No One Left to Tell, Page 2

  Six-year-old Zachary Davis was the subject of a brutal custody battle. Mom had developed a cocaine addiction. Dad filed for divorce and sole custody. Mom was fighting for joint custody, claiming she’d gone clean. Worrying the court would side with Mom, John Davis hired Clay to provide proof that his wife was actively using drugs.

  Which was why Paige, as the junior member of Clay’s PI agency, had been sitting outside Sylvia’s apartment all night, taking pictures. They’d expected Sylvia to do coke. That she’d let her boyfriend put his hands on Zachary… Paige hadn’t expected that.

  “He would have raped a little boy,” Clay said evenly. “You stopped that from happening. Now Sylvia will have a record—for possession and for prostituting her son.”

  “I was lucky. A cruiser was a minute away when I called 911. If it had been any longer, I would have gone in myself, kicked in the door if I’d needed to. I couldn’t have stood there watching that child be assaulted.”

  “I couldn’t have either, but the boyfriend had a gun. Your black belt wouldn’t have protected you from a bullet.”

  Paige found herself rubbing her shoulder where an ugly puckered scar marred her skin. Clay had been kind. He could easily have added, Like it didn’t last summer.

  Her palms suddenly clammy, she wiped them on her jeans, straightening her spine. “I had my gun.” Which she hadn’t that night. I’ll never make that mistake again.

  “He would have shot you first.”

  “Then show me your commando tricks so I can enter a room without getting my head blown off,” she said, her voice gone hard and brittle.

  Before becoming a PI, Clay had been a DC cop. Before that, he’d been a marine who’d trained new recruits, which was essentially what she was—a PI white belt. Her years of martial arts had ingrained within her a deep respect for her teachers, so she softened her tone. “Please,” she added quietly.

  “I will. Tomorrow. You had a hard night and I need you sharp. Take the rest of today off.”

  “Maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll work from home. I’ve got work to do on Maria’s case.”

  “The case you took pro bono,” he said, slightly disapproving.

  “You would have done the same, Clay.”

  He sighed. “Paige, every con in jail has a mama that thinks her boy’s innocent.”

  “I know you think I’m naive,” she replied. “All the evidence said Ramon Muñoz was guilty, but a few things don’t add up. Worst case is I dig through trial transcripts, learning to structure a case of my own.” She thought of the tears in Maria’s eyes as she’d begged for help. “Best case, I give a mama some peace.”

  “Just don’t spend too much time on it, okay? We have to pay the electric bill.”

  “Maria’s stopping by this morning to give me some new information. If it’s worthless, I’ll quit. If it’s got merit, I’ll bring it to you. Gotta go. I need coffee.”

  The squeal of tires had her spinning to face the road. The sight of the minivan racing toward her had her leaping out of the way, dragging Peabody with her. She landed hard on her knees in the mud as metal crunched behind her and for a moment she hung there, breathing hard.

  Peabody’s barking filled her ears and she looked up, still dazed. “Sit,” she snapped and he dropped into a sit, but quivered, awaiting her next command.

  “Paige? Paige!” Clay’s shout was tinny coming from her cell phone a few feet away. She scrambled for the phone, twisting to stare at the van, her heart beating wildly.

  “I’m okay. I’m okay.” She made herself calm. Breathe.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “A minivan.” That was wrapped around the lamppost she’d been standing under only a minute before. Bullet holes were sprayed across the hatchback, and the windshield and windows had been blown to oblivion. “It’s been shot up.”

  “I’m calling 911,” Clay said brusquely. “Get somewhere safe.”

  She jumped to her feet, then came to an abrupt stop as her eyes shifted from the bullet holes to the driver-side sliding door. It was rust-colored, while the rest of the van was blue. “It’s Maria’s van.” Paige ran to the van and her heart stuttered. A woman was slumped over the steering wheel. Blood covered her upper body and the deployed air bag. “Clay, tell 911 that a woman is bleeding to death. Hurry.”

  “Stay with me on this line, Paige,” he commanded. “I’ll call 911 from another phone.”

  Paige shoved her phone in her pocket without hanging up. Déjà vu, her mind hissed and she pushed the insidious memory away. “Maria? Please.” She wrested the driver’s door open and had to still her panic.

  There were holes in Maria’s threadbare coat. Bullet holes. She pressed her fingers to Maria’s throat. A pulse. Faint, but there. She’s alive. Oh, thank God.

  Paige eased Maria back, then sucked in a breath. This was not Maria, but Elena, her daughter-in-law. Ramon’s wife. Who would want to shoot—?

  “Oh God.” Dread settled like a dark cloud. They’d had information. Her fear heightening, Paige looked over her shoulder for another car. Elena couldn’t have driven far in this condition. Whoever did this must still be close by.

  She unbuttoned Elena’s coat, trying to find a wound to attend, but there was too much blood. I don’t even know where to start. “Tell me what happened. Who did this?”

  “No cops.” Elena’s whisper was too soft, her breathing too shallow. “Please.”

  “Don’t you dare die on me,” Paige said harshly. Hands trembling, she unbuttoned Elena’s blouse. “Dammit. I can’t see where you were hit.”

  Then she jumped as Elena’s bloody hand grabbed her wrist. Elena’s eyes blinked furiously, trying to open. “No cops,” she whispered hoarsely. “Just you. Promise me.”

  “Fine,” Paige said desperately. “I promise. Who did this to you?”

  “Cops. Chasing me,” Elena mumbled. “Bra.”

  Paige heard the sirens approaching. Thank you, Clay. If nothing else, it would scare away the shooter, if he was still nearby. She pulled her scarf from around her neck, pressed it to what looked like the worst of Elena’s wounds. “Help is coming.”

  “Flash. Drive.” Struggling to breathe, Elena clawed at her own chest, fumbling with the edge of the bra that was now dark, soaked with blood. She reached for Paige’s hand, holding tight. “Tell Ramon. I love him.”

  “You can tell him yourself. You’re going to make it.”

  But Paige didn’t believe that, nor, from the agony in her eyes, did Elena. “Tell him I never stopped believing him,” Elena begged, her voice almost inaudible. “Tell him.”

  “I will. I promise. But you have to promise to hold on.” Behind her the ambulance screeched to a halt and she heard the slamming of doors and pounding of feet.

  “Miss, you have to move,” someone from behind her ordered. “Control your dog.”

  She glanced over her shoulder to see Peabody standing between her and a gathering crowd of onlookers, his teeth bared. But before she could move, she heard a whine like a mosquito and Elena’s hand went limp. Horrified, Paige stumbled back.

  There was a hole in Elena’s forehead that hadn’t been there before.

  Numb, she could only stare, her hands clenched into bloody, impotent fists. And as her heart started to beat again, she realized one fist clutched something hard. And small. A flash drive. Elena had hidden it in her bra. Had pressed it into her hand.

  Cops. Chasing me.

  Maria had been convinced the police had set up her son. It had sounded far-fetched at best. Now her daughter-in-law was dead, saying police had done it.

  Whatever Paige held in her hand had gotten Elena killed.

  Tuesday, April 5, 6:04 a.m.

  Silas lowered his rifle. His hands were steady, but his heart pounded in his throat. Goddammit. He hadn’t wanted to kill her.

  The woman with the long black hair backed away from the wrecked van, her footsteps far less steady than they’d been minutes before. He’d thought the woman a goner when she
stood in the minivan’s path, and then she’d leapt like some kind of fucking ninja, dragging her monster dog with her.

  Who the hell was she? Had Elena said anything to her? He hoped not. He’d hate to have to kill the woman, too. He almost had.

  Luckily she’d turned around when the medics arrived or he would have been forced to shoot her, too, just to get her out of his line of fire. He wouldn’t have liked that. He hated to kill unnecessarily. Unfortunately, Elena had signed her own death warrant.

  He closed the lid on his rifle case, picked up the spent casing, dropped it in his pocket. People were screaming, just now realizing what he’d done. That Elena was dead. The paramedics were ducking behind their rig, per their procedure.

  And… there was the cruiser, screeching to a stop. Two uniforms sprang from the vehicle, weapons in hand. Those in the crowd who hadn’t fled were pointing vaguely, but close enough to his general direction.

  Move your ass, boy. It wouldn’t take the cops long to drop a surveillance net over this whole area. Crouching low, he made his way to the edge of the rooftop, dropped to the fire escape, and took the steps two at a time.

  He’d had only seconds to choose a spot from which to stop Elena. Luckily the small business park he’d chosen had offered a good view and access to an escape route, and he’d left his car there.

  He eased into traffic. Then, on his cell, he dialed a number from memory. “It’s done.”

  “She’s dead?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “No thanks to that idiot Sandoval. He couldn’t wait for me to finish it. He shot up her van before I could run her off the highway. I would have shot her more discreetly.”

  There was a moment of very displeased silence. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you should ask him. Maybe you should ask him why he let her get that close to him to begin with.” Then I wouldn’t have had to kill her.

  “Maybe I won’t bother to ask.”

  Silas shrugged, knowing what would transpire. Denny Sandoval deserved it. Keeping records for Elena to find. Idiot. “Make it look like a suicide.” He kept it a suggestion, knowing a command would not be tolerated. “What she found out would have buried him anyway.”

  There was another beat of silence. “What did she find out?”

  “That he’d been paid off to lie in court, that Muñoz’s alibi was real, after all.”

  “It would have been her word against his.”

  “Unless she took proof with her. He was scared shitless enough to call me for help.”

  “And obviously enough to follow her and fire at her vehicle.”

  “He was sloppy. He went for the windows, not for the tires.”

  “Why?”

  “Probably because he wasn’t a good enough shot to hit the tires while he was driving.” Probably because the moron was drunk. Again. “She made it another five hundred feet, then turned into an apartment complex and hit a lamppost. I was just within range. If he’d shot her up a minute earlier, I wouldn’t have been able to hit her.”

  “But she is dead.”

  “Yes.” He’d fired on enough people to know a kill shot when he saw one.

  “Then thank you. You’ll be compensated the usual way.”

  Which meant a great deal of money deposited to his offshore account with speed and efficiency. It had taken time to grow accustomed to such polite discussion of such a dirty deed. After all this time, it still made him cringe inside. “Thank you.”

  “One more question. Who else is implicated in whatever it was he kept?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t pay him off. That would have been you. Did you go as yourself or did you play dress-up?” He wished the words back as soon as they exited his mouth. Keep the sarcasm leashed or you’ll be a “suicide” yourself.

  Another beat of silence. “I was disguised.”

  “Then you have no worries,” he said, his voice mild.

  “Again, thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

  Yeah, you do that. He wasn’t sorry for the idiot Denny, who’d signed his own death warrant by keeping incriminating evidence. And for what? Blackmail would have been suicide and insurance would have been unnecessary had he kept his big mouth shut.

  He did feel sorry for Elena Muñoz. She should have forgotten about her husband, gone on with her life. She’d still be alive. And I’d have one less mark on my soul.

  Tuesday, April 5, 6:20 a.m.

  Three and two and one. With a grunt, Grayson Smith pushed the weight bar back to the rack. Two ninety-five used to be a hell of a lot easier. Then again, he used to be a lot younger. He was officially on the downslide to forty. Which bothered him a lot more than he’d expected it would.

  He relaxed his shoulders onto the bench, gave his spotter a nod. Without missing a beat, Ben resumed the story he’d been telling before Grayson had started the set.

  “So the punk sets off running and tosses the fucking gun down the goddamned storm sewer.” Ben made a disgusted face. “It’s gonna take me forever to get the smell out of my shoes. Asshole.”

  “Did you find it?” Grayson asked.

  “Hell, yeah. Guy’s a three-timer. You’ll be able to put him away.”

  Which Grayson had heard from detectives more times than he could count. Unfortunately, “putting them away” wasn’t always as easy as it appeared. Still, he had one of the better conviction rates in the state’s attorney’s office. Knowing he’d put assholes like the one Ben had just cuffed behind bars let him sleep at night. Most of the time.

  “It’ll be my pleasure.” Grayson gripped the bar and prepared for his final set. He’d pressed three reps when phones started ringing all over the gym and all chatter ceased.

  In a gym full of cops, this was a damn bad thing.

  Grayson racked the bar and sat up, his eyes on the men and women around him. It looked like the officers called were out of the eastern precinct. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben murmured. He waited until the guy closest to them had put away his cell phone. “Well? What’s gone down, Profacci?”

  Profacci started for the showers. “Sniper. Woman in a minivan hit. Sergeant’s just called all hands to search for the gunman. Hell of a way to start the day.”

  For a moment Grayson said nothing. His mind was racing back ten years to when a sniper had terrorized the DC metro area. The closest victim to Baltimore had been a few counties over, but the entire area had lived in fear for three weeks. By the time the snipers were caught, ten people had died and three others were critically wounded.

  He looked at Ben. “I hope this isn’t what we’re all thinking it is,” he said, then turned to the woman at the front desk. “Sandi, can you switch the channel to the news?”

  Sandi complied and the sixty-three-inch plasma screen mounted on the wall above them switched from replays of last night’s hockey game to the local station where a reporter stood in front of a large sign that said BRAE BROOKE VILLAGE APARTMENTS.

  Seeing who the reporter was, Grayson had to swallow his annoyance. Phin Radcliffe shoved a mike in his face every time he left the courtroom. A lot of reporters shoved a mike in his face, but Radcliffe always took it a step further. And stopped at nothing to get a story.

  “…killed by a sniper’s bullet,” Radcliffe was saying. “The police have not yet given the all clear, and residents are being told to stay indoors. We know that the victim is dead. We don’t know the status of the shooter at this time, but we do have this exclusive footage of the events as they unfolded. Be warned. The following images are graphic and may upset some viewers.”

  The image switched to a woman in the path of an oncoming minivan and Grayson found himself staring in disbelief. The woman went into a crouch and sprang, flying at least eight feet before she landed on her knees, dragging a big Rottweiler on a leash.

  Milliseconds later, the minivan crashed into a pole. There was no sound on the video, but the dog was clearly barking like a lunatic. And who could blame hi
m?

  “Did you see that?” Ben demanded. “Fucking gazelle.”

  Grayson had seen it and he still wasn’t sure he believed it. The camera ignored the minivan, zooming in on the woman’s face, and Grayson slowly released the breath he’d been holding. Her eyes were black as night, large and stark against the paleness of her face. Her hair was black as well, pulled into a ponytail that hung halfway down her back.

  Grayson couldn’t tear his gaze from her face, and neither could whoever was doing the filming. Curiously, the lens stayed focused on the woman and not the wrecked van.

  Instead of running away, the woman got up and ran toward the van, followed by the Rottweiler. The camera moved, focusing through the van’s front passenger window where a female victim lay trapped in the driver’s seat. The camera’s angle remained constant, pointing down.

  “The camera’s on one of the apartment balconies,” Grayson said, his chest going tight with dread. A woman in a minivan was dead, Profacci had said. But not her, Grayson hoped and felt instantly guilty. But he couldn’t change the outcome, and one of them was dead. Nor could he stop himself from thinking, Just not her. Don’t let it be her.

  “And the cameraman’s got a thing for the gazelle,” Sandi added.

  “Can you blame him?” Ben asked. “She’s…”

  The picture skipped, a clumsy edit. In the next frame the dark-eyed woman was frantically putting pressure against the victim’s wounds. From the angle of the lens, the victim’s face could not be seen. A blessing for the family, Grayson thought.

  He knew what was coming, but found himself unable to turn away. One of the women would be dead in moments. The dark-eyed woman worked feverishly, her lips moving as she talked to the victim.

  In the background the enormous dog could be seen planting himself between the minivan and the growing crowd. Nobody dared approach, although several in the crowd held out phones. More pictures. More video. Vipers, Grayson thought viciously.

  But you’re watching. What does that say about you?

  An ambulance pulled up, EMTs spilling out. The woman turned to look over her shoulder at her dog and then… Grayson flinched as a portion of the screen became intentionally blurred, hiding the minivan, the victim, and the dark-eyed woman.