“Okay, if everyone’s ready, let’s get started.”
As Carl Owens called the Monday morning briefing to order, Mark surveyed the table in the conference room. Reps from the ERT were present, as were the detectives and agents working the case. Although it was a joint investigation, Carl and Steve had agreed that today’s briefing would take place at Oakdale police headquarters.
“Les, are you with us?” Steve verified.
“We’re hooked in.” Les Coplin’s voice had the typical disembodied sound of a conference-call connection.
“We met a couple of times over the weekend. No breakthroughs. But the evidence team has a preliminary report.” Steve turned to Clair. “You’re on.”
The ERT lead investigator rose and moved to the front of the room, flipping on the overhead projector.
“The shooter didn’t leave much. No casings, but we did find the projectiles. They’re 30-06, suggesting they were fired from a common deer rifle. Both are distorted.” She put the photos of the bullets on the screen. “Ballistics ran their rifling parameters through the general rifling characteristics database and thinks the rifle may be a Winchester.”
She replaced the bullet shots with one of a footprint. “It was fairly easy for the detectives on the scene to identify the shooter’s route through the woods and his firing position, based on broken branches and compressed ground cover. There were no fibers at the scene, but we did get a partial footprint in an area of damp ground. Size eleven, common work boot. Not enough there to verify wear pattern. We did take a soil sample from the footprint, and there appears to be some material in the dirt that is inconsistent with the soil in that area. Quantico is working to identify it as we speak.”
The footprint transparency was replaced by one of a tire track. “We found this impression in some mud at the edge of the woods, where the shooter exited. We can’t verify it’s from his car, but it was at the far end of the church parking lot, in an area that wouldn’t be used by members of the congregation unless there was an overflow crowd. Also, since it rained the day before the shooting, we know it was a recent track. There’s not much here, but enough to tell us the shooter drove a midsized car.”
Clair tucked her short blonde hair behind her ear and adjusted her glasses. “This diagram is interesting.” She centered it on the projector. Picking up a laser pointer, she aimed it at an X at the edge of the woods. “This marks the shooter’s location.
Note where the two victims were standing at the time of the shooting.” She indicated Mark’s and Emily’s positions southwest of the shooter. “They came together from opposite directions; Agent Sanders from the north, Dr. Lawson from the south.” She traced their routes with the pointer.
The room went silent, and Mark’s stomach clenched as he exchanged a look with Coop. He’d passed directly in front of the shooter as he walked toward Emily, and the man hadn’t taken a shot.
“This would suggest Dr. Lawson was the target.” Steve voiced the obvious conclusion. “But if she was, why wait until she and Mark were together to fire?”
“If he was focused on Dr. Lawson, it’s conceivable he didn’t see Mark until it was too late to get a clear shot,” Carl weighed in.
“What were you doing immediately before the first shot was fired?” Coop directed his question to Mark.
It took Mark a second to re-create the moment in his mind.
“We’d just talked about getting together for a cold drink, and I was checking the time. I had to angle away from the sun to cut the glare on the face of my watch.”
“In other words, you shifted enough to the right to potentially open up a line of sight for the shooter to Dr. Lawson.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s not be too hasty here,” Steve interjected. “What about that row of bushes along the path, Clair? Wouldn’t they have prevented the shooter from getting a clear shot at Mark?”
She indicated the bushes with her pointer. “These are about six feet high and spaced four feet apart. They run along the path for thirty yards. They wouldn’t have blocked the shooter’s view, but they could have been an impediment to shooting if Agent Sanders was moving at a fast pace. And when he emerged from behind them, he would have been directly across from the shooter, presenting a less-than-optimal side view as a target.”
“The guy might have been waiting until Mark got past the bushes and moved away from him, planning to aim for his back.”
Carl studied the diagram and shook his head. “I don’t think this gives us a clear answer about the target.”
“Or if there was one,” Steve pointed out. “We can’t discount the possibility that we’re dealing with a random act of violence.
What we’ve learned suggests otherwise, but it’s too early to rule anything out.”
“Agreed. Anything else, Clair?” When she shook her head, Carl picked up a notepad. “Let’s move on to the interviews. We finished canvassing the neighbors in the vicinity of the church, and with the exception of several families who were on vacation, we talked to someone in every household. No one saw anything out of the ordinary that morning, or noticed any activity at the church. The investigators also asked residents and the pastor of the church about surveillance cameras but came up blank there too.” He set the notepad down. “What about suspects . . .enemies, people who are holding grudges, recently released criminals?” He turned to Mark.
“I’ve checked my recent releases. There haven’t been any in the past few months. I’ve also spoken with Dr. Lawson.” He filled them in on the contacts from the shelter she would provide that morning. “Did anyone track down Jack Hanley yet?”
“No.” One of the detectives on the other side of the table spoke. “No one’s been home since you passed his name on to us. I’m heading there again after the briefing.”
“That brings us back to Mark.” Steve looked toward the speakerphone. “Les, do you want to chime in here?”
“I’ve got Christy Reynolds with me. She’s the profiler in our Behavioral Science Unit who evaluated the hate mail we got after the convenience store incident. I asked her to take another look at that material in light of the shooting. Christy.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Mark leaned back in his chair as she began to speak.
“All the overtly threatening feedback we received was anonymous. Assuming the shooter was one of those people, logic tells us there was nothing to prevent him from taking action sooner if he lived in the East. The fact that the shooting occurred in St.
Louis suggests that if Mark is the target as a result of some of that feedback, and if the shooter was following his movements, proximity might now give him an incentive to act. As a result, I focused on letters and emails from the Midwest. I’ll fax you the names of St. Louis area people who signed their letters, but we’re not able to identify the authors of the more hostile feedback.”
“What’s your risk assessment, based on the content of the communication?” Steve asked.
“Marginal. Most people who spout off like this are the same people who write nasty letters to the newspaper or get into shouting matches at board of aldermen meetings. They blow off steam that way versus taking any direct action. That doesn’t mean there aren’t exceptions to that rule, but I saw nothing in any of the material I reviewed to suggest we’re dealing with the kind of deep-seated hate or mental imbalance that would pose an imminent danger to Mark. Nor was there more than one communication from any single individual, which might have suggested a fixation or vendetta.”
Steve rested his elbows on the table and knitted his fingers together. “What about the family of the boy who was killed at the convenience store?”
“We’ve already done a cursory check on them,” Les responded.
“The parents are model citizens, churchgoers, gainfully employed, civic volunteers. The remaining two children are ten and fourteen, good students, no apparent problems. Last weekend they were all on vacation, visiting family in Michigan.”
“Did any leads surface based on the media coverage?” Coop threw in that question.
“No.” Carl ran his fingers through his bristly salt-and-pepper hair, shook his head, and let out an audible breath. “I’m not seeing anything substantive. Steve?”
“I agree.”
“I suggest we finish the remaining interviews as soon as possible,” Carl continued. “Steve, it sounds like Christy’s list will cover multiple jurisdictions. Do you want to have your people tackle those?”
“Okay. And Mark and Coop are going to handle the interviews of Dr. Lawson’s domestic abuse shelter clients.”
“We canvassed the park this morning, talking to everyone who came through,” Carl noted. “We’ll be there again tomorrow, and next Saturday. There’s a chance one of the regulars saw something out of the ordinary on Saturday.”
“You’ll get us the lab report on the material you found in the shoe print ASAP?” Steve turned to Clair.
“Yes. I hope to have it later today or tomorrow.”
“What’s your security protocol?” Carl directed the question to Steve.
“We’re covering Mark. Most of you met Evan Cooper before the meeting.” He nodded to the dark-haired agent, who lifted a hand in response. “He works with Mark on the HRT. I’ve also assigned one of our people to him as Coop’s backup.”
“What about Dr. Lawson?”
“We’ve got someone on her now, but if things remain quiet, we’ll reduce our coverage in a day or two.”
That news didn’t surprise Mark. He didn’t like it, but he knew Steve was already doing more than was required. The FBI didn’t provide protection for targets. Federal marshals often worked security details, but they focused their efforts on high-profile witnesses and judges. And the local cops didn’t have the personnel to provide round-the-clock protection. Once the case began to cool—and in light of the sparse evidence and lack of leads, that was happening with alarming speed—Emily would be on her own.
Unless he could convince Steve to let him and Coop step in.
“Assuming nothing breaks sooner, let’s regroup this afternoon about four,” Carl said. “Thank you all for coming.”
As the meeting concluded, Steve signaled to Mark and headed out the door. Mark followed him to an empty interview room, and Steve waved him to a seat as he shut the door. “What are your thoughts?”
“I don’t like pulling security off of Emily.”
“I didn’t think you would.” Steve took a chair at right angles to Mark.
“There’s too much we don’t know yet. I know we can’t cover her 24/7, but for the immediate future I’d like to give her some company when she ventures out.”
“I can cut you loose from some of your day-to-day work to focus on this case—and to provide some security for Dr. Lawson.
Coop can back you up. I can also give you Nick now and then to fill in. That’s the best I can do.”
Some of the tension in Mark’s shoulders dissipated. It was more than he’d hoped for. “I understand. And I appreciate your willingness to let me work this.”
“You’ll be gone in four weeks anyway. No sense getting you involved in anything new here.” Leaning back in his chair, Steve gave him a steady look. “Unless we could convince you to stay.”
The out-of-the-blue remark surprised Mark, and he wondered if Steve might be kidding. But the man’s tone and demeanor suggested he was very serious.
“I was a case agent before I joined the HRT.” He chose his words with care, watching the other man. “I don’t think I’d want to step back into that role.”
“I hoped you might consider it if the role was . . . enhanced.”
Steve paused to give his vibrating BlackBerry a cursory look, then slipped it back on his belt. “This is confidential, but Dave Sheldon is retiring to take a job as police chief in California at the end of September. I need to fill his slot. I like what I’ve seen of your work on the reactive squad here, and I know you have the tactical and special weapons experience to do the job.”
Stunned, Mark stared at Steve. The man was offering him the chance to head the St. Louis FBI SWAT team.
“I wasn’t planning to leave the HRT.”
“Understood. But things have a way of changing. Think about it.” He rose, signaling the end of the discussion.
“Okay. And . . . thank you.”
His hand on the doorknob, Steve turned. “I like to surround myself with good people. If it works for you, great. If not, I understand.”
Mark gave himself sixty seconds to regroup. When he stepped into the hall, he found Coop waiting, arms crossed over his chest, one shoulder propped against the wall.
“Everything okay?” Coop raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah. Fine.” He’d share Steve’s offer with Coop eventually, confident his partner would respect the need for confidentiality.
But first he had to process it himself.
“I talked to Les. He called me after the meeting to let me know he doesn’t want to ease up on your security.”
“Meaning we’re stuck with each other.”
“Like glue. Until we get this thing figured out.”
“I have a feeling that may not happen anytime soon.” Mark headed down the hall.
Coop fell into step beside him. “The guy didn’t leave much to work with, that’s for sure. But it only takes a lucky break or two to turn the tide. Let’s check and see if the list of Emily’s clients from the shelter has come in yet.”
“Sí, cambié las citas. Pero tienes que quedarte en casa más de un día. ¡Te dispararon!”
As the rush of Spanish tumbled through the phone line in response to her question, a smile tugged at Emily’s lips. “English, Maria. Despite your diligent efforts to teach me, I have no ear for languages.”
“I said that I have changed your appointments for today, like you asked, but you should stay home more than one day. You’ve been shot . . . with a gun! ¡Que Dios nos proteja!”
“Except for being a little tired, I’m doing fine. You know I’d go stir-crazy if I sat around my condo for more than one day.”
“That is because you have nothing in your life but work. Work is good. But there is more. You have been too long by yourself.”
For seven years, since the day she’d opened her practice, Maria Fernandez had shared her office as secretary, receptionist, sage, friend—and matchmaker, Emily reflected. Married at twenty-two, she was the proud mother of three. She loved her work . . . but she loved her family more and couldn’t understand why anyone would want to remain single.
She’d fretted about the lack of romance in her boss’s life, and it had been her prodding that had pushed Emily to accept that first date with Grant. No one had been happier than Maria when Emily had married. Or more devastated when she’d been widowed. Maria had consoled, comforted, fed, supported, and—after a respectable number of months had passed—begun nudging her to establish some sort of social life again.
However, despite Maria’s good intentions, Emily had no interest in taking another chance on romance. In time, she hoped Maria would come to accept her decision and quit pushing.
But that hadn’t happened yet.
“I’m fine by myself, Maria. I like my own company.”
“Hmph.”
The muttered comment that followed was in Spanish, but Emily could guess what mula meant.
“I need you to check my file for Hope House and pull the names of the women I’ve seen during the past four weeks.” Turning the discussion to business was a surefire way to deflect further personal comments. “The shelter will give you their contact information. I’ve already alerted Margaret that you’re going to call. Once you have all that, go ahead and fax it.” Emily recited the number Mark had given her.
“I will handle. You rest. Do you want me to bring you some fajitas tonight? We had them for dinner yesterday, and there is plenty left.”
“No, thank you. My fridge is full. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sí. I am sure you will.” Maria didn’t try to hide her resigned sigh.
“If anything comes up before then, call me and—”
The ring of the doorbell startled Emily, and she fumbled the phone.
“What was that?” Maria demanded.
Struggling to quiet the sudden pounding of her heart, Emily took a slow breath and tightened her hold on the phone. “The doorbell.”
“Do not answer it!”
“I have an FBI agent watching my front door, Maria. It’s probably him.”
“You check. I will wait.”
“Fine. I’m walking to the door now.” When she reached it, she peered through the peephole. Evelyn stood on the other side, balancing a plate covered with aluminum foil. “It’s Evelyn, Maria. Bearing food.”
“Ah. Good. You will call later?”
“Yes. I promise.”
Severing the connection, Emily flipped the lock and pulled the door open.
“Good morning, Emily. I hoped you’d stay home today. I made pot roast last night and, as usual, I cooked far too much. I was hoping you’d take some off my hands.” The older woman held out the plate.
With a smile, Emily took the foil-covered offering and motioned her inside. “You’re a treasure, Evelyn.”
A flush rose on the woman’s cheeks, deepening their natural pink color. With her white hair coiffed into a soft French twist and her twinkling blue eyes, she looked like an ad for a greeting card commercial about grandmothers.
“Thank you, my dear. But I won’t come in today. I expect the last thing you need is company. Though I must say, you’ve had your share of handsome young men trooping through here in the past twenty-four hours.”
“They were FBI agents.”
“I know. I met one of them. And there’s another one across the parking lot now in a black SUB.”
Emily struggled to stifle the smile that tugged at her lips.
Evelyn never got abbreviations right. SUVs were SUBs. DVDs were DVTs. ATMs were AMTs. But aside from being acro-nymically challenged, she didn’t miss a trick. If any suspicious characters were lurking in the area, Emily was convinced Evelyn would spot them before the FBI did.
“They’ll be around for a few days, I think.”
“I should hope so, after what that crazy man did to you. How are you feeling today, dear?”
“Better.” That wasn’t a lie. She hadn’t needed any pain medication yet, and her sleep hadn’t been interrupted by nightmares, as she’d feared.
“Good. You enjoy that pot roast and call me if you need anything.” “I will. Thank you, Evelyn.”
She waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Just following the Good Book. Do unto others and all that. Why are we here if we can’t help each other? See you later.”
As Evelyn trotted off, Emily closed the door, secured the lock, and tucked the phone under her arm. It rang again en route to the kitchen, and she shook her head. Good thing she hadn’t tried to sleep in, she reflected as she greeted the caller.
“Emily, it’s Mark. Did I wake you?”
The sound of his voice, warm and a bit husky, set off a flutter in the pit of her stomach. “No. How did the briefing go?”
“Nothing much to report.” Frustration nipped at his words.
“But we’re still checking out leads, and the lab results aren’t back yet. How are you doing?”
“Better than yesterday. I spoke with my secretary, and she’ll be faxing the contact information for my Hope House clients in the next half hour.”
“Good. Coop and I will check them out this afternoon. Feel like some company for dinner tonight?”
Emily looked at the plate in her hand and decided it would keep until tomorrow. “Sure. Business or pleasure?”
“A little of both.”
At least he was honest.
“I’d like that.”
“Great. What should I bring? Pizza, Chinese, Mexican, Italian . . . you name it.”
“You pick. But if it’s pizza, could you ask them to leave off—”
“The mushrooms. And add extra green peppers.”
His response caught her off guard. “How in the world did you remember that?”
“It must have been stuck somewhere in my subconscious.”
“That’s a scary thought. What else is stuck there?”
She could hear the smile in his voice when he responded. “I have no idea. I guess we’ll find out.”
His flirty inflection sent a tingle zipping along her nerve endings—and prompted her to wander over to the thermostat and turn up her air-conditioning. She tried for a light, teasing tone when she replied. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“As I recall, you don’t harbor any deep, dark secrets or questionable vices that you need to worry about.”
“If I did, I have a feeling you guys would know about them by now. I must admit, having your life scrutinized is kind of weird.
And a little scary.”
“It shouldn’t be, unless you have something to hide.”
“Nothing the feds would be interested in.”
“Hmm. That’s an intriguing comeback. Maybe I’ll have to brush up on my interviewing skills before tonight. What happened to that uncomplicated girl I used to know?”
“Life.”
“I hear you. I suppose most people our age have their share of baggage. We’ll have to continue this discussion in person.”
“Or not.” It would be safer to keep the conversation light and simple, Emily decided.
He chuckled. “How does seven sound?”
“Fine. I’ll see you then.”
As the connection went dead, Emily returned the phone to its stand and slid Evelyn’s offering into the fridge. It would be way too easy to let Mark Sanders ease back into her life, she realized. During that long-ago summer, they’d clicked on some elemental level. And despite the passage of years, despite the baggage he’d referenced, despite their different lifestyles, they’d clicked again.
But she was older now. And wiser. Love wasn’t about whispered promises and stolen kisses or the magic of Wren Lake.
It was about risk and courage and loss. It offered incredible highs—and crushing lows. And every moment of togetherness and sharing and intimacy served only to throw the devastating loneliness of loss into stark relief, like the deepening shadows cast by a setting winter sun.
Emily had no regrets about her time with Grant, except that it had been too short. But neither did she have any desire to repeat it. She’d survived loss once. She didn’t think she could do it again. It was safer to build a world she could control, one that didn’t require her to expose her heart to risk.
As she moved back toward the bedroom, already in need of a nap, she paused to peek through the blinds in her office.
Her gaze fell on the black SUV across the parking lot, its tinted windows hiding the occupant from passersby.
And all at once, a startling insight jolted her.
The safe, predictable world she’d created for herself, the one she guarded so fiercely, the one in which she controlled the variables, hadn’t simply vanished in a heartbeat, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.
It had always been an illusion.