He checked his watch. “When you’re discharged from here you need to get out of town, disappear for a while. Give me time to find him.”
He pulled a business card from his wallet. “I know you won’t want to contact me, but I’m going to leave this with you anyway.” He crouched down by her bedside cabinet, took out her purse and slipped the card inside one of the side pockets.
He straightened, the movement fluid for a man in his fifties, but then, not much about Jack Jones looked either old or decrepit. He had a toughness, an edge she recognized, and the reality of what her father was finally sank in. “Did you ever kill anyone?”
The glance he gave her was sharp and utterly neutral. “Be in touch.”
Seven
A week later, Taylor took a seat in Bayard’s office. The fact that she had made it up the front steps of the building, albeit with Dana’s help, was a major triumph given that she still felt as weak as a newborn baby.
Bayard shook Dana’s hand, his expression controlled. Colenso and Janet Burrows, who had been assigned her case, looked uncomfortable, and Dana was distinctly unhappy. She had tried to convince Taylor to wait until she felt better, but Taylor had insisted on the meeting. She was the victim of a professional hit. After months of having her credibility questioned it was finally clear that she wasn’t crazy and she wasn’t paranoid. She had answered Colenso’s and Burrows’s questions, provided a statement and waited as long as she could. Now she needed answers. And she wanted back into the investigation.
Janet leaned forward and poured coffee from the tray set on Bayard’s desk as Colenso ran through the ballistics report. Two slugs had been recovered, both from the fountain. The caliber of the bullets emphasized the fact that some kid high on meth with a Saturday-night special hadn’t just wildly discharged a gun into lunchtime shoppers and randomly hit her in the back. The larger caliber was usually associated with hunting weapons and sniper rifles, a much more exclusive club of killers.
Janet offered Taylor coffee, but she refused. She didn’t need food or drink. The way her heart was pounding, a shot of caffeine would finish her off.
Colenso slid a set of black-and-whites across the desk. A window in one of the photos was circled with black marker. An arrow indicated the trajectory.
Sixth floor, which would have given the shooter plenty of angle. “Have you got details of the tenant?”
Janet handed Bayard a cup, then set the coffeepot down. “The room was supposedly rented to an advertising firm. They never moved in. I checked the address and telephone number. The address was false, and the telephone was a cell phone that was only used for that one call.”
Bayard opened the file in front of him. These days he spent more time working budgets and politicians than he did taking part in investigations, which in Taylor’s opinion was a criminal waste. In the intelligence world, Bayard was a shark. He also had a formidable knowledge of every agency the Bureau liaised with, and a prosecution rate second to none. When it came to cutting through red tape and getting results, Bayard reigned supreme. It had been his quick action and commitment to keeping his people safe that had gotten her out of Eureka alive. If she trusted anyone’s opinion, it was his.
He slid a document across the desk. “We’ve gone over that room with a fine-tooth comb. So far, we have fifteen different sets of prints, but only three of them are traceable, and two of those belong to employees of the cleaning firm the building uses.”
Taylor skimmed the top page, which was a list of National Crime Information Center fingerprint identification reports. The two cleaners were female, one with a conviction for shoplifting, the other for prostitution. The third file belonged to Pedro Alvarez, and outlined a ten-year-old conviction for car theft. According to the information, Alvarez was now twenty-seven, which would have made him seventeen at the time he was charged.
“We’re talking to Alvarez.”
But the chances that they were getting anything
were low. Taylor didn’t need Bayard to tell her that the jump from teenage car theft to professional killing was huge. Which brought her back to the scenario that she had been shot by a professional, in which case the likelihood that he would have left any prints was close to zero.
She set the file down. “What about Lopez?”
The calling card had arrived the same week she had been shot. There was a direct connection. There was no way Bayard could dismiss it this time.
“We’re doing everything we can at this point.”
Her jaw compressed. “I can help. You need—”
“No.” Bayard’s expression was impassive.
She forced herself to calm down. “So where does that leave me?” He wanted her out of the office, on sick leave. It was even possible he would move her sideways in order to cut her ties to the Lopez case. Given what had happened, his logic was impeccable, but the thought of having to transfer out of D.C. made her head throb. She had been in line for a promotion. If she transferred to a field office, that opportunity would dissolve.
Dana touched her hand. “We’re leaving. She’s not supposed to get upset.”
Taylor stared at Bayard’s jaw. “I need to know about my job.”
Colenso set down his coffee cup. The clink was oddly loud in the silence of the room. Janet looked embarrassed.
Bayard slid another document across the desk. “I’m sorry. We’re running the paperwork now. The U.S. Attorney’s office and the U.S. Marshal’s office are both on my back. You’re too valuable to the prosecution for Lopez’s case to risk. They want you safe. All we need is your permission.”
The paperwork was instantly recognizable. Witness Security.
Dana’s hand tightened on hers. For that split second Taylor needed the anchor.
Lopez hadn’t killed her, but he had come close. He had taken out her career.
Out on the sidewalk a freezing wind swirled, tugging at the lapels of her coat as Dana attempted to hail a cab. With every breath icy air stabbed into Taylor’s lungs, cutting through the codeine and turning the low-key solo in her chest into a full-blown concerto.
Dana’s expression was taut as another taxi cruised by. “Damn, why won’t one stop? I don’t want you out here.”
Taylor’s cell phone buzzed, a welcome interruption. She needed something to do besides dwell on the fact that this was the first time since the shooting that she had been out on a city street, stationary and exposed.
The voice was low, modulated and instantly recognizable. “Rina.”
Mexico. Sun. Heat. Dry air that didn’t hurt to breathe.
She hadn’t ever seen a photo of the farmhouse Rina’s partner, J.T. Wyatt, had bought. She wasn’t even supposed to know where they were, but Rina had described the sprawling hacienda, mountains in the distance, a lush green river threading the dry landscape. It was a long way from cold weather and gray streets. “What’s wrong?”
The only reason for Rina to ring was if something had changed. Technically, she wasn’t supposed to ring at all.
“We’re pregnant.”
The day turned hazy. She caught snatches of Rina’s voice. “Hadn’t planned it… Had wanted to wait until Lopez was caught, but it happened, despite precautions—”
A baby.
Longing, unexpected and powerful, tightened the vise squeezing her chest. She blinked, cutting off the emotion. She didn’t want to need that—not yet. What she needed was to be happy for Rina.
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