Cold Shot (32 page)

Clearing his throat, Griffin proceeded with what he should have said years ago. “Jenna’s death wasn’t your fault.”

Parker sat shell-shocked.

“I’m not happy you two were sneaking around. I wish you had been honest with me. We were . . . we
are
brothers, but you could have never known she’d be abducted that night.”

He’d never seen such emotion on Parker’s face, not since the
consuming sadness the day they found Jenna’s body. “I should have told you about us. Shouldn’t have asked her to sneak out.”

“Yeah. You should have told me.”

Parker shook his head. “It’s no excuse, but Jenna begged me not to. . . .”

“And you were in love. I get it.” With the amount of pain Parker still suffered, it was excruciatingly clear he still loved Jenna, still carried the burden of his guilt and her loss like a boulder on his back.

Parker swallowed. “
Very
much in love, and a big part of me will always be. She was . . .”

“
Special
,” Griffin said, clearing his throat as Jenna’s vibrant, joyful face flashed before his eyes. That’s how he wanted to remember her, not as they’d found her. Pain seared inside. When would the heartache settle? Maybe making amends with Parker was the first step. Not to forgetting, but for remembering the beauty of who his sister was. Who they all were, and that the Pirates were part of him—a huge part. They made him a better man.

He extended his hand. “I forgive you for not telling me.”

The expression of undeserved mercy washed over Parker’s face as he hopped down and strode to Griffin. “Thank you,” he said, his voice shaking. He clutched his hand a brief moment, his eyes conveying the depth of his gratitude.

“You aren’t responsible,” Griffin continued, knowing it needed to be said and truly believing it. He’d just been so broken by her death, so pained, that it was easier to blame Parker than accept the fact Jenna’s killer had gotten away. At least until now. “The man who killed her is responsible. And I think it’s time we work her cold case. Bring her killer to justice.”

Parker arched a brow. “We?”

“Yeah.” He lifted his chin and then tilted it in the direction of Declan’s room. “We all make a great team.”

“Yeah.” Parker slid his hands in his pockets, trying so hard to play it cool, but Griffin didn’t miss the moisture welling in his eyes as he sniffed and swiped at his nose in a poor attempt to cover it up.

Griffin had no idea his forgiveness held so much weight for Parker, and at the same time, amazingly, freed himself of an equally heavy one.

43

W
hat do we know about Kevin Murphy?” Griffin asked, as Parker helped him set up the whiteboard in Declan’s hospital room. Their talk, while difficult, had gone extremely well. Everyone in the room was studying them, but from the smiles on their faces, he could see, except for Tanner, they understood what had occurred. He and Parker were free men.

“We know he uses an answering service for his calls.” Declan began with the task at hand—summing up everything they knew about the elusive Kevin Murphy in what would, until Declan’s release, be their new center of operations.

Griffin nodded and wrote on the whiteboard. “Which probably means he has no direct phone line.”

“He has a PO Box at the post office in Chambersburg,” Finley said. “But of course he paid cash for that, as well, and never comes in to pay or pick up in any discernable pattern.”

“He has nothing in his name,” Kate said. “No driver’s
license, paycheck, property tax bill, cell phone contract.” She shifted back from her laptop in frustration. “This guy really is a ghost.”

Just like Luke—seemingly vanished from the face of the earth. That was one area he and Parker still disagreed on, but one battle at a time.

“Okay,” Declan said. “That tells us he’s got a fake ID, not officially registered with the MVA, probably rents a place, paying cash or by money order, uses a burner cell . . . When do the reenactors meet next?”

“Not until spring, according to Bob,” Parker said. “What if we got Bob to call him in for a meeting? We could have Bob call everyone in to avoid suspicion.”

“I think a random meeting out of the blue would raise his suspicions enough on its own.”

“Are there any other ties to him?” Parker asked.

“Vern Michaels,” Finley said.

“Right.” Griffin explained who Vern Michaels was and that he had died within a day of speaking with them.

“So Vern knew Kevin Murphy,” Declan postulated.

“Or asked a question that generated Kevin’s name,” Griffin said. “Which means he probably shoots at one of the ranges in the region.”

“All right.” Declan climbed from his bed, slowly and with a muffled groan.

Parker whistled. “Nice legs.”

Declan clutched the hospital gown. “Griffin, go in my duffel you brought and toss me my pants.”

“Are you sure you should be out of bed?”

“I’m fine.”

His fixed jaw said otherwise, but he returned from the bath
room a few minutes later clad in his gown and navy blue Joe Boxer sweats. “Let’s throw up the map.”

Parker flipped the board over and clipped the map of the region on it.

“We know Marley was buried here.” Declan put a red X on the battlefield.

“He has a PO Box here.” Finley pointed and Declan put an X on it.

“Vern Michaels shot and lived here.” Griffin noted, and two more Xs went up.

“The answering service is based in Baltimore, so that doesn’t really help,” Griffin said. “But we know Marley spent her last night here.” He put an X on the general location of the Gettysburg Inn.

“All right.” Declan drew a large red circle encompassing all of the Xs. “This is our circle of interest. Griff, you and Finley follow up with the other shooting ranges in the area, and I’ll get a warrant to access Vern Michaels’ phone records.”

“I’ll also call Bob Wade,” Griffin said. “Ask a few more sharpshooter-related questions and ask what kind of vehicle Kevin Murphy drives.”

“None are registered in his name,” Kate said.

“But he’s got to have a mode of transportation.”

A woman in her late thirties, wearing navy blue scrubs, entered and raised her brows at Declan by the whiteboard. “Mr. Grey.”

“Amber.”

“I see you’re up and ready for PT.”

“PT.” He gave a forced smile. “Super.”

Amber looked around the room. “If you all will excuse us, Mr. Grey has some exercises to do.”

“It’s kind of a busy time.”

“Nah, we’re all finished here,” Parker said, smirking. “You go on with the nice lady.”

“You keep him on task, Amber,” Griffin said with a grin.

Declan attempted his best death stare. “Thanks, guys.”

Parker shrugged. “It’s what we’re here for.”

“They are on to us,” Kovac said over the burner cell.

“Are you certain?” Rativik, aka Carl Hansen, asked.

“Yes. How do you want to proceed?”

Rativik exhaled. “I like my life here. My new family. I don’t want to lose it all because some people couldn’t mind their own business.”

“Taking out the lot of them will draw some serious attention and heat. I don’t know that it’ll be safe to stay.”

“What do you suggest?” Rativik asked.

“An exit strategy.”

“No. I don’t want to give up my family or the life I’ve made here. If we act swiftly, we can contain this.”

“How do you suggest we do that?”

“Let me run the scenarios and I’ll get back to you. I’ve got a few ideas.”

“Okay, but we’ve got to move quickly,” Kovac warned.

“They’ll all be dead by tomorrow. I promise you.”

44

V
ern Michaels’ death—which the ME Declan finally heard back from officially declared a homicide—clearly indicated Griffin and Finley’s questioning at the shooting range had hit close to home with Kevin Murphy, aka Peter Kovac. That’s where they needed to continue to press—the ranges. Griffin began with a list of shooting clubs, some in the area he was familiar with and others not so familiar. Visiting in person rather than cold calling dramatically increased the chances of gathering information.

Finley accompanied him, which in one sense he loved because it gave them more time together and he knew she was safe at his side, but at the same time, the thought of running into Kovac at one of the ranges terrified him.

They’d printed out a photograph of Kovac to show around in addition to their questions, though the obituary image was more than twenty years old. They’d separated the image from the context of the article, blowing it up from a two-by-two to
an eight-by-ten image, thanks to Avery’s meticulous attention to detail.

Declan had finally reached the ICE agent, Gabriel Rosario, who Declan explained was nothing but evasive. They’d be investigating him further.

Griffin pulled into the lot of the third range on their list and carefully surveyed the surrounding area, praying they weren’t sitting ducks. They both felt on edge, watched, and it was a horrific feeling.

Parking in the most strategic and sheltered spot, he once again escorted Finley in, shielding her body with his until they were securely inside. He’d spend the rest of his life protecting her if she’d let him.

He shifted his thoughts from the woman he loved to the space surrounding them. The range was more extensive than Gunny’s Red Barn—no doubt providing the patrons with a little more anonymity—and offered an indoor section for more comfortable year-round shooting.

From what Kate had dug up, the owner’s name was Chris Abbott. Griffin prayed Abbott was friendly.

They moved down the aisles of ammo to the counter at the rear of the room. Gunshots sounded in the distance, the scent of gunpowder wafting in the air.

“Nice place you got here,” Griffin said.

“How can I help you folks?”

“Are you Chris Abbott by any chance?”

“Guilty.”

“Hi.” Griffin extended his hand. “Griffin McCray.”

“Finley Scott,” she said beside him.

Abbott nodded.

“We’re looking for a man who may shoot here,” Griffin began.

“Let me guess. Weapon of choice is the Dragunov?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“You’re the third party who’s been in here asking about a man and that gun.”

“Vern Michaels one of them?” Griffin asked.

“Yeah. Shame what happened.”

“Mind telling us what you told Vern?”

“Only if you explain what this is all about.”

They explained what they could.

“All right. I’ll tell you what I told Vern.”

“And the second interested party?”

“Nope. Didn’t tell that fella anything. He wasn’t from around here.”

“Oh? Could you describe him?”

“Five foot ten, squat, sturdy, bald, spider tattoo on his neck.”

Simon Reuben—Perera’s right-hand man whose burner cell had turned up nothing but dead numbers. Frustration flared. They were running out of time. They had to find Kovac before he found them.

“What’d you tell Vern?”

“There’s a guy. Supposedly his friends call him Vector—not that I’ve ever seen him with friends, or with anyone for that matter. Likes the Dragunov. Heck of a shot. Vern recognized the name.”

“So he knew Vector?”

“Nah, but he’d heard of him from someone. Imagine he went to ask that someone more about Vector.”

“Any idea who Vector is? I mean his real name? Where he lives? What he drives?”

“No on the first three. Black pickup on the last.”

Helpful, considering he hadn’t heard back from Bob Wade yet.

“Any chance you noted his plates?”

Abbott hiked his brows.

Right
. Not that kind of place.

“What about this?” Finley pulled out Kovac’s picture. “He’s about twenty years older.”

Unfortunately the sketch from Linda Jo’s description was too vague to use for identification. It certainly didn’t rule out Kovac, but there was not enough detail to confirm it was him.

The man studied it. “Could be, but I’m not certain.”

As they returned to Griffin’s truck, Finley said, “Abbott was friendlier than the rest.”

“Probably doesn’t like the idea of an assassin using his range for practice.”

“What now?”

“We call Declan and see where he’s at on Vern Michaels’ phone records.” Abbott had refused to share the name of the man Vern questioned about Vector, and Griffin respected him for it. After what happened to Vern, Abbott was no doubt trying to protect the man’s life. If he was still alive.