Dead Shot (7 page)

Ray whisked the shirt away. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

He went toward the back of the house, but she didn’t sit. She wandered over to the shelf. Wedged between a pile of
Sports Illustrated
s and a bunch of CDs was a framed picture. Ray Pearce in a game uniform, holding a trophy, one arm clutching a hockey stick, the other around a woman. Well, hardly a woman. A girl. Young woman at best. Dark-haired, dark-eyed. Too much makeup. But excited, sparkling. A younger version of Ray wore a goofy, happy grin himself. High school?

She put the photo down and trailed down the hallway he’d disappeared into. The kitchen was off to the right, and she detoured there. It was a tiny square rimmed by counter space. She opened the fridge. Milk, eggs, apples, cheese. Sheesh, the guy was a health nut. The cabinets proved equally unpromising.

“Where’s the beer and chips?” she yelled.

The water swooshed on. “What?”

“The beer and—” She trundled down the hallway, found him in the bathroom, shirtless, washing off the stains from his face and neck.

He didn’t notice her at first, so she looked her fill. Great back, tight ass. Broad chest, rippled arms. God, she wished she had that camera.

He grabbed a towel and scrubbed his face. Saw her standing in the doorway gaping at him. Slowly he straightened. Stood there in plain view for a second, like he knew exactly what she was doing, and it was fine with him. Then he pushed past her.

“You ever hear of knocking?”

She followed him into the bedroom. The bloodied jacket was puddled in a corner, the tie and shirt on top. “You ever do any modeling?”

He whirled to face her, burst out laughing. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s good money for standing around.”

He opened a drawer, took out a T-shirt. “Do you ever think about the things you say? I mean, before you say them.”

“You have a great look.”

“Put me in a pair of overalls and stick a pitchfork in my hand kind of look?” He pulled the shirt over his head.

She smiled. Over his shoulder she saw the open closet. A full dress uniform hung inside a plastic dry cleaning wrapper. She wandered over, saw the NPD pin on the blue uniform chest, all shiny and gold.

She wondered what had happened. Had he grown tired of the bad guys? Since he was still in the protect and serve business, that didn’t seem likely. Maybe it was the lousy civil service pay. Looking around his house, she doubted that, too. So . . . what? Had he taken a bribe? Shot the wrong guy and started a riot? He didn’t look like the screwup type. He looked upright and decent.

She turned to ask him about it, but he reached over and shut the closet door. Shoved a towel at her. Not particularly politely either.

“Want to get cleaned up, the bathroom’s free,” he said.

11

No one would ever call Margaret Pulley a pretty thing. She was a little too plump around the middle and a little too sad around the eyes. But he liked to watch her while he worked. Her suit just this side of tight, her hair just a hog’s breath short of neat. Not perfect, but was anyone? Perfection was reserved for what people did, not who they were.

And so it was with Miss Margaret. A hard worker, she often stayed long into the dark night, ticking away at her computer, signing forms and laying them in piles that never stayed straight. Hidden, he’d watch her from the alley across the office on Nolensville Road. The turn of her face, the sigh in her shoulders. Through the front window, he could see her fluffy blond head, green with the glow from her computer screen.

His heart pounded with the possibilities. Sometimes he would touch himself.

Once, during the day, he had to go in to have his order signed, and she’d smiled at him. She was older than he would have liked. A bit too hard-used. But still, tonight, she was the perfect model. The perfect stand-in.

She’d gone down easier than his last. That one had kicked and fought ’til the end. Miss Margaret just kind of gave in.

Maybe it was because he whispered at her how famous she’d be. How, for the first time in her life, she’d be important and respected.

He couldn’t figure it exactly. Only knew that beneath the plastic bag, the fear in her wide and terrified eyes turned to resignation, and her shoulders slumped against him like a lover’s.

He had a bit of a time dragging her body into a space wide enough to get his shot. And getting her into the plaid, that was a job. Miss Margaret had been eating too much banana pudding, and he couldn’t get the skirt to fasten around her middle. But that was okay; no one would see her from the angle he was shooting. He had the book bag and the algebra book. He’d had a time hunting that one down. He placed the knife with care by her side, scooted back to check the frame in the lens.

A blast of excitement, like a heat wave, rolled over him. He wanted to touch himself, but he resisted.

This was pleasure enough.

12

Gillian didn’t take Ray up on his suggestion to clean up. Didn’t want to take off her dress and risk exposing her arms. Too many questions there. Besides, the blood, or whatever it was, had hardened into dried specks across her sleeves and shoulders. It looked bad but wasn’t uncomfortable. And in the dark light of a bar, no one would notice.

“I’d rather eat.” She threw the towel back at him. “Don’t you have any beer? Chips?”

Ray attached a leather holster to his hip, shoved a gun inside it. The sight sent a ripple of awareness through her. A real gun meant real danger. Her throat tightened suddenly. The voice in her head boomed.

“
I’ll do the same to you.
”

But she drowned it out by concentrating on the fine man in front of her. The man who was saying, “Don’t keep beer in the house.” She blinked. “And I don’t eat chips,” he added.

What was wrong with this guy? “You got the hockey stick, the whole jock thing going. I thought—”

“What is it? Jock or farm boy?” He crossed his arms, peered down at her from his superior height.

She glared right back up. “Can’t you be a farm boy and a jock? I thought most of them were.”

“I’d bet good money you never saw a farm in your life.”

She answered in a mock huff. “I’ve been to the movies.”

“Uh-huh. Let’s go.” He nodded for her to precede him.

But when he opened the door, an elderly man was stumbling up the walk.

“Shit,” Ray murmured. A beat, then, “Stay here.”

The approaching man was broad and squat as a bulldog, but an old, flaccid one. A once-white undershirt showcased a chest that sloped into his belly and hung over a pair of drooping pants. The top of his white head was squared off in a marine-style haircut, but the rest of him was round and wide, a roly-poly derelict. One foot was bare, one foot dragged a worn-out slipper. He weaved backward, then headfirst, plowed forward again.

Ray met him at the bottom of the two steps in front of the door. “Aw, hey, Sarge, what’re you doing out so late?”

The man splayed a hand on Ray’s chest, as if Ray were a lamppost he was steadying himself by. Gillian opened the door a crack to hear better.

“It’s my Gloria.” A plaintive note sounded beneath the drunken slur of words. “She’s not home.”

“I know.” Ray looked over his shoulder at her. “It’s okay. I’ll be right back.”

She started to reply, but Ray turned back around, quickly distracted by the drunk.

“Is she here? I can’t sleep when she’s not home.”

Ray sighed. This was the third time in a month Sergeant Mackenzie Burke had shuffled his way over there. “She’s gone, remember? She passed away. We went to the funeral.”

He frowned, an expression of utter confusion. “Who are you? What are you doing at my house?”

“It’s Ray, Sarge. Ray.”

“Ray?”

“That’s right. You live around the corner. You haven’t lived here since Jimmy was born. Remember?”

“Sure, I remember. Jimmy’s my boy.”

“That’s right.”

The old man squinted up at Ray as if the name had suddenly clicked. “How’m I gonna sleep, Ray?”

Ray was keenly aware of what he was supposed to be doing—watching out for Gillian, not the remnants of what used to be his family. But he couldn’t just leave the old man wandering around. Why was it he seemed to attract all the pain in the butts in town?

Ray slung an arm around the old man’s shoulders. “How about you stay here for a while? That be okay?”

The man leaned back, gazing up at Ray as if he were a giraffe in the zoo. “Where’s Gloria, Ray?”

Ray looked away, swallowed, then came back to Burke. “We’ll find her.” Gently, he patted the man’s pockets. He not only wanted the bottle, if there was one, he wanted to make sure Mac hadn’t stuffed his .38 in one of his pockets. But he was clean, no booze, no weapon. “Come inside now.” Ray maneuvered him up the steps and through the door.

He led him to the easy chair, winding past Gillian to do it. “Keep an eye on him?” he said to her.

“Sure,” Gillian said.

Ray went into the kitchen, riffled through a bunch of papers under magnets on the fridge door, found the one he was looking for. Stared at it as if the numbers might leap off the page and whack him over the head.

He took a deep breath, grabbed the phone, and punched in the number.

It had been over a year since he’d heard Nancy’s voice. Not since the funeral. She’d stood at her mother’s grave holding her little boy, who wiggled to get down. She’d shushed him, told him to be still, her voice cracked and strained. She wore some awful black sack of a dress and no makeup, but there’d been a kind of peace in her eyes that had never been there when she’d been married to him.

Someone on the other end picked up. Ray braced himself.

“Hello?” Her voice was sleepy but familiar. At least it didn’t send that jolt through his heart anymore.

“Nancy, it’s Ray.”

She yawned. “Who?”

He might have let that hurt him once. Now it just seemed funny. In a sad, pathetic way.

“Ray,” he repeated, drawing out the single syllable as if that would make a more indelible impression.

“What time is it?” In the background he heard Peter asking who it was, and Nancy telling him and Peter asking what he wanted.

“I know it’s late,” Ray cut in. “But your father wandered over to the house again looking for your mom.”

She groaned.

“I’ve got him here, but he’s drunk. You’ll have to come get him.”

“Let him sleep on the sidewalk,” Nancy said.

“Nance . . . come on.”

“He couldn’t seem to live with her when she was alive. Now she’s dead, he can’t live without her?”

But he didn’t want to rehash old arguments. “Look, I’m working. I can’t keep him. And I can’t leave him alone, either.”

“You’re working? Now?” One thing he didn’t miss was that tone of voice. Disappointed, angry, disgusted, resigned. As if he’d fulfilled every expectation she ever had of him.

He bit down on a reply in kind. “I’ll keep an eye on him ’til you get here.”

“What about Jimmy? Can’t you call him?”

“Jesus, Nancy. He’s your father.”

“Yeah, and we all know what a great dad he was, too.”

“Jimmy’s working, too. I just saw him.”

She sighed, and it turned into another yawn. “All right,” she grumbled, “Give me ten minutes.”

He hung up. Figured her ten minutes would stretch to half an hour, so he started a pot of coffee.

“Everything okay?” Gillian asked from the doorway. The lunatic from the truck seemed to have vanished, and in her place was the woman who’d comforted Ruth. Someone calm and decent, despite what had been done to her, and—he saw it lurking in her eyes—someone curious.

“How is he?” He dumped a bag of coffee into the filter, slammed it home, and turned on the tap to fill the carafe.

“Snoring. Out cold.”

“Good.” He didn’t want to deal with the pitiful version of Burke. He used to be a real son of a bitch, a cop’s cop. Seeing him disintegrate like that, well . . . it was beyond disturbing. Ray poured the water into the coffeemaker, turned it on, waited for the inquisition.

“Couldn’t help overhearing,” she said. “You called the old guy Burke; on the phone you called his daughter Nancy. Then there was Detective Burke at the museum and
his
Nancy.” She leaned against the wall by the counter, crossed her arms, still covered in their blood-spattered violet sleeves. “I’m thinking there’s a connection here.”

“Sherlock Holmes has nothing on you. He’s my father-in-law.”

“Your father-in-law?”

“Okay. Ex-father-in-law.”

“Like Detective Burke was your ex—”

“Brother-in-law. That’s right.”

“And Nancy’s—”

“His sister.”

“Your—?” She raised blond questioning brows.

“Ex.”

“Wow.”

He thought of the tangled web, those ties he could never seem to cut clean through. “Yeah, it’s a nice little incestuous nest we’ve built.”