Crossfire (4 page)

As Cait and Angetti walked through the gate toward the Admiral Somersett Military Academy’s parade ground, it crossed her mind that the hulking gray stone buildings’ architect must have designed fifteenth-century Spanish prisons in a former life.

When she saw the all-too-familiar man standing on the sidelines, towering over the pair of SPD uniforms who’d been first on the scene, Cait wondered what she could’ve done to so piss off the universe.

Emotions—tumultuous, complex, and humiliating—slammed into her. She rubbed her chest, which felt as if it’d been hit with a sledgehammer. Then, reminding herself that she’d come a long way since that December morning when she’d awakened, naked and hung-over in Quinn McKade’s hotel room, she squared her shoulders and marched toward the group.

At the same time he began walking toward her, his stride long and surprisingly easy for such a large man. Then again, he’d always had smooth moves. Both in and out of bed.

No! Do not go there!

‘‘Well,’’ he drawled, the deep bass voice delivering an instantaneous sexual punch, ‘‘isn’t this turning out to be a day of surprises?’’

She sure as hell couldn’t argue that.

‘‘McKade.’’ Her tone was curt, her nod sharp.

‘‘Nate Spencer told me you were working for the feds.’’ He skimmed a questioning glance over her, much as the cop had back at the scene of the first shooting. ‘‘FBI, right?’’

‘‘Right.’’ No way was Cait going to explain to this man why she’d shown up at a crime scene in casual picnic attire. She glanced past him—no small feat—to the two cops still standing on the sidelines. ‘‘Since you’re not wearing cuffs, I take it you’re not my UNSUB.’’

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. ‘‘If that’s fed-speak for ‘unknown subject,’ the answer is nope. I’m not.’’

‘‘And you’re obviously not the vic.’’

Despite the seriousness of the situation, she thought his lips quirked, just a bit, at the corners, as if he were trying to hold in a grin. ‘‘You sound disappointed.’’

‘‘What I sound is busy.’’

‘‘Hey,’’ Angetti said suddenly. ‘‘You’re that writer guy. Quinn McKade.’’

‘‘Guilty,’’ Quinn said. ‘‘Only of publishing a book,’’ he tacked on for Cait’s benefit.

‘‘I read Kill Zone last week.’’ Cait had not seen her partner this animated over anything since the day they’d been assigned to check out coastal strip joints for a suspected would-be jihadist with a penchant for pole dancers. ‘‘It was one helluva story.’’

‘‘Glad you enjoyed it.’’

‘‘Not sure enjoy’s the word. More like it grabbed me by the balls on page one and never let go.’’

‘‘If you have information pertinent to the murder, I’ll need to hear it,’’ Cait said as she resumed walking toward the body being guarded by the two uniforms. ‘‘Otherwise, Special Agent Angetti and I have work to do. Now,’’ she stressed to Angetti. ‘‘While there’s still an outside chance our shooter’s close by.’’

‘‘I wouldn’t count on it.’’ Quinn shortened his stride to keep pace with her. Which only annoyed her more. Then again, except for that one horrible lapse in judgment,everything about this man had always annoyed her.

‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘Because he shot from seventy-five, maybe seventy-eight yards away. With an M16 or A-15 carbine. Or it could’ve been a Bushmaster XM15, which, as you undoubtedly learned during firearms training at the FBI academy, is essentially the civilian version of the A-15.’’

That got Cait’s unwilling attention. She paused again and looked a long, long way up at him. ‘‘How would you know that?’’

He shrugged. ‘‘I spent over a decade as a sniper. If there’s one thing I know, it’s guns.’’

‘‘I heard about your part in that slasher case over on Swann Island.’’

Another shrug. ‘‘You know what they say. A man’s gotta do—’’

‘‘What a man’s gotta do.’’ She’d never met a man who more personified that old axiom. ‘‘Meanwhile, this woman’s got a hot case.’’

She glanced over at the parking lot, where Briggs and Manning were getting out of an unmarked SPD vehicle, followed by all those damn news vans.

‘‘Seems you beat everyone here,’’ Quinn remarked.

‘‘I knew a shortcut.’’

‘‘I’m not surprised, given your penchant for speed.’’ His wicked and, dammit, way sexy smile let her know that he hadn’t forgotten their night together either. In fact, although she’d throw herself off the academy bell tower before admitting it, Cait suspected he remembered more than she did. ‘‘Nice to know some things—and some people—never change.’’

‘‘Like I said, I caught a hot case.’’ She rolled her shoulders to loosen them. ‘‘And since this is my second shooting today, I really don’t have time to go strolling down memory lane.’’

That bit of information had him taking off his dark glasses and hooking them in the neck of his snug white T-shirt. ‘‘You’ve had two sniper attacks? Today?’’

‘‘I believe that’s what I said.’’

‘‘Shit.’’ His gunmetal gray eyes moved from the hoard of reporters to the uniformed body lying on the grass. ‘‘You, Special Agent, have landed yourself in one helluva shit sandwich.’’

‘‘I’m beginning to figure that out for myself. But why would you think so?’’

‘‘Because your shooter missed me.’’

She frowned, resisting the knee-jerk response of too bad. Murder was too serious to allow any personal feelings about Quinn McKade to interfere with her investigation. ‘‘I’m not following.’’

‘‘I’m six-five. Two-twenty-five. It’s been called to my attention several times over the years that I make a fairly substantial target.’’

‘‘So?’’

‘‘So, the bullet passed within six inches of me. Which means either your guy’s one helluva lousy shot—’’

‘‘I don’t think he is,’’ Cait said, thinking back on the hole that had been drilled in the center of Jacob’s forehead.

‘‘Then you’re dealing with a pro. Or at least former military.’’

Which they both knew, what with all the military bases in the Lowcountry, were about as plentiful as wannabe pirates during Buccaneer Days.

‘‘Well, I guess I’d better check out the guest of honor at this party. The call I got said he was shot in the forehead.’’

‘‘Dead on,’’ he confirmed as they continued past the entire uniformed plebe class, standing by at parade rest, feet ten inches apart, hands clasped behind their backs and resting on their belts.

‘‘Just like the first victim,’’ she murmured as she took in the body, clad in the same kind of white uniformas the general had been wearing. But this victim’s shirt had a lot fewer ribbons.

‘‘Really?’’ Quinn slanted her a look. ‘‘Well. Obviously whoever smoke-checked your victims isn’t a military sniper.’’

She hated having to ask. But, of course, she did. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Because a guy trained as a sniper would go for the chest shot. Because, though the single bullet smack in the middle of the head looks real cool in the movies, in real life a sniper always looks for the edge.

‘‘A head makes too small a target, and if the target moves—like they usually do—or the wind does something weird after you pull the trigger, you can end up sailing a bullet over his head.

‘‘Aim at the chest and if you hit high, you can nail the throat, or the head. Hit low and you’ve got the balls. Or even the thighs, which will bleed out like a stuck pig.’’

‘‘Well.’’

Cait thought about that. And although it was an unpalatable thought, she also was forced to consider that the man she’d hoped never to see again might possibly be the most qualified to help her stop the UNSUB before he turned Somersett into his own personal shooting gallery.

‘‘So, following your theory, why would this guy aim at his victims’ heads?’’

‘‘Probably showing off. Could be he washed out of some program. Army sniper school, maybe. Or Air Force. Or, hell, even the Marines. They’re lethal with their rifles.’’

‘‘I can’t help noticing you’ve left out the SEALs.’’

He’d put the shades back on, so she couldn’t see his eyes, but from the way the muscle jerked in his cheek, Cait suspected he didn’t much like that observation.

Tough.

‘‘Or the SEALs,’’ he allowed through set teeth, reminding her that he wasn’t always as laid-back as he appeared. ‘‘Though this is where I feel the need to point out that you’d be hard-pressed to find a single incidence where a military-trained sniper from any of the services went bad and started shooting innocent people.’’

‘‘What about those snipers in D.C.?’’ asked Angetti, who’d remained silent since the book discussion.

‘‘One of them was a teenage kid,’’ Quinn said. ‘‘The other, which you and your partner, being federal special agents and all, should know, might admittedly have qualified as an M16 marksman. But being able to blast away with an automatic rifle doesn’t make a guy a sniper.

‘‘John Williams, or John Allen Muhammad, or whatever the hell name he was using, would’ve washed out the first day of psych testing.’’

Although she hadn’t joined the FBI yet at the time, like most Americans, Cait had been riveted on the chaos created by the Beltway snipers for more than three weeks back in 2002. The idea that Somersett might be facing such a threat made her blood run cold.

‘‘San Diego PD got hold of Mrs. Jacob,’’ said Briggs, who’d caught up with them. ‘‘She’s on her way back here. If the airlines don’t screw up the schedule, she should arrive early tomorrow morning.’’

‘‘That’s good to hear,’’ Cait responded. ‘‘Especially since, with the general’s car parked in the Hawthornes’ driveway, some reporter’s undoubtedly run the plates, which means his name’s probably already hitting the airwaves.

‘‘Meanwhile, we need to clamp down on this shooter. Set up roadblocks. Start checking vehicles.’’

‘‘Do you have any idea how many cops that’ll take? Especially with all the tourists in town?’’

‘‘Don’t worry. I’ll get you some FBI backup.’’ She hoped. ‘‘And have your chief call ATF to see if they want to get in on the action.’’

Although she hoped she was wrong, Cait’s spidey sense was telling her this could get a lot worse before it got better.

‘‘One more thing you might want to keep in mind,’’ Quinn offered. ‘‘Whatever the weapon turns out to be, it’ll have been sawed down to make it more compact.’’

‘‘Who the hell are you?’’ Briggs demanded.

‘‘Quinn McKade,’’ Quinn answered mildly.

‘‘He’s okay,’’ Angetti assured the detective. ‘‘Guy’s an ex-SEAL who wrote a book.’’

Which didn’t seem to mean a thing to Briggs, who Cait figured didn’t read anything that didn’t have a centerfold, but his partner, Manning, did a double take. She watched recognition dawn. ‘‘Hey. Kill Zone. I read that. Great story.’’

‘‘Thanks,’’ Quinn said simply. He shot a look Cait’s way as if apologizing for the topic having turned toward him.

‘‘You sure about the short barrel?’’ she asked, reclaiming the conversation.

‘‘The sound was more of a boom than the usual crack,’’ Quinn replied. ‘‘So, yeah. I’m sure.’’

‘‘Well.’’ She processed that information. ‘‘Thanks. That’s very helpful.’’

She wasn’t sure how yet, but that was the thing she’d always enjoyed about working homicide. You took all these seemingly unconnected little pieces of clues, put them together, and eventually, bingo, you were looking at the full picture.

As more detectives and uniformed cops arrived and started working their way outward from the crime scene, searching for evidence, Cait set about interviewing the faculty and staff.

The victim, Captain Will Davis, a former Air Force fighter pilot who’d served in both Desert Storm and the early days in Afghanistan after 9/11, was both respected and beloved at the academy. Not only was he the director of the academy’s popular regimental bagpipe band, but he also played a mean sax in the commandant’s faculty jazz quartet.

He’d just celebrated his first anniversary, and lived on tony Palmetto Drive, which had, since the city’s founding, been home to Somersett’s aristocrats. Having some idea of what her father, who’d been at the academy far longer and outranked Davis, earned, Cait wondered how a mere captain could afford the mortgage.

If he had any enemies, none of the witnesses or any of the staff who’d come running out when they’d heard of the shooting knew about them.

And even in broad daylight, with so many people on the scene, no one had seen anything that was helpful.

No witnesses. No evidence. And, dammit, the sun was setting.

‘‘Might as well shut down for the night,’’ Briggs said after he returned from questioning potential witnesses at the Winn-Dixie across the street. The body had been taken away in the medical examiner’s van, and patrol cops were removing the crime scene tape from the supermarket parking lot. ‘‘Start fresh in the morning with new troops.’’

‘‘We need to do more door-to-door questioning back at the first crime scene,’’ Cait insisted.

‘‘I’ll call the chief,’’ Manning offered. ‘‘Have him send some of the late-shift guys to help out.’’

‘‘Thanks,’’ Cait said. ‘‘Meanwhile, I’d better go break the news to Mrs. Davis before she turns on her TV and hears it on the six o’clock news.’’

Notifying families that a loved one would never be coming home had always been the least favorite part of her job. But it was also one of the most important duties a law enforcement officer ever performed, and it was one Joe had taught Cait never to leave to anyone else. Especially Briggs, who had the social skills of pond scum.

‘‘Works for me,’’ Manning agreed. ‘‘Also, I got a call from the uniform we left back at the Hawthornes’. The husband’s back home.’’

‘‘So, who gets to interview him?’’ Briggs asked.

From the edge in his voice, Cait could sense the turf battle brewing again.

‘‘Since Manning caught the case, it makes sense that he does it.’’ Briggs might be a scum idiot, but the other detective had always had decent interrogation skills. ‘‘But I’d like to sit in. If you don’t mind,’’ she tacked on with what she hoped was the proper deference.

Apparently she’d pulled it off.

‘‘Sure,’’ Manning agreed easily. ‘‘I want to keep the captain away from his wife, just to make sure they don’t compare stories, in case something is hinky. So I’ll have a uniform bring him to the station and keep him on ice until you finish up with Davis’s widow.’’

‘‘Sounds good.’’

As soon as she reached the street where reporters were once again pressed against the barricades, Cait was hit with a barrage of questions.

One of the first things she’d learned in dealing with the media was that the best tack to take was maximum disclosure, minimum delay. Because if you didn’t feed them at least some facts, they’d start making things up.

Not wanting to be responsible for erroneous or misleading information getting out, she shared as much as she could, holding back Quinn’s take on the type of weapon used.

She announced that two faculty members from the Admiral Somersett Military Academy had been fatally shot in separate incidents. It was not yet known where the shots had come from. Or if they’d come from the same weapon. And no, she didn’t know if they were looking for one shooter or two.

‘‘You’re on the JTTF force, right, Special Agent Cavanaugh?’’ Valentine Snow called out.

‘‘That’s right,’’ Cait said, knowing full well that the newswoman had known the answer when she’d asked the question.

‘‘Does your presence at the murder scenes mean the authorities believe that these shootings are terrorism-related?’’

A wave of excited chatter moved through the press ranks at that idea.

‘‘Special Agent Angetti and I were called in because the first victim had Pentagon ties,’’ Cait explained. ‘‘While at this point in time we’re consulting with the Somersett Police Department, nothing is pointing to terrorism.’’

‘‘What’s the name of the second victim?’’ a reporter from Charleston’s WCIV asked.

Cait shook her head. ‘‘Somersett PD will be releasing that information after the next of kin is notified.’’

That said, she began walking away, thinking the impromptu press conference had gone well, all things considered.

Her momentary satisfaction evaporated like morning mist beneath a hot Lowcountry sun as she approached the SUV and saw Quinn McKade leaning against the front fender.