Shadows at Midnight (15 page)

Dan had simply rushed into the room. It was the bravest thing she’d ever seen. He hadn’t hesitated, not one second, in facing an armed man.

Claire tightened her arms around his neck. She was sure she was choking him but until he complained, she wasn’t going to let go.

Dan somehow absorbed some of her shock and terror, somehow made her wild trembling slow down. Finally, finally, she was able to draw in a deep breath. It felt like she hadn’t breathed in centuries. She gasped.

“That’s right. Breathe in, breathe out, that’s a good girl. I know you’re scared, but it’s okay now. He’s gone and he’s not coming back.” The deep voice was murmuring in her ear, words she could barely understand, though she understood the tone. It represented strength, and safety.

Dan loosened one arm around her and made a call on his cell. Her scattered brain could barely understand what he said, but she clung to his steady voice.

His arm went back around her, mouth close to her ear. “Police are on their way. Do you understand me, honey?”

It took a second to penetrate, but then Claire nodded shakily against his neck.

“We’re going to have to make a statement to the police when they arrive. The clearer our statement, the more quickly they can catch him.”

He waited and she nodded again, throat too dry to talk.

Her breathing slowed, deepened. She loosened her hold on his neck, drew away.

Claire tilted her face up to his. They stared at each other. Dan was looking grim, mouth tight, nostrils flared and pale.

“Who—” All she produced was air. Claire coughed to loosen her throat and tried again. “Who was he?”

The blind panic was subsiding, she felt steadier.

“I don’t know who he was,” Dan said, his low rough voice frustrated, “but we’ll goddamned find out.”

“Did you get a look at him?” To Claire, he was a faceless monster on the other side of a wall. “Could you identify him in a lineup?”

Dan’s jaws clenched. “Yeah, I got a look at him, but he was about average everything. Average height, weight, average skin color.”

Claire tried a shaky smile. “That’s a new one. Average skin color? What’s that?”

He shrugged. “White with light tan. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Lighter than mine.”

“Half the world’s population has brown eyes. I wonder—” She stopped, listened. The faint wail of sirens, coming closer.

Dan dropped his arms. “I’ll go out on the front porch. Signal them.”

“I’m coming with you,” Claire said hastily. No way was he leaving her alone in here.

One piercing look at her, top to bottom, and he held out his hand. Okay, he’d probably seen what a wuss she was, how she’d had a flashback panic attack, but she didn’t care. She just knew that being next to him, holding his hand, made her feel better.

Out on the hotel’s porch, they watched as two police cars pulled up and killed their sirens. A white van braked right behind them. Three uniformed officers and a tall man in a suit got out of the cars and several techs spilled out of the white van.

The man in civilian clothes attracted the eye. Tall, broad, steel gray eyes, whitewall haircut, ramrod straight. The detective.

And a former Marine, she’d bet money on it.

The detective clapped Dan on the back and they walked back into the lobby. Three young techs rushed by them carrying heavy cases.

“Claire, this is Detective Marcus Stone. Marcus, Claire Day.”

“Blondie,” the detective said.

“Marcus . . .” Dan growled.

Claire looked at the detective, confused. “Do I know you?”

He bit his jaw, looked at Dan then coughed into his fist. “No, ma’am,” he said gently. “But Dan has told me all about that day in Laka. It was a terrible thing.”

“It was, yes, Detective.” Claire jumped at a sudden flash. It was just the tech taking photos. Of the dead body. “Sorry,” she murmured weakly.

“I’m going to have to ask you to look at the body, see if you recognize him. I’m sorry.”

Claire breathed in and out. She could do this. She could.

Dan’s arm tightened around her waist. Oh God, her legs were back to rubber. It was entirely possible that Dan’s arm was the only thing holding her up. Though her head swam and it was hard to breathe, she stiffened her knees. Claire clung fiercely to consciousness.
Don’t faint don’t faint don’t faint . . .

“Yes, um, all right.”

They walked back around the counter and into the back room. The door had been propped open and Claire simply stared. She jolted as another bright white light went off.

“Steady,” Dan whispered.

A couple of techs were dusting for prints. A middle-aged man who had been crouching by the body rose. He had obscured her view but now she saw the body clearly. Saw the olive skin now a dusty pale color. Open, staring eyes. Blue lips. And bright blood all along the once snowy white shirt and on the tan carpeting.

A handsome young man, someone’s son, maybe someone’s husband, and now he was dead.

“Do you recognize him?” The detective’s voice was gentle, but he expected an answer. Claire had to help, not hinder. Someone had murdered this young man and she had to do everything in her power to help find that man and bring him to justice.

“Yes.” She was pleased to note that her voice was steadier. “He was the clerk on duty. This morning and at lunchtime there was a woman at the front desk. Her name was Amy.” She looked down sadly at the blood-flecked brass plaque. “His name was Roger. I have no idea what his last name was.”

“Yeah, it’s him,” Dan confirmed. “He was at the front desk when we left earlier this evening.”

“Okay.” The detective looked at Dan. “Anywhere we can sit down?”

“Yeah, over here.” Dan led them to the little living room suite in the corner of the lobby. The detective sat down heavily in an armchair, pulling out a notebook and clicking a pen. Dan steered Claire to the small sofa across from the coffee table, a mere millisecond before her knees would have given out completely.

The tech was taking so many photos in the back room it looked like strobe lights. A sudden image of the dead boy’s face floated right in front of her eyes. Still, white, cold as ice, blue tongue protruding slightly from blue lips. White shirtfront red with blood . . .

Dan’s voice came from faraway, as if he were in another country. He was calling her name, but she couldn’t turn her head to him. If she turned her head, the world would spin, spin completely away.

A strong hand clasped the back of her neck and pushed her head down to her knees and a distant voice told her to breathe in.

She pulled in a deep breath.
Out
, the voice said after a second or two, and she blew out the breath.

In and out, in and out. She opened her eyes and stared at her knees. No spots. She swallowed. No bile. She lifted her head slightly. No spinning.

Claire sat up again, cautiously. Yes, her stomach stayed where it should be, mid-torso, not sliding up her gullet.

“Sorry,” she gasped. “I, um, it, um . . . ”

Dan stood up abruptly and disappeared down the corridor. Claire couldn’t muster the energy to wonder where he’d gone, she was too busy keeping her stomach where it belonged.

“No problem, ma’am,” the detective said.

Claire tried on a smile for size. “I’m sorry about being such a wuss.” She drew a deep breath, hoping to shatter the iron band around her chest. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Adrenaline dump.” A faint smile creased the detective’s hard face, crinkling his eyes. Another non-metrosexual who didn’t moisturize. “Perfectly normal, ma’am. Blondie. Dan and I have both been real shaky after a firefight.”

“Is that true?” Claire turned to watch Dan as he crossed the lobby. He’d shot at someone not half an hour ago and he looked perfectly fine. Grim, but fine.
His
hands certainly weren’t shaking as he held a small bottle of ice-cold water out to her.

Claire took it eagerly and downed three-quarters of the icy cold water in a couple of long gulps and that overheated feeling that precedes throwing up started to subside.

Dan nodded. “Yeah. Hands shake, spots in front of your eyes, you want to vomit. Classics.” She met his dark eyes. He might not be feeling the symptoms but he knew. He knew and he understood.

The detective coughed, a little
I’m here, too
, reminder. “I’ve got Dan’s vitals, can I have yours?”

Claire pulled a blank. Vitals? Was that, like, internal organs? That queasy feeling came back as a loud rushing sound filled her head.

Dan finally broke the long silence. “Claire Day,” he said.

Oh my God.
Get a grip on yourself
. “Oh! Sorry. Claire Lorena Day, born in Boston, September fifteenth, 1982. Currently residing at 427 Laurel Lane, Safety Harbor, Florida.” She watched the detective bend his head over the notebook, his crew cut so extreme she could see scalp. It wasn’t quite the high and tight of active duty, but it was the closest you could get to a military cut in civilian life.

Luckily, he didn’t ask her what someone from Florida was doing in Washington DC, because
On a wild-goose chase
would have had to have been her answer.

“So . . . what went down?”

Dan nodded at her. She should go first. Okay. “We went out to dinner, Dan and I. He drove me back here, where I’m staying. We walked into the lobby together and the lobby was deserted.”

“Is that normal?”

Claire shook her head. “I have no idea, I’ve never stayed here before, I found it on the internet. As I said, the, um, dead man was on duty when we left at seven so I assumed he was the night duty guy. He said he’d see me later, so I imagined that the front desk was always manned. When it isn’t, they usually tell guests that they have to be in by a certain hour.”

Detective Stone nodded. “So then what?”

“I was reaching to grab my key when Dan pushed me to the floor and jumped on top of me.”

Stone’s gaze tracked to Dan and he raised his eyebrows.

“Blood,” Dan said shortly. “Enough for it not to be a paper cut. Someone had been seriously hurt.”

“Yes.” Claire nodded. “Dan walked around the desk in a crouch, opened the door to the back office and saw—”
A dead body. A murdered young man.
“Roger. And a lot of blood.”

Stone frowned at Dan. “You didn’t call it in right then and there?”

“I was going to, but first I had to see if there was any immediate danger. And there was. Fucker was waiting in Claire’s room.” His jaw muscles worked violently. “We went down the corridor, checking rooms. He had the light on in Claire’s room, and he made a slight sound. He was trashing the room, ripping the upholstery and the curtains.”

Claire nodded. “Dan had me crouch by the side of the door, then kicked it open. And then all hell broke loose. I fell to the ground.”

“Saved your life.” The words sounded harsh, bitten out. Dan met Stone’s gaze. “He had an AR-7 with a thermal scope and he aimed directly at Claire, through the wall. He had an armed man—me—shooting at him and he didn’t shoot back. He wanted Claire. She’s alive because he had a bad angle from where he was shooting and because she had on this big down coat, muffled her thermal profile. But he caught the coat. Show him, honey.”

Claire tried to turn, but couldn’t break Dan’s grip. “You’ll have to let me go.” Dan’s arm dropped reluctantly and Claire slid her coat off and held it up for the detective to see. It was the first time she’d seen it, too. Long slashes in the back of her coat, edges singed where the bullet burned. Where a man had thought he was firing into living flesh.

She shuddered, then frowned. “An AR-7. That’s a
rifle
. Why on earth would a burglar bring a rifle with him? Besides the question of why a burglar would be armed at all and risk a longer sentence if caught.”

“You know your weapons, ma’am.” Stone gave a wintry smile. “AR-7s have their uses. For certain . . . purposes.”

“Murder,” Dan said harshly. “That’s its main use. It’s a classic hit man’s rifle. Lightweight, the barrel and the action fold up into the stock. He had a briefcase, one of those Halliburton deals. An AR-7 would have fit easily into it. The guy came loaded for bear. Actually, he came loaded for Claire.” He huffed out a breath of anger and clenched his fists. His eyes met Stone’s. “Fucker wanted Claire, no question.”

“You worked for DIA,” Stone said to her, making it sound odd. Not an accusation, just a possible explanation for a hit man in room seven.

“No, no!” This was crazy. “No one could possibly want to kill me. I am—was an analyst. Analysts write reports, we’re not operators, not in any way. No DIA analyst has ever been killed in the line of duty.” A number of them had drunk themselves to death, but that was another story. “And any information I might have had is a year out of date. This is a fast-moving world. No one’s going to come after a lowly analyst whose intel is old. Trust me on this.”