Relieved by the change in subject—though equally frustrated by the situation in Bear Claw—Jenn said, “We’re going to get the bastard, Gigi. One of these days he’s going to make a mistake and we’re going to get him.”
Granted, that wouldn’t fix things for the victims who’d already died, or their families. But still.
Gigi headed for the door that opened from the small apartment into the fifth-floor hallway. She stripped off her booties and gloves in the doorway and took a long look back at the scene. “I hope to hell we get him soon.”
“Me, too.” Jenn lifted a hand. “Keep your eyes sharp.” It was a saying from her old crime lab, one of the few things she’d brought with her to Bear Claw.
“You, too. And don’t forget to have someone help you carry that stuff down.” With that, Gigi let the door swing shut behind her and her booted footsteps moved off down the hall.
Jenn blew out a long, slow breath that didn’t do much to ease the tightness in her chest as she found herself alone in a dead man’s apartment.
On one level it was a relief to have Gigi—and her probing questions—headed somewhere else. On another, though, her departure sucked the life out of the room, letting the smell crowd closer, until the atmosphere felt thick and cloying, like it was sticking to Jenn’s skin.
“Get a grip,” she muttered. “You wanted to be back working in a crime lab, and you got what you wanted. Now deal with it and do your job.”
It took her nearly an hour to process the main sitting area, where Dennison’s murder had taken place. With the knives, tools and tablecloth all documented, labeled and packed away, she moved into the victim’s bedroom.
This particular crime scene was unusual in that the victim was also on the P.D.’s most wanted list, which meant she wasn’t just looking for evidence that would help them identify his killer, but also anything that might lead them to the other fugitive militiamen…or their leader.
It was a complicated case, both challenging and frustrating.
The cops had already searched the other rooms, but she was seeking less obvious clues. And although the aha moment of an analyst finding exactly the right strand of hair sitting alone on an otherwise pristine carpet was pure Hollywood fiction—the reality was more along the lines of dust bunnies and dead ends—there were occasional aha moments in real life, too.
Her instincts quivered over some papers wadded in a wastebasket next to the bed, and again over a pair of boots lying near the closet as if they’d just been kicked off. They had dirt embedded in the treads…and that was her kind of evidence. Figuring out where the victim had been prior to his death could be very, very useful, and that was just the sort of thing she could do using the soil.
Maybe. Hopefully.
Whistling softly under her breath, she headed out into the main room and crouched down to rummage at the bottom of her kit for a larger evidence bag. The creak of the hallway door behind her shot adrenaline into her system and had her heart bumping, but logically she knew who it had to be.
“Gigi told you to come up here, didn’t she?” Straightening, she turned toward the door. “Well, I’m not ready—”
A man rushed her and slammed a fist into her face.
Pain exploded alongside shock and Jenn reeled back with a scream. Her foot snagged on her evidence kit and she fell. Her heart hammered as she grabbed the kit, tried to roll away, tried to get away, crying, “No! Help! Somebody help me!”
He followed her, wrenched the evidence case from her fingers and then grabbed her by the hair with brutal force. She caught a glimpse of lethal gray eyes and a thin-lipped mouth before he slammed her head into the floor. And the lights went out.
Chapter Three
Nick paused on the landing and stuck his head through the stairwell door for a quick survey of the fourth floor, one level below the victim’s apartment. A couple of doors down, a uniformed officer paused midknock, then relaxed. “Oh. Hey, Nick.”
“Hey, Doanes. Give me some good news.”
But, like his buddies door-to-dooring it on the second and third floors, the cop shook his head. “Sorry, man. I got nothing. Lots of empty apartments, and the few people who’ve answered didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything, and mostly don’t even know the people on their own floor, never mind one up. Merry said she was going to track down the super, though. Maybe she’s got something better.”
“I already talked to her. The super didn’t recognize the vic’s picture, said the apartment belongs to a woman, gave up her name and contact info. Merry got the renter on her cell phone—she was evasive, but eventually fessed up that she’s out of the city on a training assignment, and advertised online for a sublet to offset the bills. Dennison said he’d only be here for a couple of weeks, but he paid her for a whole month. In cash.”
“He was moving around, keeping a low profile like the others,” Doanes observed.
“Seems like it.” Question was, why? And why had he stayed in Bear Claw? What were the Investor and the other remaining members of the militia looking for? And why was the head honcho suddenly taking out his own people? What was going on here?
It felt as if they were chasing their own tails like a bunch of bomb dogs with C-4 strapped to their butts. Shaking his head, Nick continued, “Anyway, looks like the lady who rents the place is a dead end. She dealt with Dennison on the phone, never met him in person, didn’t care what he was doing in town as long as he paid in full.” He paused. “Are the CSIs still up there?”
Doanes shook his head. “I think they’re done. I saw Gigi leaving a little while ago.”
“Thanks.” Nick waved him off. “Catch you later.”
It shouldn’t have mattered to him whether or not the analysts had finished up their preliminary run, just like it shouldn’t have mattered that Jenn had been assigned to the scene. They had crossed paths plenty since the breakup, and had kept it friendly and polite. There shouldn’t be any problem there. Hell, there wasn’t any problem there.
Still, he breathed a little easier as he headed up the next flight of stairs, knowing he’d have the quiet solitude he needed to put himself into the head of Chuckie Dennison—a victim who had also been a killer in his own right. Nick wouldn’t ever know the dead man personally, but for a few minutes—or longer, if necessary—he would do his damnedest to become him, standing in his space, seeing the things he’d thought were important, the things he hadn’t.
Dennison had been a fugitive from both the law and his former boss…but he’d stayed in the city. What was keeping him here? And then the torture. What had the Investor wanted from his former lieutenant? Information, obviously, but what kind? What was the endgame here?
Nick probably wouldn’t get the answers today, of course, but he would absorb everything he could of Dennison’s space, his life, his death. And maybe—if he was damn lucky—get a flash of the kind that sometimes hit him, the sort of lightbulb gotcha that sent him in a new direction, or back down an old one, until he hit pay dirt. All because he’d stood there for ten minutes or an hour, absorbing every detail of a stranger’s life and trying to figure out what made him tick.
The members of his sprawling, affectionate and high-drama family called it method acting and were as proud of his skills as they were baffled by his choices. His bosses were just glad he could do it, and used him as often as they could. And he was okay with that. More than okay with it. He came, he saw, he blended, he helped catch the bad guy and then he moved on again. That was his life, his skill set, and if it meant he’d put some other things on hold, better that than repeating past mistakes.
Now, as he pushed through the door to the fifth floor, he did his damnedest to put himself into the mind