” he said.

The words seemed to freeze the air even further.

Ray and Burke exchanged glances. Burke seemed to be saying, “What’s wrong with these people?” and, silently, Ray told him to go slow. It was a familiar moment made uncomfortable by that familiarity. Ray looked away, and Jimmy pushed the picture toward Gillian.

“Recognize her?”

Gillian glanced at the abomination. Saw what should have been her. Was always supposed to be her.

“Miss Gray?” Burke repeated. “Have you seen this woman before?”

“Of course she hasn’t,” Maddie said.

Burke sent her a sharp look. “Why don’t we let Miss Gray speak for herself. I think she’s a big enough girl.” He turned to Gillian. “Miss Gray?”

Gillian fisted a hand. How dare he? He had no right to steal fate from her. No damn right to . . . her breath clotted in her chest. Oh, God. Dead. Someone else was dead.

“Have you ever seen this woman before?” Burke demanded.

Ray watched the emotions play across Gillian’s face. The wise guy suddenly stunned into silence by shock, anger. Grief. She seemed incapable of responding, and Ray felt the tug of that moment in the museum. The moment when he’d heard the deep bass warning bell keening his own demise. When he’d looked in Gillian Gray’s eyes, seen the sadness below the resolution, and wanted to take it away almost as much as he wanted to run like hell.

But he hadn’t run. He’d taken the bait. Like he always did.

He moved to her chair. Crouched in front of her. “Hey. Short stack,” he said quietly. Waited for her to focus on him. “We need your help.” Although there was no “we,” and what Jimmy wanted had nothing to do with him. He wasn’t there to catch the bad guys anymore. But still, for old times’ sake . . . “Just a quick yea or nay.”

It always amazed him how most people, even the toughest, responded to kindness. Gillian was no exception. She blinked, seemed to breathe again. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t recognize her.”

“Okay.” He turned toward Burke. “Who is it?”

Burke ignored him. “Are you sure?” he asked Gillian again.

She said nothing.

“Miss Gray, are you sure?”

Ray rose to his feet, blocking Gillian from Jimmy’s gaze. “She’s sure,” he said.

“Back off, Ray. You’re not the cop here,” Burke said.

Ray let that one slide. But he didn’t budge, and Jimmy turned to Genevra. “Mrs. Gray?”

Gillian’s grandmother shook her head emphatically. “Never saw her before.” She rose, a prelude to showing him out. “Now if that is all . . .”

But Jimmy was nothing if not persistent. Before he made detective, Ray and Jimmy and the senior Burke and some of the guys from the shift used to play pool. Jimmy wouldn’t go home until he’d beaten Ray at least once. Sometimes Ray would say he was leaving early, just to watch him beg. But in the end he usually stayed. Jimmy was six years older, been a cop longer, and truth was, Ray hadn’t liked disappointing him.

Now Jimmy looked from Genevra to Maddie, then back to Gillian again. “Who does your taxes, Miss Gray?”

The absurdity of the question seemed to stump her as much as it did Ray. “I’m sorry, my—?”

“Taxes. You do pay taxes, don’t you?”

Genevra spoke. “All of my granddaughter’s financial affairs are handled by the family firm. I can provide you with the name—”

“Ever been to H&R Block?”

“No,” Genevra said. “There are trust funds. Inherited monies. It’s very complicated.”

“How about the name Margaret Ann Pulley?”

“No,” Genevra said.

“
Miss
Gray,” Burke insisted.

“No,” Gillian said. “I’m sorry. No.”

There was a small silence. Into it, the door slammed, and Chip Gray’s voice blustered from somewhere outside the room.

“Gennie! What the hell is going on? I told you not to—” He burst into the room, red-faced. Saw Burke. Bore down on him. “Detective. We all agreed to come down to your office and sign your papers there. No need for a house call.”

“It’s not about the museum,” Ray said.

Chip looked at him, astonished. “Well, what else could it be about?”

Silently, Maddie handed him the photo.

“What is this?” He looked down at it. His face blanched. “That’s not—”

“No, sir,” said Burke. “It’s not your granddaughter. It’s a real body. A real murder.”

Chip stared at him. “Oh, my God.” He sank onto the sofa.

“Scotch, anyone?” Maddie said to the room in general.

“Yeah,” Gillian said. “Why don’t we all get drunk?”

“It’s not even noon,” Genevra snapped.

“For God’s sake, she isn’t serious,” Chip said. “Why do you never see that?”

“Excuse me,” Burke said, “but do you know the woman in the picture?” He ran through his questions again, but Chip came back with the same answers. He didn’t recognize the woman in the photo, he’d never used H&R Block, and he didn’t know a Margaret Anne Pulley.

“Is that all, Detective?” Chip asked at last. “If so, I’ll have Bertha show you out.” He gave the photo back to Burke.

“For now,” Burke said. “But don’t leave town, Miss Gray. We may have more questions.”

That roused Chip. He stood, took a billfold from his pocket. “If you want to speak to us again, get in touch with my lawyers.” He removed a card, wrote something on it. “They can arrange a meeting in a more neutral setting.” He handed the card to Burke, but Jimmy stepped back from taking it.

“Look, there’s no call to get fussy and bring in lawyers.”

Chip tucked the card into Burke’s breast pocket. “This house has seen more than its share of police, and we’re all aware of how you work.” He led Burke out. “You ask your questions, and we answer. Over and over again. And in the end, it doesn’t amount to much.”

Gillian watched him go, wishing the cloud of fear he’d brought would depart with him.

But just short of the hallway, the detective dug in his heels and turned back to face the living room. “The woman in the picture,” he said to Gillian. “It’s supposed to be you, right? You’re the victim in all your photographs?”