Cold Shot (14 page)

With a steadying breath, he opened the door and indicated for Finley to come. They moved quickly for the door and he exhaled a giant
whoosh
of relief once they were safely inside.

“You’re back,” Gunny said, irritation ringing in his voice.

He understood the man didn’t want them harassing his clientele and they’d be as quick and noninvasive as they could with Vern Michaels, but the fact was a woman was dead, a sniper was tracking them, and they needed answers.

“Told you we’d be,” he said striding down the ammo aisle toward the man, Finley at his side. “Vern Michaels here?”

“Yeah, but he’s not going to react well to your questions.”

“Why not? I heard he likes to talk guns.”

“With other shooters. Not law enforcement or whatever she is.” Gunny lifted his chin in Finley’s direction. So he had done some digging.

“Forensic anthropologist,” she said.

“Whatever. As charming as you are, lady, Vern isn’t the sort to betray confidences.”

“Confidences? Interesting choice of words.” Griffin leaned against the counter, resting his forearms on the glass. “You make it sound like Vern definitely knows something.”

“Guess that’s for you and your lady friend to find out. Vern’s on lane three.”

“Thanks.”

“You may not want to thank me yet.”

He paused. “Why’s that?”

“Vern’s not exactly what you’d call cordial.”

Finley rocked back on her heels with a slight grin in Griffin’s direction. “You two should get along great.”

Gunny actually chuckled. Amazing how Finley had that effect. Even on the hardest of men.

He had a reputation of his own and he preferred it that way, but somehow, in some inexplicable way, Finley had seen past all that.

“A word of advice?” Gunny said.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t tick him off. You don’t want to see Vern mad.”

“Great . . .”
This ought to be fun.
He opened the door, unsure of what to expect as he and Finley made their way to lane three.

Vern Michaels was six-three, two hundred and thirty pounds, with burly tattooed arms and a thick neck.

Griffin sat back and watched him hit the bull’s-eye three hundred yards out with his Mosin.

“That weapon,” he said while Vern dropped the empty mag and pulled the plugs from his ears, “is the precursor to our killer’s Dragunov.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know anything about a killer,” Vern said, turning to face them, “but Griffin is right. Dragunovs are basically new generation Mosins.”

“I didn’t realize we’ve met,” Griffin said at the man’s use of his name.

“We haven’t, but your reputation precedes you.”

Griffin wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing, considering the information they needed.

“Finley Scott,” she said, stepping up onto the shooting platform as Vern lowered the gun into his case.

Griffin waited to see how Vern would react. He hadn’t invited them into his space, and after Gunny’s warning . . . But if anyone could ease a man’s hardened defenses, it was the charming Finley Scott.

Vern’s assessing gaze raked over her as he shook her hand. “Vern Michaels.” He looked past her at Griffin, lifting his chin. “I heard you two were asking questions about a certain gun here yesterday.”

“That’s right.” Word did travel fast.

“We were really hoping to ask you a few questions,” she said.

He shut his gun case. “Why me?”

“Word is you’re the guy in the know,” Griffin said.

“So what is it a U.S. gold medalist in the 600 meter rifle event and a forensic doc want to know about the Dragunov?”

Finley turned to Griffin, surprised.

He shrugged. It wasn’t something he touted.

“We want to know who owns one around here. Who shoots one?”

“Why?”

“A woman was killed,” Finley said.

Vern’s gaze narrowed. “So you are looking for a killer?”

Griffin nodded, intrigued Vern Michaels had done some research of his own, finding out who they were before they showed up. No doubt he’d been tipped off to their arrival just as the killer perhaps had.

“You think he’s local?” Vern asked. It was a question every shooter hated. None wanted to think there was a gun for hire in their backyard.

“He could be. Any names come to mind?”

“How good a shot are we talking?”

“Fifteen hundred meters through more than one barrier.”

Vern whistled. “Well, that certainly narrows down the pool.”

“Bring any names to mind?”

“I know a couple guys who could pull off that distance, but they’re not for hire. The ones who are, they’re a different breed, and they certainly don’t go around advertising it.”

“What about the Dragunov?” Maybe if they focused on the weapon rather than pressing Vern for names.

“Haven’t seen one at this range.”

“What about other ranges in the area, the region?” Finley asked, clearly refusing to leave empty-handed.

Griffin bit back a smile. He admired her persistence.

Vern mulled it over, his lips pinching, his gaze fixed on Finley.

“Please,” she said. “We’re just trying to bring a killer to justice.”

He relented. “I suppose I could ask around. Seems I recall a friend telling me about a cool semi-automatic he saw.”

“This friend have a name?”

“Not one I’m going to share, but I’ll give him a call. See what details he can recall. If I think I’ve learned anything helpful, I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you so much.” Finley handed him her card.

“Any word of a shooter visiting town?” Griffin asked, wanting to be completely thorough, searching every option.

“When are we talking?”

“Last winter. March, most likely.”

“I’ll check.”

Clearly that prospect sat better with him, and Griffin understood. A killer in their backyard was infuriating and unsettling.

Minutes later they were back in the parking lot. “Well, he
was a teddy bear.” Finley tugged off her gloves as Griffin started the engine and turned up the heat.

He chuckled.

“What?”

“Pretty positive Vern Michaels has never been referred to as a teddy bear before.”

“Men can be strong and tender too. It’s the combo that’s enticing in the right man.”

He wondered what other qualities she found enticing in the right man.

“You still think it could be someone local or regional?”

Griffin shifted into drive. “If it is, he’s done a good job keeping his profession a secret.”

“Sniper?” she asked, her brows pinching.

He shook his head. “Assassin.”

“So you’re an Olympic gold medalist?”

He exhaled. “Yeah.” For a skill he’d failed at.

Finley entered her office at Towson University. Griffin wouldn’t be pleased she’d left the lab on her own after their visit to the gun range early this morning, but she needed to grab some papers to grade over break along with a book on bone density analysis.

Besides, they were all waiting on Dr. Kent to give them their next step. She prayed the dentals would match Marley Trent so her mysterious disappearance nearly eight months ago could finally be laid to rest and her family brought some amount of closure—even though that closure would bring with it a terrible finality and the realization their daughter had been killed in cold blood, no doubt with a cold shot.

As Griffin had explained to her on the drive back from the range to her lab, a cold shot was the first shot out of a sniper’s rifle. No practice, no warm-up. Just a “cold” shot. The term added an extra sense of brutality, lack of all compassion, just as the term
in cold blood
did.

She strolled down the nearly empty university corridors. Most students were home with their families for fall break. She pulled her keys out to unlock her office when Dr. Leonard Cooper rounded the corner.

“Finley.” Her colleague and friend, Dr. Cooper, smiled. “I didn’t expect to see you in here over break.”

“I needed to grab a research book along with some papers.”

“Working a new case?”

“Yes, and it’s a doozy.” She stepped into her office and he followed. “I may need to call on your expertise at some point.” He ran the pre-law department and had a vast background in criminal justice, focusing on the sociological and psychological effects of crime on its victims and society. He was a distinguished member of their academic community, a tenured professor on the board, and someone who’d become a close friend since her attack. It was no wonder he’d been so proud of Marley Trent’s accomplishments. She was fighting causes he was personally and professionally passionate about.

“Of course. I’m always happy to help,” he said as she dropped her purse on her desk, quickly wondering if this office had been tapped too. She should mention that possibility to Parker. He could run a sweep.

“This case wouldn’t have anything to do with the body discovered at Gettysburg, would it?” Leonard asked as she retrieved the pile of papers sitting on her desk. “I know your dig is up there. I wondered if you got called in.”

“Yes. You saw it on the news?” She stuffed the papers in her bag and stepped to the bookcase.

“All over it. Not every day a modern body is found at Gettysburg.”

“How’d you know it was modern?”

“Feds wouldn’t be involved if it wasn’t.” Reporters had quickly mentioned Declan by name as head of the investigation.

“It’s amazing how quickly news spreads.” To the reporters and the killer, or whomever had swapped the dental records. She found the book she was looking for and snagged it off the shelf. “It appears the dental records were compromised before they made it to the lab.”

“What?” Leonard’s face crimped. “Are you certain?”

“The investigators are looking into it as we speak.”

“Who would . . . ?” His face slackened. “Is there a chance the killer is still involved? I hate to think of you in any danger again.”

“Unfortunately,” she said, adding the book to her bag, “that’s exactly what I think. The killer is trying to prevent Jane Doe’s ID.”

“Any chance it was a mix-up? That would make me feel a whole lot better.”

“It’s possible, I suppose, but considering someone tried to steal Jane Doe’s remains and killed one of our lab techs in the process, I’d say something more serious is afoot.”

His dark brown eyes widened. “
Killed
a lab tech?”

“Leonard, I know this goes without saying, that everything I’ve shared is confidential.” Clearly he knew that.

“Of course, but I do worry about what kind of case you’re dealing with.”

As did she. She couldn’t tell him Marley was a possible match.
Not yet. There was no sense upsetting him when Jane Doe might be someone else. Leonard had cherished Marley. Rumor around campus was she’d been his star student, and Finley could see why—they both stood as stalwarts in the battle against injustice.

“Seriously, Finley. Be careful on this one. I don’t want to see it turn out—” He cut himself off, but she knew precisely where he was about to go. He cupped her right hand in his. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, dear.”

“I promise.” At least she wasn’t alone on this one. She had Griffin. Okay,
had
might be too strong a word, but he’d be there for her until this case was over, and the knowledge brought a measure of peace she hadn’t experienced in over a year. “I have faith the right man is on the job.”

Declan was clearly adept at his job, but something told her it was Griffin who had a distinct and vital role to play—both in the case and, she was quickly coming to believe, in her life.

Finley walked back to the parking garage, her bag loaded down with papers and books. She’d ended up finding several more that might be helpful. So many more, in fact, her arms were piled high. Good thing she thrived on research. Loved it, really.

Her heels clicked along the steps as she made her way to the bottom level, the concrete building sheltering her from the brisk wind. Rounding the final set of steps, she collided with someone—her heart pounding in her throat at the sudden impact.

She looked up to find a poor woman drenched with coffee—all over her tan coat.

Relief and embarrassment replaced her momentary fear. “I’m so sorry. Was lost in my thoughts, I guess.”