Cold Shot (7 page)

“Sounds great,” Finley said, clearly wanting to remain in the loop.

Declan stepped from the counter he’d been leaning against. “I’ll get started searching missing persons reports now that we have a description and key parameters.” He smiled, clearly enjoying all of them being together again. Of course he would.

Declan waved and disappeared down the hall.

“I should head back to my office,” Finley said. “Got a lot of work ahead of me.”

Griffin followed her out. “Can I wait and give you a lift?” He wanted to see her safely home.

“Thanks, but I’ll be a while. I’ll have Parker give me a ride. He’ll be here just as late and lives not far from me.”

Griffin swallowed, not wanting to think about Parker seeing Finley home for a multitude of reasons. “Okay. See you later,” he said, ducking out before she could respond. He’d feel better personally seeing her home, but maybe this way was better after all—it wouldn’t give her a chance to prod into his past.

He maintained a quick pace down the corridor, the soles of his Merrill boots squeaking on the freshly mopped floor, the abrasive scent of Lysol wafting like a thick cloud in the air between the dropped ceiling and cinderblock walls.

Within seconds, Finley’s springy steps echoed down the hall after him.

He hung his head. He should have known better. She was far too inquisitive.

“Hey,” she said, hurrying to catch up. “You left quickly.”

“Wanted to let you get to work.”

“Thanks, but the least I can do is walk you out. You probably just saved my life.”

He hated to think of her being in danger, but his gut told him she still was—at least until Jane Doe was ID’d.

“So you were a sniper?” Finley said.

“Yes.” He kept moving toward the outer door, not planning on going into detail. Especially not the gritty ones that haunted him at night. Not the ones that would destroy any respect she might hold for him.

“That must have been an unusual job.”

Most people used
interesting
or
hard
. “That it was.” When
he pushed through the metal door out into the parking lot, small flakes of snow—unusual for November—fluttered around them.

She leaned against the stair rail, staring up at him with wide blue eyes. “Why the career change?” She asked so innocently, so sweetly, he didn’t have the heart to shut her out—at least not fully.

He wrapped his scarf around his neck and tucked the ends into his pea coat. “Couldn’t do it anymore.”

She nodded, understanding filling her eyes. He couldn’t linger there, couldn’t handle the pity that usually followed. He allowed his gaze to follow the curve of her cheek down along her delicate chin and then up to her lips—pink and full and cracked ever so slightly, her breath evaporating in the cold night air. She tilted her head back, and he made the mistake of looking her in the eyes, surprised to find longing, not pity, residing there.

He swallowed hard and took a deliberate step back. “Good night, Ms. Scott.”

Disappointment filled her eyes. “I thought we were past that.”

He scanned the parking lot, the unsettling sensation of being watched raking over him again. “You should get back inside.”

“Why?” She stiffened as his gaze swept the parking lot. “What’s wrong?”

“Just humor me.” Placing a hand on her slender waist, he directed her back inside and, ignoring the perplexed expression on her face, shut the door behind her, making sure it was locked before taking a solid walk around the perimeter. Cops still maintained a presence for now, but he’d feel a whole lot better after Jane Doe was ID’d and Finley Scott was no longer involved.

“Tonight
clearly
did not go as planned,” he said over the burner cell.

He swallowed hard. “I’m afraid not.”

“You know what needs to be done?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Don’t screw it up.”

9

T
he following afternoon Griffin stood at the edge of the crime-scene tape surrounding the grave on Little Round Top. Soon it would be removed and things would go back to routine.

Routine
—something he typically valued. However, going back to routine also meant Finley’s archaeological dig officially wrapped up today. No more daily interactions with the vivacious Dr. Scott. The thought of not seeing her on a regular basis left him . . .
empty
, and that was unacceptable. A clear warning sign he needed to stay away.

He rubbed the back of his neck. It was a good thing she was leaving, even if it felt anything but.

“Hey there.” Her voice echoed behind him.

He turned to find her cresting the hill from the lower parking lot.

“Figured this is where you’d be.” She was decked out in her
dig coveralls and a pair of polka-dot rubber boots, and was still breathtaking.

He tried to suppress the pleasure her presence triggered. “Didn’t expect to see you here today.”

“What can I say?” She shrugged. “Couldn’t stay away.”

His shoulders broadened with his smile. “Really?”

She gestured to the grave. “I see you couldn’t either.”

The grave.
Right
. Of course that’s what she was talking about, and she was correct in that sense. A woman being found in his park, on his watch—he most definitely wanted to see her killer brought to justice. But that wasn’t where his thoughts had been since Finley appeared.

She linked her arms across her chest, her auburn hair vibrant as it slipped from her dark green knit hat along her shoulders and partway down her back. “Anything new pop out at you?”

“Nah. I was more trying to take in the surrounding area now that the circus has died down. I figure it stands to reason if she was buried here, she may have been killed close by. I’m scoping out the possible shooting terrain, though it’s crazy to think someone could have been murdered in the park and none of us knew.”

“It’s over nine square miles to patrol, and I imagine you only have one officer on duty during off hours. No way to patrol it all at once. Besides, he hid her grave well.”

“Yeah, he’s not only a skilled shot, but his willingness to get his hands dirty,
if
he’s the one who buried her, indicates a paid hit and disposal to me.” He glanced at his watch, hating to leave Finley now that she’d just arrived, but he needed to head for the range. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to duck out.”

“Heading for the shooting range?”

“Yeah. I told Declan I’d head up after my shift, so I better get going before it closes.” It was an outdoor range, and the sun was setting earlier and earlier.

She rocked back on her boots, the ground still a wee bit damp from all the rain. “How about I come with?”

“What?” She wanted to accompany him to a shooting range?

“Sebastian’s got the dig wrap-up under control. It’s his day and he’s an eager grad student. Don’t want to crush his joy. Besides, I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Shooting ranges aren’t exactly glamorous.”

She glanced at him sideways. “Not sure what that statement implies about me, but I’m guessing that’s your way of saying I won’t fit in?”

He could only imagine the men’s reaction when she waltzed in.

She tucked her hands in her pockets. “Look at it this way. It’ll appear more natural if you’re teaching a friend to shoot and we happen to ask some questions, rather then you going in just to get some answers, right?”

“Y . . . e . . . ah.”

“Good. Now that that’s settled, let me change out of my dig clothes. I’ve got a duffel in my car. I won’t be but ten minutes.”

Nine minutes later, Griffin leaned against his truck, a cup of coffee in hand, a second one waiting in the passenger’s side cup holder for Finley. True to her word, she was striding toward him in under ten, her work attire replaced by a pair of dark jeans, black boots cresting her knees, a bright blue silky top, and a snug-fitting black fleece lined with blue.

Heads would turn when she entered the shooting range, though they’d turn no matter what she was wearing. The lady
was gorgeous. Yet another reason spending time together was a very,
very
bad idea. He just wished he wasn’t so happy about it.

Finley looked over at Griffin, the afternoon sun silhouetting his chiseled features. Why was he no longer a sniper?

“So”—she shifted to face him—“tell me about being a sniper.”

“It’s a job of precision, discipline, and mastery.”

“How’d you prepare for the profession?”

He explained his love of target shooting from a young age, his training with the police force, and an auxiliary class he’d been handpicked to participate in at Quantico for extra training in handling any form of domestic terrorist attack or hostage situation.

“Sounds like you really felt called to do the job and excelled at it.”

“I . . .
did
.” The word lodged thick in his throat, the syllable creaking out.

She was pushing her luck. Pressing a private man to share. But she was intrigued.

“May I ask what happened?”

He exhaled. “I was a tactical officer with the Baltimore Police Department’s SWAT unit,” he began. “I specialized in hostage situations.” His body tensed. “There was a call. A hostage situation the summer before last. I arrived on the scene. A man was holding a woman at gunpoint—an attempted rape interrupted. Someone heard her scream and grabbed two patrol officers he’d seen at the corner diner.

“They quickly boxed the perp in. He was stuck and knew it, so he put a gun to the woman’s head and threatened to shoot
if they didn’t let him go. Hostage negotiators and SWAT were called in. We had him cornered in the woman’s building.

“The negotiator was talking him down, or so we thought, when he burst out the door, the gun to the woman’s head, trying to make a run for it. I had the shot but hesitated.” His jaw tightened. “I knew the guy. Tim Bowers. We went to the same gym. Played racquetball weekly. Shared lunch afterward.”

“It’s only natural it gave you pause.”

“It may be a natural civilian reaction, but not a sniper’s. I had target acquisition and a clear shot. When I hesitated, Tim moved and the sniper on the adjacent roof took the shot. He wasn’t as good. He didn’t kill Tim, at least not outright. Tim pulled the trigger, instantly killing Judith Connelly, before collapsing to the ground. An innocent woman is dead because of me.”

“You weren’t the one holding her hostage, and you certainly weren’t the one who pulled the trigger.”

Pain etched across his face. “Exactly.”

Stupid choice of words
. “I mean Tim Bowers is responsible for Judith’s death. Not you.”

“It was my job to protect her. I was trained to pull the trigger once I had the shot. Not to allow emotion to infringe.”

Griffin pulled into the Red Barn parking lot and cut the engine. He didn’t blame Finley for being curious, and for some reason he felt compelled to share the truth with her. It was time. Better she knew up front.

Stepping from the truck, he inhaled a deep breath of the crisp air.

The gun store and shooting range office occupied a revamped
big red barn. The range was located on the far side of an old wheat field—several fields, actually.