“Let’s focus on lab results first. Clair, did you identify the material on the shooter’s boot?” Steve turned to the ERT technician, who sat halfway down one side of the table in the Oakdale PD conference room for the Tuesday morning briefing.
“Yes. The lab actually found two different things. Concrete and manure.”
“Is the manure from a deer?” Carl asked. “They’re taking over out here.”
“No. Based on preliminary results, it’s looking like bovine.
The sample was fresh, so there wasn’t a lot of degradation in the DNA. The lab should have a positive ID today or tomorrow.” “Interesting. Sounds like our shooter lives in or frequents a rural area. And he’s also been around wet concrete recently. It’s not much, but it’s more than we had yesterday.” Steve consulted his notebook. “We managed to track down several of the people on Christy’s list. They all check out so far. We have three more to question.” He looked at Coop and Mark. “How are you doing with the women’s shelter interviews?”
“There were nine women on our list.” Coop leaned forward.
“We talked to five of them yesterday. Four haven’t had any contact with their spouses or boyfriends since they spoke to Dr.
Lawson, and one has gone back to her husband. We’ll talk to the other four today, assuming they’re in town.”
“What about Hanley?”
“His alibi checked out,” the detective who’d been assigned to question Emily’s troubled client responded. “He was out of town with his son all weekend at a soccer camp. On Saturday morning, he was helping coach one of the teams. His story checks with all the witnesses he identified.”
“So much for that lead. Anything else we need to discuss?”
Carl directed the question to the group.
As Mark glanced around the table, there was a bit more discussion about next steps, but the options were limited. Three days into the investigation, most of the leads had been dead ends, and no new evidence had surfaced. The case was chilling as fast as his skin had years ago after a springtime plunge into icy Wren Lake.
“We’ll schedule another briefing if anything substantive breaks. In the meantime, stay in touch by phone.” Carl rose and gathered up his notes.
As the meeting broke up, Steve joined Mark and Coop in one corner of the conference room. “How’s Dr. Lawson doing?”
“Okay. She went back to work today. Coop and I escorted her and laid out some ground rules for the next few days.” Mark raked his fingers through his hair and shook his head in frustration.
“We’re nowhere with this.”
“The shooter didn’t leave us much to work with,” Steve concurred. “He wears a size eleven shoe, drives a midsize car, and has a passing acquaintance with cows and cement.” Coop stuck one hand in his pocket and propped a shoulder against the wall. “We also know he’s careful. He doesn’t want us to find him.”
“And we may not, unless he made a mistake we haven’t found yet. Or tries again,” Steve noted.
Sitting around waiting for the latter possibility held no appeal for Mark. “What do you think about releasing some additional information to the press? I know we didn’t get any leads from the initial coverage, but maybe someone will see it who missed the original story.”
“It might be worth a shot. Let me run it by Carl and see what he thinks. I’ll be in touch.”
As Steve headed across the room to talk with the detective captain, Coop turned to Mark. “Let’s go check out the rest of the Hope House contacts.”
At the knock on her door, Emily looked up from the patient file on her desk. “Come in.”
A moment later, Maria’s head appeared around the office door. “You are alone, yes?”
“Yes. Mr. Barlow left a few minutes ago.” She checked her watch. “Why are you still here? I thought you had to pick up Carlos early from school today.”
“Sí, I know. But I do not like to leave you here alone.”
“I have locks on all the doors. And peepholes now, too, thanks to Nick. Mark and Coop will be here soon. I promise not to open my door to strangers before then.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes. Go. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
“I am glad you have no morning office hours on Wednesday.
This way, you can sleep in.”
“Trust me, I’m looking forward to it. Now go get Carlos.”
“Okay. After I finish one letter.”
A few minutes later, when Emily heard the muted sound of a male voice through her thick door, she assumed Mark and Coop had arrived to escort her to the doctor. Locking the patient file in her desk drawer, she rose, glad to call it a day. In the past hour her arm had begun to throb, and exhaustion had sapped her energy. After she got her dressing changed, her agenda for the remainder of the day was simple: take a warm bath, eat a light dinner, go to bed. And the sooner the better.
Gathering up her purse and briefcase, she threw her jacket around her shoulders. But as she flipped off the light in her office and pulled open the door, she froze.
A red-faced Jack Hanley stood on the threshold of the hall door, his path blocked by all five-foot-three inches of Maria, who had a white-knuckled grip on the door on one side and the door frame on the other. It was clear she had no intention of moving as she glared at the man who towered over her by a good ten inches.
When Jack caught sight of Emily, however, he shouldered his way past Maria, throwing her off balance.
“He was on the other side of the door when I opened it to leave,” Maria told Emily, anger flashing in her eyes as she steadied herself on the doorframe. “I told him you were not seeing anyone else today, but he would not go away.”
“It’s all right, Maria.” Emily did her best to keep her face and tone placid, though her stomach was churning. “Mr. Hanley, why don’t you call tomorrow, and Maria will set up an appoint—”
“Did you send those cops to interrogate me?” He planted his fists on his hips and glared down at her as he bit out the words, his face inches from hers.
Although Mark had said the officers and agents wouldn’t reveal details of the investigation, Emily wasn’t surprised Jack had connected it to her. She’d been his nemesis of late, and he knew she had detailed information about his problems. Logic would suggest to him that she was somehow involved with, or had knowledge of, his encounter with the police.
“I’m aware they were planning to talk with you.”
Her answer fueled his anger. “That’s what I thought. Look, lady, I have enough trouble already. I don’t need the cops hanging around. I haven’t done anything illegal.”
“Then you have nothing to be concerned about.”
“Since the day I met you, I’ve had nothing but trouble.”
“The trouble was already there when we met, Mr. Hanley. I’m trying to help you work through it.”
“And sending the cops to my house is a way to do that? What kind of therapist are you, anyway?”
She eased away from him. “I think you should leave. We can schedule an appointment for tomorrow when you’re calmer.”
“I want to talk now.” He raised his voice. “I’m tired of being jerked around. Tired of people telling me what to do and how to live my life. And don’t try to brush me off.” He reached out and snagged her jacket as she turned away, as if to restrain her, but succeeded only in pulling it from her shoulders.
The next few seconds were a blur. Emily heard pounding footsteps in the hall. Maria started hitting Jack with her purse.
Mark and Coop appeared, guns drawn. As Coop whipped Jack around and barked out an order, Mark stepped in front of Emily, keeping his Glock trained on Jack.
“What the . . .” Jack’s complexion reddened as Coop flashed his credentials and proceeded to do a thorough pat down.
After he finished, Coop backed off and lowered his gun, but he didn’t put it away. Nor did the grim line of his mouth ease.
“He’s clean.”
Turning, Mark holstered his gun and eased Emily into the chair beside Maria’s desk. Maria hovered close, muttering in Spanish, and handed her a glass of water.
As she lifted it to her lips, Emily realized she was shaking.
When the water sloshed dangerously close to the rim, Mark closed his hand around her cold fingers. She was grateful for his warm, steady touch as she took a sip.
“You’re okay now.” Leaning down, he stroked her hair, her cheek, his gaze probing hers.
“What’s going on here?” Jack glared at Coop.
“He has a solid alibi for Saturday. But you have every right to press harassment charges for this little incident.” Mark ignored Jack’s question and kept his voice low as he spoke to Emily.
“No. That would only complicate his life further. I shouldn’t have given you his name. I knew it would backfire.”
“Now that I’ve seen him in action, I’m not sorry we checked him out. Are you sure about the charges?”
“Yes.” She gave a jerky nod.
He hesitated a second, then straightened and turned to Jack.
“You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Hanley.” His tone was icy. “Dr.
Lawson has elected not to press harassment charges. And for your information, she was extremely reluctant to reveal your name to us, even though she was wounded by a sniper on Saturday.” “She was shot?” Shock rippled across Jack’s features, and some of the color drained from his face. Angling his head, he looked past Mark. For the first time, he seemed to notice the thick white dressing on Emily’s upper arm that extended below the sleeve of her blouse.
“Yes. Now I suggest you leave before she changes her mind about the charges . . . or before we change it for her.”
“Look, I’m really sorry about . . . I had no idea.” He moved toward the door, turning when he reached it to address Emily, his tone subdued. “I guess maybe I do need that anger management class. Thank you for not . . . for not taking any legal action today.”
At least something good had come of this episode, Emily reflected. Jack had acknowledged his anger problem. And recognized that he’d narrowly averted serious trouble as a result of it.
“Just get some help, Mr. Hanley,” she told him.
With a brief nod, the man slipped through the door. Coop moved to the threshold, watching until he exited the building.
Dropping down to balance on the balls of his feet beside her, Mark took her hand. “Let’s get you to the doctor, then home, okay?”
She managed a smile. “How is it you always manage to make such dramatic entrances in my life?”
“Frankly, I could do with a little less drama.” He turned to Coop, who had stepped back inside the office.
“He’s gone,” Coop confirmed.
Maria moved closer, concern etching her features. “Can I do anything else for you, Emily?”
“No. Thank you for coming to my defense. That purse can be a lethal weapon. I know how much it weighs.” She managed a shaky smile.
“You take good care of her,” Maria addressed the two men.
“That’s the plan.” Mark rose.
“I am sure you will try. But it is not always easy to do. She can be terca . . . stubborn.” Maria turned to Emily. “You do what they say, and I see you tomorrow. And from now on, I will look even if I think no one is there. I will not make this mistake ever again. Buenas noches.”
As Maria disappeared out the door, Emily stood. Her legs felt like rubber, and she was grateful for Mark’s hand under her elbow. She reached for her purse and briefcase, but Mark beat her to them.
“How about you concentrate on hanging on to me instead?”
That was no hardship. She could feel his muscles bunch beneath her fingertips as she slipped her hand through his arm, and his rock solid steadiness gave her a sense of strength and security. Two things she was in desperate need of tonight.
Especially after he told her on the way home that none of the interviews or leads had produced any suspects. And that they were no closer to finding the shooter now than they had been three days before.
He almost missed the follow-up story. If someone hadn’t left Wednesday’s newspaper on the table in the lunch room, he would have.
As he nuked one of the last homemade chicken potpies Ruthie had frozen, he scanned the headline: “Police Continuing to Check Leads in Park Shooting.” Information on the incident had been sparse until now. An initial story short on detail, plus some TV coverage the first day that consisted of nothing more substantive than video footage of the park.
That had been it.
The reason for the lack of coverage was obvious. The police didn’t have a clue who was responsible. And this latest headline was a crock. There weren’t any leads to check. If there had been, he’d be in jail by now. The care he’d taken to cover his tracks had paid off.
The microwave pinged, and he withdrew the potpie, settling at the table with the newspaper in the empty lunch room. He’d started eating later than the other guys in the past few weeks.
Their chitchat had begun to get on his nerves.
“Smells good in here.”
He looked up as Red entered. Pushing sixty, the foreman had a shock of thick white hair that always needed combing, and the ruddy complexion that had earned him his nickname was redder than ever after the summer construction season.
“It’s one of Ruth’s potpies.”
It didn’t surprise him when that response discombobulated his boss.
“She was a good cook.” Red busied himself at the coffeemaker and changed the subject. “You gonna bowl with us again this fall? League’ll be starting soon.”
“Not this year.”
Turning, Red looked over at him. “Listen, I know you’ve had some really tough months. You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
For a moment, he thought Red was going to say more. Instead, the man added some cream to his coffee and headed for the door. “Don’t forget to read that note from George on the bulletin board. Take care, pal.”
Pal.
Red wasn’t his pal. Not like Ruthie had been. Or his son. Nor were any of the guys at work. They weren’t there when he went home at night. They didn’t cook him great meals and listen to his problems or shoot baskets with him or help with the chores.
They went home to their own families.
And he didn’t blame them. That’s what he used to do too.
When he had a family.
A savory piece of chicken from the potpie stuck in his throat, and he pushed the food away, struggling to blink the moisture from his eyes. He couldn’t break down. Not yet. He had a job to do first. The Lord had spoken to him about it. And until he finished that assignment, he needed to keep a clear head. Grief could come later.
Lifting the newspaper, he scanned the story. Until now, neither of the victims had been identified. But today’s article listed one by name and the other by profession—FBI Special Agent Mark Sanders and a prominent local psychologist. According to the piece, the investigators were focusing on Sanders as the target because of a high-profile shooting in which he’d been involved.
Looking up from the newspaper, his gaze fell on the employee bulletin board next to the refrigerator. He’d already read the note from George Aiken, general manager, about a new Missouri Department of Transportation project the company had been awarded. And he’d read the letter next to it from big-time builder
Mike Evans, commending the team at Aiken for its work on his latest housing development. The man had even personalized it with some handwritten kudos at the bottom.
He’d worked on that project. Done a good job too.
As he considered Evans’s note, he suddenly realized that the tools to further deflect attention from his real target were staring at him.
It was like a message from above.
And once everyone was focused on protecting the FBI agent, it would be much easier to finish his job.
The next time, Emily Lawson would die.