One Wrong Move, page 13
Her nose crinkled. “Round table?”
“You’ll see.” Greyson smiled. “But first, coffee. Would you like a cup, or I can make a latte or a cappuccino?”
“I’d love a cappuccino,” Harper said. “Thanks so much.”
“My pleasure.” Greyson dipped forward slightly at the waist.
Deckard sighed. Greyson had one of those espresso machines in the lounge, along with accessories to whip up any number of drinks and a full row of syrups in pump bottles. The counter mimicked that of Starbucks.
“Let me guess . . .” Harper said, studying Deckard.
Great, the lady was analyzing him. He was curious where this was going.
“You’re a black cup of coffee, right?”
“Only way to go,” he replied.
“And, Greyson . . . I’m guessing you’re a double espresso kind of guy.”
“Very good.” Greyson smiled and strode through the doorway.
“But he puts that whipped cream gunk on top,” Deckard added.
“Gunk?” Harper said, brows arched. “Did you just call whipped cream gunk?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled and winked.
“Then you’re going to have a hard time staying at my place.”
Deck frowned. “Your place?”
“I assume we’ll be investigating in Albuquerque, where everything took place.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then you’re staying at my place.”
“I appreciate the offer,” he said, “but I don’t want to put you out.” Though the thought warmed him. She was beautiful, clearly intelligent, and a bundle of enthusiasm, but he wasn’t looking for a romantic connection. He liked his life as-is. Maybe someday he’d feel different, but for now, he was content, though a woman as vivacious as Harper Grace just might make him change his mind if she was hanging around longer. But, according to Andi, Harper had a two-month humanitarian service trip just around the corner.
“You’re not putting me out,” she countered. “It’s the least I can do for you working Andi’s case. I have an empty guest room.”
He didn’t see how to get out of that one gracefully. “All right. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She winked as she smiled. Not a flirtatious wink. Just the friendly sort, but it did set his insides spinning. She was trouble. He bit his bottom lip, then restructured his thoughts. “While we’re in Albuquerque, Greyson can be working the case with us, just headquartered here. He’s a whiz at all things research.”
“Awesome,” she said.
“Well, let’s get started. I just need to grab something out of my office.”
“I’ll show her the way to the round table,” Greyson said, returning with fancy mugs in hand. “Your cappuccino, madame.”
“Thank you.” She smirked at Deckard. “I’ll take your bitter black coffee with me, if you’d like.”
Determined not to give her the satisfaction of a reaction, he just said, “Thanks. I’ll just be a minute.”
In his office, he spun the file cabinet lock, stopping on the numbers that made up his combination, and the A drawer unlocked. He pulled it open, fingered through the files, and found Mitch Abrams, along with a copy of the case file, courtesy of Mitch’s defense lawyer, Clint James. He was old-fashioned, but he didn’t trust keeping everything on a computer that could crash. He liked the hard copy of everything. Greyson, on the other hand, input everything into their computer systems, which gave them a backup should anything happen to his files or vice versa.
Stepping out of his office with files he never thought he’d need again tucked under his arms, he headed for the round table.
He found Riley and Harper chatting up a storm, but no Greyson. He set the files on the literal round conference table. “Where’s Grey?”
“He said he had to grab something, but he’d be right back,” Riley said.
Deckard took his seat and swallowed a swig of his coffee just as Greyson returned.
“Harper’s drink looks scrumptious,” Riley said, shooting Greyson a glare, or at least an attempted one. She was too sweet to pull off angry. Unless it was dealing with a case or offense—then look out. She became a wildebeest. “I would have loved a drink, should someone have asked.”
Still standing, Greyson pulled a cup from behind his back. “Madame.”
Riley smiled, her freckles spreading across her cheeks. “Thanks, Greyson. I don’t care what Deck says about you and your drinks—you rock!”
Deck shook his head on a sideways grin. “So easily bought.”
She took a sip, then smiled, foam covering her upper lip. “For this . . . you bet.”
“My pleasure.” Greyson dipped at the waist and gave Riley that smile he only gave her.
Deckard took another sip of his coffee, eyeing them over the rim of his cup. If he didn’t know better . . . He shook off the thought and took a prolonged sip of his coffee. “Mmm-mmm.” He smiled at Harper. “Great sludge.” He held his mug in salute to Greyson.
“Hopeless.” Greyson shook his head, then strode to the wall of glass panels framed with white beams where he always stood while they ran a case. “Shall we begin?” he asked.
“Let’s do it,” Deckard said with a nod at Harper.
She nodded back with a deep expression of gratitude.
“What do we know?” Greyson asked, a black dry erase marker in hand.
“We know Andi worked the night of Anne Marlowe’s murder,” Deckard said. “She was in the lab with a tech and another analyst.” According to what Harper said on the way over.
“Our supervisor, Kevin Gaines, was out sick,” Harper continued. “And our forensics manager, Todd Phillips, covered for Kevin, which he never did.”
“Why not?” Greyson asked, having written the supervisor’s and manager’s names each on a separate glass panel.
“Protocol was to call another shift supervisor in,” she explained.
“Did Todd say why he made the shift from protocol?” Greyson asked.
“Andi said he told her that he was available, so he jumped in.”
“But it hadn’t ever happened before?” Deckard asked again, just to be sure.
Harper shook her head.
“What about since that night?” Greyson asked. “Has it ever happened again?”
“Todd’s no longer with the FBI,” she said. “He got a huge job upgrade not long after Anne Marlowe’s murder.”
Greyson’s brows arched. “Interesting timing, I think we can all agree.” He tapped Todd’s name written in black marker on the glass panel.
“Agreed,” Riley said, chiming in.
“Okay . . .” Greyson said. “What are the tech’s and analyst’s names from that night?”
“Marshall Palmer was the tech, and Pam Whitmore the analyst.”
“Do they still work in the lab?” Greyson asked, adding their names to the board in perfect penmanship.
Deck reached for a sip of coffee. Not that good penmanship was something he aspired to by any means, but Greyson’s scrolled handwriting made his look like a kindergartner with crayons.
“Yes,” Harper said to Greyson’s question. “They do.”
“And the new job Todd Phillips got?”
“He was appointed to chair of the Arizona Forensic Science Academy.”
“That does sound like a big jump,” Greyson said.
“It was.” Harper nodded, then took a sip of her drink—foam clinging to her lips. She reached for the cocktail napkin Greyson had brought with the cup and dabbed it away.
Deckard smiled. She looked adorable. Adorable? What was up with him? He needed to focus. Needed to be at his best to maneuver the change from what he’d known during his investigation for Mitch to seeing the other side of the coin.
“Any other job changes . . . promotions?” Greyson asked.
“Our supervisor who was out sick the night of Anne Marlowe’s murder, Kevin Gaines, slid into Todd’s role, and we got a new supervisor, Doug Jones.”
“That’s a lot of changes,” Riley said.
“That was my thought.” Harper nodded.
“Let’s look at the idea of Andi being set up in relation to all these personnel changes,” Greyson said, smoothing his jacket.
“Either the changes are directly related to something going down in the lab that night . . .” Riley looked at Harper for confirmation, and Harper nodded. “Or it’s a huge coincidence. But I, for one, am skeptical of coincidences.”
“What we need to figure out is who gained the most from what went down,” Deckard said, a raw sensation gnawing at his gut.
“Kevin’s and Doug’s promotions were big, but Todd’s was a huge leap, and he surpassed our forensics director, Greg Dunkirk, for the position.”
“So Greg was up for the position?” Riley asked.
“I only heard a few rumors, but if the forensic science academy was looking to fill the position with someone from our lab, Greg had the superior position and knowledge. He has his PhD in forensic science while Todd just has his bachelor’s. It doesn’t make sense.”
“We should start our investigation by interviewing Todd Phillips,” Deckard said.
“Okay, I’ll get his number,” Harper said. “I imagine he still has the same cell number.”
“In person is always better,” Deckard said. “That way you can read a person’s body language, their expressions. We’ll pay him a visit tomorrow.” It was surreal looking at things from a different perspective, but he’d promised Christian he’d investigate for Andi, and he’d keep that promise. But he couldn’t control the outcome. He prayed it wasn’t one that crushed his brother.
THIRTY-ONE
ANDI ROUSED FROM SLEEP and blinked at the vaulted ceiling with wooden beams overhead. She rubbed her eyes. Where . . . ? Her sleepy mind started to wake. Christian’s. Blinking, she rolled over and gazed out at the beautiful mountains, the sun’s rays lighting the yellow aspen leaves. Her gaze tracked down to the jutted sandstone crags layered with shale. A light flashed across the top.
She blinked again, wondering what the sun was illuminating. The light flashed again, its shaft skipping across a section of the blanket covering her.
Curious, she moved toward the sliding door, opened it, and stepped to the edge of the stone patio. The light ceased as she searched the ridge. A shiver snaked up her spine—the sensation of being watched raked back over her again.
“Hey, Andi,” Christian said from the other side of the patio. “I didn’t know you were awake.”
“Yeah.” She turned to face him, but out of the corner of her eye she caught a swift shift of movement. She spun back, and the silhouette of a man ducked into the trees. “Christian!”
“Go inside,” he said, running past her with his gun in hand, dust kicking up behind him.
No way was she letting Christian chase the man on his own. She raced back in the house, slipped on the shoes she’d borrowed from Riley, and grabbed her gun from her purse.
Darting back outside, she scrambled up the sloping hill and moved into the trees. Shafts of light illuminated small pockets in the forest, but shade dimmed the remainder. “I’m in,” she hollered, giving Christian a heads-up so they didn’t accidentally shoot one another.
Rounding a steep, angled bend in the slope, she made out two figures weaving around trees, flitting in and out of her line of sight.
She increased her pace, breaking into an all-out sprint. Her lungs burning in the cool air, she wasn’t making up time fast enough.
Please, Lord, let Christian get him.
She was tired of looking over her shoulder, waiting for the next attack to come.
Struggling to fasten her gaze on the two men and not focusing on the ground before her, she stumbled over a rock, tumbled forward, unable to correct herself fast enough. She landed hard, her knees taking the brunt of the fall—knees still bruised and scabbed from the first attempt on their lives.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Three gunshots reverberated through her chest. Birds squawked, surging toward the sky in a dark swirl about fifty yards due west.
She scrambled to her feet and plowed forward.
Pop. Pop.
Her chest squeezed, blood whooshing in her ears. Please, Lord, let Christian be safe.
She swallowed the bout of nausea sloshing in her gut.
A bullet whirred by, and she ducked.
A shattering thwack exploded ten feet to her right—the bark of the tree it hit flying in shards about the forest floor.
She scrambled to a boulder twenty feet in the opposite direction, pressing her back against the cold rock, her gun tight in her hand.
Another shot whirred by, shattering another tree ten feet away.
Had the man backtracked?
Footsteps sounded—nearing her. She prayed her thudding heart didn’t give her position away.
She pressed her back harder against the boulder as the heavy footfalls approached. Closer. Closer still. She could hear his breathing.
Dear Lord, help. Securing her gun in her grip, she waited, ready to fire.
A shot nailed the boulder mere inches from her head. A second shot followed, closer still.
She leaned around the side of the boulder and pulled the trigger before the man could get his next shot off.
The Glock recoiled in her grip. Crack. Thwack.
The man’s torso flung as the bullet collided with his shoulder. A cursed moan escaped his lips. Cussing a string of obscenities, he returned fire. She dropped low, and the bullet nailed the boulder across from her. Then, with a groan, he turned and ran.
Pop. Pop. Pop. At her nine. Fifty yards and closing fast.
Christian.
Rising, she broke into a full-out run, trying to locate Christian’s position. She bounded out of the tree cover, the sun blinding. A hand grasped hard around her upper arm, yanking her back so swiftly, her feet went out from under her. Adrenaline seared through her, and she swung.
“Whoa!” Christian said, taking the punch in his jaw.
Her eyes flashed wide. “Sorry. I thought you were him.”
He settled her back on the ground but didn’t let go. “He’s headed for the creek.” He pointed, and she looked, her head swirling on the steep drop-off she’d nearly run over.
Thank you, Lord, for Christian. That would have been a deadly drop.
“There,” Christian said, pointing at the figure sliding toward the creek, the forest floor skidding like sand in his wake.
“This way.” Christian pointed to his three o’clock. “If we hurry, we can probably cut him off at the road.”
“Don’t wait for me.” It was amazing how fast he ran.
She followed, but he disappeared into the distance again. Light and shade vacillated in moving shadows before her, dizzying her head, but she pressed on. She tramped over damp moss, her feet sliding across the slick surface, but she managed to maintain her balance this time.
Christian’s silhouette flashed into her line of sight, then disappeared over what had to be another ridge.
Air burning her lungs, it seemed to take forever, but she finally reached the ridge. Christian was already down it.
She shifted sideways, moving along the natural slope of the hill, trying to avoid rocks and moss. Thick brush and brambles covered her path. She shimmied through as fast as she could, thistles sticking to her yoga pants.
Reaching the creek, she looked up and down, and finally spotted Christian climbing the ridge on the opposite side.
A gun retorted.
Please, Lord, keep Christian safe.
Two more shots fired.
She splashed into the free-flowing creek, having to slow enough to balance on slippery rocks. Come on. Come on. How many rocks did this creek bed have?
Finally, on the other side of the creek, she started up the ridge. Halfway up, two more shots fired. She slipped, sliding partway back down the ridge.
She scrambled her way up, finally reaching the top. She spotted Christian walking back toward her.
Her shoulders drooped. “He got away?”
Christian nodded. “He made it to the road and drove off in the white SUV that’s been dogging us.”
THIRTY-TWO
SWEATY AND GRIMY from the chase, Christian padded back across the stone patio with Andi at his side. He’d come on their property, to his family’s homes. Knowing Deckard and the fighting Irish in him, he wouldn’t sit around and wait. He’d go on the offensive. And the cowboy in him would protect his ranch with his life. Just as Christian would do. He refused to sit around waiting for someone to strike again. They’d not only work the investigation; it was time to go on the hunt. No doubt it was the same man who ran them off the road in the white SUV he’d just exited in.
“I’ll call Joel. Let him know what happened. He’ll want to know,” Christian said.
Andi nodded. “Good idea.”
About two minutes later, he ended the call. “Joel’s on his way over. Wants to check things out and take an official police report.”
“That makes sense.”
“He’s also bringing the gala footage and that of the heist. He’s cleared it for us to watch.”
“That’s great.”
He looked over with a smile to catch her gingerly rolling her shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Took a tumble . . . or two,” she said with an embarrassed smile.
“But you nailed him.”
“Yeah.” Her smile widened.
“Which means he’s going to need medical attention or supplies, at the very least.” They were lucky they didn’t need serious medical attention. The guy was a good shot. He’d very narrowly missed Christian, and Christian had the flesh wound to show it. But they were safe now, at least for the moment, he hoped. Adrenaline still seared his limbs, his fight mechanism still at full throttle.
“How’d you know he was here?” she asked as they reached the living room sliding door.
“I was standing here and saw light reflecting off his . . . binoculars, I’m guessing.”
“Yeah. I saw the flash too.” She looked up at him. “I’m sorry about the punch.”
He rubbed his jaw, knowing there was red on his face. “I’m impressed,” he said with a crooked smile. “It was a good one.”
