“Thanks, but I’ve put murderers behind bars before and will again. Whoever killed Deirdre, Sandy and Mara had an advantage over them. They didn’t realize he or she was out there. I do. I’m also a cop, fully trained. Scale tips slightly in my favor.”
Rick had run into similar resistance too many times in the past to be put off. “So that would be a no to cooperation, then.” When she merely stared at him, he offered her a vague smile. “Palmer’ll be pissed.”
“He’s my captain, not my father.”
He was a little more than that, however, Rick let it slide and instead offered a sage, “Would you have listened to your father?”
He spied the glimmer of sadness in her eyes before she looked away. “My father was a cop. Homicide. He died in the line of duty. He’d have understood how I feel, how any officer would feel. I’ll deal with Palmer and with anyone who comes after me. I can make connections, too, Rick.” She pointed through the Emporium window. “Do you see that pretty lady there?”
He followed her outstretched finger to a carved white figure. His lips twitched. “Are you going to tell me she’s fragile and you’re not?”
“She’s porcelain, like my—well, like many people, I suppose. I’m more elastic.”
Not from where Rick stood. She wasn’t flexing one bit on this matter.
He started to point that out, but the words never emerged. As she bent to inspect another figure, the window over Vanessa’s head exploded.
Chapter Two
Fragments of tempered glass flew everywhere. Inward, sideways, some of the larger ones actually ricocheted back onto the street. The white porcelain figure shattered. So did dozens of other ornaments.
Already low to the ground, Vanessa snatched her gun from her purse and swung around in a crouch. Rick had his Glock out and angled skyward.
The people closest to them gave a collective gasp, then began to scream. The store owner rushed out, shouting in Chinese.
“Get down,” Rick told him and anyone else who could hear.
“There.” Vanessa used her gun to indicate a gray Volvo with blacked out windows and a dent in the passenger side.
Rick assisted a woman who’d twisted her knee, but his eyes were on the Volvo. “Call for backup,” he said and took off before Vanessa could reply.
The store owner grabbed her arm, impeding her. She knew what he wanted—more or less—but couldn’t do anything except pry his fingers free and tell him to go back inside.
Spotting a patrol car, she ran toward it. The Volvo had vanished. So had Rick.
“What happened?” the sergeant at the wheel called out.
“Shot fired into the store. Look for a Volvo, late eighties, large dent in the passenger door. Driver’s heading north on Grant. No plates. The side windows are painted flat black.”
“You okay?”
“No problem.” Only hampered by her shoes and tight skirt. Not to mention the store owner’s fingers that were once again grinding into her forearm.
Even a police siren couldn’t drown out the pandemonium around her. Resigned, Vanessa located her badge and endeavored to calm the situation down before anyone got seriously hurt.
Thirty minutes passed. Two backup patrols arrived and took over crowd control. Vanessa was talking to her desk sergeant when Rick returned, winded and alone.
“I lost him on Jackson.”
She flipped her phone closed. “New Porsche lost aging Volvo? That’s gotta be a first.”
“New Porsche almost got sideswiped by a hippie mobile with bad brakes. I cut over to Stockton on foot, but the Volvo disappeared in the confusion. Did you get the plates?”
“There weren’t any. A patrol car took up the pursuit. They might get lucky. Mr. Sing?” She gestured to the distraught store owner who was holding his head while he surveyed the ruin that had once been his display window.
“Bad, very bad,” he moaned as he emerged. “Guns are very dangerous.”
Vanessa eased him forward. “Mr. Sing, this is Rick Maguire. He’s with the FBI. Tell him what you told me.”
“It was a man.” Sing used his hands to illustrate. “He moved like a snake, in and out of the crowd. I saw him through the door of my shop.”
“Can you describe him?” Rick asked.
“He was like the Steve in an old movie.”
“McQueen,” Vanessa supplemented.
Mr. Sing nodded. “Yes, a very bad dude.”
“Who moved like a snake.” Rick glanced at the sidewalk across the street. A narrow alley ran between a pair of old brick buildings. “Did you see his gun?”
“At first, no gun, but something on his head, like wrinkled skin. He watched my store as he came toward the street.” Mr. Sing mimicked the man’s moves. “Before he got there, he pulled the skin over his face and took the gun from inside his jacket. He used both hands to hold it and shot, just like that.” The store owner snapped his fingers.
Vanessa kept a hand on his arm so he wouldn’t be diverted by the wreckage beside him. “Can you describe the skin he pulled over his face? Did it distort his features?”
“It made them flat.”
“Even more snakelike, then,” Rick noted. “Must have used a stocking.”
Mr. Sing became indignant. “When you catch this man, I will have much to say to him.”
Rick motioned to Vanessa who took over. “You’ll have to come down to police headquarters, Mr. Sing. We need a full description of the suspect and an account of his actions.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Officer.” Sing raised his palms. “Not always wise to get mixed up with police.”
“If we apprehend him, it might help with the insurance claim.”
The man’s face brightened. “Not always wise, but good for Sing and Sing. I can pull down the bars and lock the store. No one will get past the bars. One moment, please.”
Rick nudged at broken glass with the toe of his boot. People were curious, but the backup patrols had taped the scene, and no one was screaming anymore.
Vanessa wiped a spot of blood from his right cheek. “Sliver got you, Maguire.” Her gaze strayed to the alleyway. “That guy wasn’t shooting at a shop window.”
“No.”
“Or at you.”
“Not likely.”
Frustration warred with inevitability. In the end, she could only sigh. “Hell.”
“YOU LIVE IN A VICTORIAN HOUSE on Russian Hill?” Rick surveyed the tall, thin structure with its square bay windows and ornate trellises. “I wouldn’t have expected that.”
“Never judge a book, Maguire. I wouldn’t expect long hair from the FBI.”
“I was undercover until recently. I’m working this case at the request of a VIP from your home state.”
“That would be Senator Graham whose sister married Judge Howard Morton of Chicago. Together they produced a daughter named Deirdre. My friend—you met her, Geri Kruger—thinks Deirdre would have been annoyed by the funeral service she received. I think Senator Graham wanted to keep the memorial quiet and dignified because his niece tended not to be.” She searched for her key, a tricky feat with a gorgeous man standing directly