After her verbal sparring match with Gavin—a face-off that he had nearly won—Piper’s interview with the local plainclothes police felt as tame as a friendly chat at a church social. The detectives asked questions and she answered truthfully. Midway through the conversation, they all paused to admire her description of Izzy’s heroic attack on the shooter. While the curly-haired mutt preened and offered her snout for pets and treats, Piper glanced up and noticed Gavin watching her with a dark, steady, unreadable gaze that sent a shiver across her shoulders.
One of her best skills when she’d worked in PR and marketing involved intuition—not the sort of goopy clairvoyance her auntie in Atlanta used for match-making but a sharp perception about what would happen next. When she’d been fired, she’d known her boss’s intention as soon as she’d looked him in his piggish little eyes. Before she had actual proof of her husband’s cheating, she’d sensed his infidelity. Continued deception had twisted his grin into a sneer and caused his hands to tremble. In him, she’d recognized the grotesque face of a liar, a scumbag. When it came to Gavin, she had none of those negative impressions—maybe because he was lying to her for the right reasons.
The primary detective from Beaverton sat at the head of the table, beside her. Tapping his pencil on a paper tablet, he asked, “When Marco mentioned a grandson, did he use a last name?”
“No.” But Gavin had dug deeper. He’d asked her about Taimar Drako.
“Did Marco say anything else to identify the shooter?”
“Sorry, but no.”
“When the shooter ran, did you see his vehicle?”
“I heard a motorcycle starting up,” she said. “When I arrived earlier, I hadn’t seen one.”
“My forensics team took imprints from motorcycle tires in the yard by the driveway.” The detective glanced toward Gavin. “My guess? It’s something like a Honda Rebel.”
Gavin nodded but said nothing. When she’d first met him, she’d lumped him into a lawman category that included mostly decent men and women who dedicated their lives to helping and protecting others. Piper had seen him as a federal marshal with the potential of being something more—a friend, a confidant or even a lover. Then he’d told her about the lying inherent in his work, and she’d gotten confused. He’d as much as told her that she’d be a fool to trust him, but he’d also saved her life in the car chase and sincerely cared for Sofia and Marco. Izzy adored him. To make things even more complicated, she recognized an undeniable thread of attraction woven between them and pulling her closer.
Of course, she’d never betray Sofia, but she very much wanted to level with Gavin. Piper knew that Sofia only had part of the story. The teenager knew about the long-ago crimes, but the teenager had only been ten years old at the time. She wasn’t aware of the current developments and dangers.
Gavin had the whole story. If only Piper could have an honest, open conversation with him, she might be able to help figure out what was happening.
When the local police detective completed his interview, he directed her to a plain, padded chair beside a desk in a quiet corner of the suite by the curtained window and introduced her to Vincent Winston, a freelancer who often worked as a sketch artist for the Beaverton and Portland police. The young man shook her hand and took a seat at the desk where a blank computer screen reflected the room.
Gavin joined them and greeted Winston. “Mind if I watch?” he asked.
“Not a problem, Marshal McQueen.” Winston’s full lips pulled into a wide grin beneath his scraggly mustache. His narrow face seemed too thin for his large features, especially his saucer-sized brown eyes, and ears that stuck out like cup handles.
“We’ve worked together before,” Gavin told Piper. “Winston is a pretty good portrait artist when he’s not doing forensics for the police.”
“Nice compliment.”
“I mean it,” Gavin said. “A few minutes ago, I saw you sketching. Will you show Piper what you drew on your pad?”
With a flourish, Winston flipped a couple of blank pages and displayed a pencil drawing of Izzy with her head cocked and an inquisitive gleam in her eyes. “Couldn’t help myself,” he said. “She’s a star.”
“This is fantastic.” Piper took the pad from him and studied it. “In just a few pencil strokes, you caught her attitude of curiosity and intelligence.”
“That’s what Winston does best,” Gavin explained. “All the forensic facial imaging software in the world can’t duplicate his ability to illustrate emotion. Now, I’m going to shut up, sit back and let the artist do his job.”
“You can keep the sketch of your dog,” Winston said.
“Only if you sign it.”
He scrawled his signature in the lower right corner and tore out the sheet of paper. “Let’s get started. I heard you talking to the detective, so I’ve got a pretty good idea of what happened. I want you to concentrate on the shooter. Close your eyes and visualize him in your mind. Okay? Tell me your impressions. What’s the first thing you see?”
“A huge, black gun. I guess it has a silencer. The guy holding the grip has strong hands and wrists. He’s average height, wiry but not skinny. The muscles and tendons in his neck are tense. Breathing hard, his complexion is ruddy, and he’s nervous.”
“Why nervous?”
She shrugged. “Like he made a mistake or something. Or maybe he’s worried about Izzy. Some people are scared of dogs.”
“Moof,” Izzy said, almost as though she was scoffing.
“What else?”
She pointed to her mouth. “He’s missing a tooth on the left front side.”
“Hair color?”
“Brownish. He’s wearing a black knit cap, so I can’t tell you how it’s cut. His eyes are deep brown, and he has thick, black eyebrows, like yours. He seems really angry. And very young, too young to be a killer.” She shook her head. “That’s all I can remember.”
“How about facial hair?”
“I didn’t notice anything.” She avoided making a comparison with the artist’s sad little mustache. “The shooter was clean-shaven.”
“You must have been scared.”
“You’d think so,” she said. “But at the time, I wasn’t aware of how I felt. Now that the threat has passed, I’m terrified.”
Beside her, Gavin spoke quietly. “You’re right to be worried, but you’re dead wrong about the danger being gone. Don’t kid yourself, Piper. You’re a witness. He’ll come after you.”
“Or not,” she said. “Maybe he wasn’t supposed to shoot me or Marco. Maybe he had a different agenda.”
“Such as?”
“He could have come to Marco’s house to threaten him. Or even to kidnap him.”
Gavin nodded. “That’s a good thought.”
“I have my moments.” Even if he was correct about the threat from the shooter, there wasn’t much more she could do to protect herself. She’d already turned herself over to his care. “Please don’t interrupt. I’m trying to concentrate. Winston, is there anything else?”
Without showing her the sketch, the artist asked for other details: the shape of his face, his jawline, cheekbones and ears. “Any tattoos? Visible scars?”
A memory popped into her mind. “He had a tat on his right wrist. I’m not sure what it was.” She looked over her shoulder. “I should tell the detective. I hadn’t remembered the tattoo until just this minute.”
“I’ll let him know,” Winston said. “Now, I want you to slow down. Inhale for four seconds, exhale for six. Close your eyes again and think about the tat.”
Piper understood his instructions. She regularly practiced yoga and was familiar with deep breathing exercises that encouraged meditation. In her mind, she recalled the moment when Izzy charged the shooter. His arms flailed, giving her a clear view of the tattoo. “A jagged black thunderbolt.”
She traced the design on the back of her wrist, recalling that Gavin had asked about a man whose name meant thunder. She glanced toward him, looking for confirmation, but he said nothing.
“Okay, Piper.” Winston turned his rough sketch toward her. “Is this the guy?”
The gifted artist had caught the attitude of the shooter who seemed hostile but young and uncertain at the same time. Piper wasn’t sure how Winston had created the portrait, but she saw tension in the shooter’s mouth and the fear in the tilt of his head. “The resemblance is amazing, but I think his eyes were closer together and turned down at the edges.”
Winston flicked a switch and turned on his computer. “Give me a couple of minutes to set up. My sketch gives us a starting point. Then I’ll use imaging software to fine-tune.”
Leaning back in her chair, she sipped her lukewarm coffee and swirled it around in her mouth before swallowing. Tasted flat and somehow gritty, but the session with Winston made her feel like she’d helped the investigation. If Gavin would open up to her, she might be even more useful. She gave him a nudge. “You mentioned somebody named Taimar whose name means thunder. Could that explain the lightning bolt tattoo?”
“It’s possible.”
“Maybe if you showed me his photo, I could identify him.” That seemed to be SOP in police shows she watched on TV and movies. “Don’t they call it a photo array?”
“Does that happen on Law and Order?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Not at all.” He rubbed his eyes, and she wondered if he was as tired as she was. “But I don’t want to show you any pictures until after you’re done with the sketch artist. You might zoom in on a photo for the wrong reason and misidentify the shooter.”
“That missing tooth makes him stand out.”
“And what if I showed you six photos of men with missing teeth?”
“Point taken.”
Beneath her chair, Izzy had dropped her head onto her front paws and fallen asleep. In spite of the caffeine she’d been drinking, Piper felt the same. It was after two thirty. Today had been exhausting, and she suspected tomorrow would be just as bad. “Before I go to sleep tonight, I need to take Izzy for a walk.”
“I’ll do it.” Gavin stood, pushed back his chair and patted the dog on her head. “Let’s go, girl. Ready for a stroll?”
When Izzy looked to Piper for instructions, her loyalty was gratifying. The mutt liked Gavin, that went without saying, but Piper still ranked as the alpha in their unit. She rewarded Izzy with a smile. “You can go with him. He’s a nice guy who carries a Beretta in case you run into trouble. You can trust him.”
Gavin slipped into his black leather jacket. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve said about me.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. Izzy’s leash is hanging in the bedroom closet.”
She watched Gavin and Izzy cross the large suite to the door for the adjoining bedroom. When he opened the door, Piper could see that the overhead light was on. Still, she hoped Sofia would be resting. The teenager had been placated when Gavin had given her the computer tablet with the live-feed of her father in the hospital. All in all, Sofia had handled the threat and inherent danger with a great deal more composure than Piper had shown.
Winston called upon her to concentrate on the computer sketch. Together, they studied each feature. At her instruction, he made tweaks to the shape of the ears and the jawline. When she looked away and quickly looked back, she noticed slight adjustments until, finally, after twenty-five minutes, she considered the picture to be accurate.
“That’s him,” she said. “He’s the shooter.”
The door to the suite swung open for Gavin and Izzy. A light mist glistened on the shoulders of his jacket, and droplets sparkled in his wavy brown hair. When Izzy wove her way through the several detectives and marshals in the room to end up at Piper’s side, she smelled like wet dog and her fur was damp.
Marshal Johnson came into the suite from the adjoining room with Sofia in tow. Predictably, she was complaining. “It’s almost three. About time for you guys to get your act together.”
The lead police detective apologized and explained that he needed her information as soon as possible so their investigation could get underway.
Sofia slouched into a chair at the table. “I don’t know what I can tell you. I wasn’t at the house when that creep shot my dad.”
The detective cleared his throat. “How often have you visited the Offenbach Community Farm Project?”
“The commune has nothing to do with the shooting.”
“Your boyfriend is Logan Offenbach, correct?”
Her eyebrows pulled down in a scowl. “We haven’t defined our relationship. I’m not sure ‘boyfriend’ is the term I’d use.”
“Have you introduced Logan to your father? Does Marco approve of the young man?”
Piper cringed. The aggressive questioning tactics were more likely to irritate Sofia than to elicit any information.
“What are you saying?” Sofia bolted to her feet. “Logan isn’t a suspect. He was with me. I’m his—what’s it called? His alibi, I’m his alibi. And I’m totally reliable. You can ask McQueen.”
All eyes turned to Gavin. He studied a computer printout of Winston’s finished sketch in his hand, then stalked across the suite to a stack of folders on the table. He plucked out an eight-by-ten photograph and held it beside the computer sketch. “Looks like a match to me.”
The detective squinted at the photo and the sketch. “Right down to the missing tooth. What’s the young man’s name?”
“Taimar Drako,” Gavin said.
Sofia rose slowly from the chair by the table. Staring at the photograph, she paced across the room and back again. “I’ve seen this guy before. He’s been hanging out at the commune with Dmitri and his friends.”
“That’s where our investigation will start.” The detective straightened his shoulders. “Tell me, Sofia, do your farming friends get up and get busy at sunrise?”
“Not fair.” Her voice quivered. “What are you going to do to Logan? To the other people who live there?”
“If they haven’t broken any laws, no problem. We’re only interested in the person who shot your father.”
Taimar Drako. A clear, new focus to the investigation had to be a good thing, right? Piper wasn’t so sure.
THIN SHARDS OF morning sunlight pierced the thick cloud cover. Though it was after 10:00 a.m., the cars had their headlights on as they slashed through the light but steady rain. Taimar Drako adjusted his waterproof camo poncho and ducked low behind thick shrubs on the forested hillside opposite the “Pets Welcome” hotel. Not taking any chances, he’d parked his bike up the hill on a remote trail and climbed down to this surveillance position across the road, approximately three hundred yards from the hotel entrance. If he’d been armed with an AK-47 or a sniper rifle, the guests coming and going on the sidewalk would be in range. But Tai only had the laughable .25-caliber, lousy for accuracy at a distance. If he fired the sissy little handgun, he’d only draw attention to himself.
Not that he was supposed to use a weapon of any sort. His instructions from his father and from Tom Ivanov himself barred him from engaging with the police. Only observe. Like a pathetic, weak-kneed punk, he was supposed to stand by and watch. Tai aimed his long-range binoculars at the fourth-floor rooms where the curtains were still drawn.
Last night, Tai had received the tip that had led him to this Beaverton hotel not too far from Nike headquarters. Then he’d dismissed his helpers from the Offenbach commune and promised to contact them again, which he never would. Dmitri and his ilk were expendable—wannabe criminals excited by the prospect of being part of the legendary Dragons.
After a sweeping scan with the binoculars, Tai watched another unmarked car pull away from the drive leading to the hotel door. There had been dozens of them, coming and going. The cops were up to something, and he wanted to know their plans. All this waiting was getting on his nerves. He needed action.
He dug into a pocket. Only one energy bar left. Then he’d be out of food, and he didn’t dare to step away and refuel. If he lost track of the witnesses, his father would be furious. Ivanov would probably shoot him.
And then...he saw the dog, an ugly mutt prancing along the sidewalk at the end of a bright red leash. Though prohibited from shooting, Tai drew his handgun and pointed the barrel at the damn dog. Killing the animal wasn’t as important as shooting its owner, the witness to Tai’s assault on Marco. She could cause him trouble. He shifted his aim toward her. She talked and laughed with that federal marshal, another person he’d like to shoot but wouldn’t.
Just the woman. And that damn bitch of a dog.