Crossfire (6 page)

Valentine was not in a good mood after her nightly newscast as she pulled into the parking lot of the gray stone building flying the orange, white, and green flag of Ireland next to the Stars and Stripes.

Having spent the past sixteen years cultivating sources all around the world, she was frustrated that that damn second shooting had thrown a monkey wrench into her broadcast schedule and she hadn’t snagged an interview with FBI Special Agent Cait Cavanaugh.

That was the bad news. The good news was that no one else had either. So there was still a chance. Especially since she still had a kitten card up her sleeve.

It had begun to rain. She dashed across the cobblestones to the heavy oak door that had a sign stating, OPEN WHEN WE’RE HERE. CLOSED WHEN WE’RE GONE.

The Black Swan pub, decorated with yet more Irish flags and framed photographs of green hills, sparkling blue lakes, and castle ruins, was doing a standing-room-only business. The tall, dark-haired Irishman building pints behind the horseshoe-shaped wooden bar waved to her and pointed toward a two-top booth in the far corner of the room.

His welcoming smile smoothed her rough edges a bit. She waved back, then began making her way through the teeming throng of pirates and wenches. Fortunately, all were too busy partying and tossing back Guinness and Irish whiskey to pay her any notice.

Val wasn’t going to lie; there were times she liked being recognized. When she’d first arrived in the Big Apple from that affiliate in Phoenix, she’d been jazzed at the idea of finally achieving her childhood goal of becoming famous.

That was then. This is now, she thought as she slid into the wooden booth. A hand-painted sign on the table stated RESERVED. The pub was essentially her home these days, since she was renting one of the two lofts upstairs. Brendan O’Neill, bartender and owner of the Black Swan, was not just her landlord, he was also her next-door neighbor. And, over the months she’d been in Somersett, he had become a friend.

Although having a reserved table in a bar wasn’t as personal as having a husband greet you at the door with a hot kiss and a chilled glass of wine, Val liked the idea of someone waiting at home for her.

Taking in the broad shoulders stretching the seams of Brendan’s green rugby shirt, narrow hips, and long legs as he deftly wove his way through the crowd, she wondered how the hell the Irishman had managed to stay single.

Or maybe he hadn’t. Although they chatted each evening after she came home from the station and often in the morning, when he’d try to push breakfast on her, she realized that she didn’t really know that many personal details about Brendan.

He’d been an attorney in Dublin. A barrister, she corrected herself. And had supposedly chosen family law because it had allowed him to avoid, in his words, ‘‘those frightful formal wigs and black robes’’ worn by lawyers in criminal or commercial law.

When she’d pressed a bit, the reporter in her wanting more facts, he’d admitted that the wardrobe hadn’t been the sole factor. That standing up for the underdog had its appeal.

From the way his deep blue eyes had warmed at the admission, Val had received the distinct impression that he’d enjoyed his work. Yet when his father had suffered a heart attack, Brendan had apparently given it all up to move back to a small town in the west to run the pub that had been in the O’Neill family for three generations.

A year ago she would have considered such a downwardly mobile career move odd. Even suspicious. Yet wasn’t that exactly what she herself had done?

Of course, she’d had her reasons.

‘‘What was the name of that town?’’ she asked, as he placed a glass of Chardonnay on the table.

‘‘And what town would that be?’’ he asked, the lilt of Ireland singing in his deep voice.

‘‘The one you came here from. Castleview? Castlelake? Something like that?’’

‘‘Castlelough. And why would you be asking that?’’

‘‘I was just pondering career choices.’’ She picked up the glass, took a sip of the crisp, straw-colored wine, and eyed him over the rim of the glass. ‘‘How we all travel our own winding path.’’

‘‘’Tis true enough.’’ Little lines crinkled outward from the corners of his eyes, adding not age but character. ‘‘I watched your report.’’ His expression sobered. ‘‘It’s a bad story, but you were excellent in the telling.’’

‘‘Thanks.’’ She wished she hadn’t brought up work. It wasn’t her favorite topic at the moment. ‘‘It should have been better.’’

‘‘It will be.’’

‘‘You’re so sure of that, are you?’’

‘‘As sure as I am that the sun’s going to rise out over the harbor tomorrow morning.’’

He skimmed a finger down her nose, the gesture casual, almost fraternal. Brendan, Val had discovered, was a toucher. She was not. Except in bed. From the time she’d shed her virginity with a cameraman at Northwestern’s campus TV station, she’d always brought the same attention to detail to sex as she did to her work. Just as when she was doing a live broadcast in front of the camera, in bed Val knew exactly what to say, and how to move.

‘‘Will you be having dinner? We’ve fresh oysters. And some soft-shell crabs.’’

He was always trying to feed her. Which, she had to admit, was rather sweet. Having lived a nomadic life the past years, using people and occasionally being used herself, Val couldn’t remember the last time, before Brendan had come into her life, that anyone had simply wanted to take care of her without receiving something in return.

‘‘I’m not that hungry. I think I’ll just have a bowl of cereal and do some research on snipers.’’

She could tell he was inclined to argue. Appreciated when he didn’t.

‘‘A note was left for you. I found it on the counter, about ten minutes before you came in.’’

He reached into the front pocket of the half apron he was wearing and took out a plain white envelope with her name on it.

‘‘That’s odd.’’

‘‘It’s undoubtedly from a fan,’’ he said. ‘‘Or a secret admirer.’’

‘‘Those always come to the station.’’ A little uneasy with any viewer knowing where she lived, she used a fingernail to open the envelope. Then felt her blood run cold as she viewed the two cards depicting a skeleton clad in a black suit of armor astride a white horse.

‘‘What’s wrong?’’ She could barely hear Brendan over the sound of her blood roaring in her ears. ‘‘You’ve gone as pale as Cromwell’s ghost.’’

‘‘They’re death cards.’’

Without waiting for an invitation, and ignoring a call for a refill from across the room, he slid into the booth next to her. ‘‘They seem to be.’’ He caught her wrist as she went to pull out the note accompanying the cards. ‘‘We’d best be leaving this for the police.’’

‘‘You don’t think . . . ?’’ Her eyes searched the room wildly, skimming over the crowd, who were all currently clapping in time to the sprightly music accompanying two young girls step-dancing on a postage-stamp-sized dance floor.

‘‘That it was left by the sniper?’’ His eyes turned as hard as flint. A muscle tensed in his cheek. ‘‘If not by him, perhaps by a compatriot. We’d best be calling the authorities.’’

Unlike its Tara-wannabe neighbors, the Davis house was two stories of imposing gray stone, not much different from that used to build the academy. A flag-stone sidewalk, lined with precisely trimmed azaleas, cut across emerald grass that could have doubled as a putting green. A massive iron sculpture of an eagle took up the center of the lawn next to a towering flagpole from which an oversized American flag waved in the sea breeze blowing in from the harbor.

The double front doors were at least twelve feet tall and intricately carved. Cait suspected the work had been done by hand. A very long time ago. The doorbell tolled like she’d always figured Big Ben must sound.

One of the doors was opened by a fortysomething woman. Taking in the colorful turban and ebony complexion, Cait didn’t need her detective skills to recognize Gullah roots.

‘‘We’re here for Mrs. Davis,’’ she said.

‘‘Mrs. Davis isn’t at home.’’

And wasn’t that always the case? Cait knew she was racing the local TV station and newspaper reports of the shooting. Although they hadn’t released Captain Davis’s name, she knew it was only a matter of time before some reporter dug it out.

‘‘When do you expect her?’’

Eyes the color of a raven’s wing narrowed suspiciously.

‘‘I’m FBI Special Agent Cait Cavanaugh.’’ Thinking that she really needed to go home and change into something more professional, she flipped open her shield. ‘‘And this is . . .’’

Cait paused, unsure what to call Quinn. He certainly wasn’t a partner. Nor a friend. And no way was she going to refer to him as a former lover.

‘‘Well, of course I know Mr. McKade.’’ The housekeeper’s gaze warmed considerably. ‘‘I’m sorry. But the captain isn’t home yet, either.’’

‘‘When do you expect Mrs. Davis home?’’ Cait asked.

‘‘Anytime now. This is the day to volunteer at the library. But she’s usually home in time to change for dinner.’’

Cait weighed the idea of calling the widow on her cell phone. But what if she were on the road? Learning in such a cold, impersonal way that her husband had been murdered could have fatal results. And weren’t they dealing with enough dead bodies for one day?

‘‘May we come in and wait?’’

There was a moment’s hesitation. Then, ‘‘I suppose that would be all right.’’ The woman moved aside, allowing them into the mansion.

White marble flowed like a glacier beneath a massive chandelier dripping with crystal. Gilt-framed oil paintings hung on walls covered in burgundy silk, and in the center of the round foyer, a flower arrangement enormous enough for a Mafia funeral sat atop a heavy, lion-footed table. A flying staircase curved a long way upward, to the second-floor balcony.

They followed the housekeeper down what seemed to be miles of Oriental carpeting to the library, where leather-bound books filled the two-story mahogany bookcases on either side of a a black marble fireplace. A Persian rug, so thin that Cait suspected it must be extremely valuable, glowed with muted colors.

After inquiring whether they’d like anything to eat or drink, an offer that both Cait and Quinn refused, the housekeeper left them alone.

‘‘I’ve never been in a house like this that I didn’t have to pay to visit,’’ Cait murmured, looking up at the gilded mural of a race between two white paddleboats that had been painted on the plaster ceiling. She vaguely remembered hearing that the Hightower fortune had been made building paddle steamers to move cotton from the inland plantations down the Somersett River to the harbor.

‘‘It’s definitely not your average suburban tract house,’’ Quinn agreed. ‘‘You should see the dining room. The table seats thirty.’’

‘‘You’re kidding.’’

‘‘Nope.’’

‘‘Wow.’’

Cait, whose dinner parties more often than not involved calling out for pizza, couldn’t imagine the logistics of a sit-down meal for thirty of her best friends. Actually, thinking about it, she didn’t think she had thirty friends. At least not close enough friends that she’d want to cook dinner for them.

‘‘I guess it’s true that the rich really are different,’’ she decided.

‘‘Maybe,’’ Quinn said. ‘‘In some ways. But when F. Scott Fitzgerald said the same thing to Hemingway, Hemingway’s response was, ‘Yes, they have more money.’ Still, I doubt money’s going to make Kristin Davis’s loss any easier.’’

‘‘Probably not.’’ Cait skimmed a fingertip over a black and white marble chessboard sitting atop the table in front of her. ‘‘This part of the job sucks.’’

‘‘I imagine it would.’’

‘‘So.’’ She leaned back on the oxblood leather sofa and crossed her legs. ‘‘How well do you know the Davises?’’

‘‘Having spent the last six months playing on a basketball team with Will, I knew him better than I know Kristin.’’ He paused.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘I just realized that’s probably how she met Mike.’’

‘‘Mike?’’ Cait’s cop senses went on full alert. Two sniper attacks in one day. What if both involved adultery?

‘‘Mike Gannon. He’s on the team, too. And no, to answer the question you’re undoubtedly thinking, she wasn’t romantically involved with him.’’

‘‘Mike Gannon? Father Mike?’’ Who just happened to be the brother of her former partner. Talk about your small world. ‘‘And how did you know what I was thinking?’’

‘‘It was a logical enough assumption. But even if the lady did stray, which I’ve never gotten the impression she did, no way would Mike take up with a married woman. He might not be a priest any longer—’’

‘‘He’s not?’’

‘‘He left the order after he got back from a sabbatical running a homeless shelter in post-Katrina New Orleans last year. He’s set up a free clinic across from the church and is running a vets’ PTSD group out of the basement of St. Brendan’s. Kristin volunteers with the group. Mike says she’s been a big help.’’

‘‘She’s a vet?’’

‘‘No, but she does have a degree in psychology, plus being a military wife gives her street cred with the vets.’’

‘‘Maybe one of them got a little too interested in her?’’ Cait mulled that possibility over. ‘‘Decided to blow away the competition?’’

‘‘Just because a veteran is having a few problems— which shouldn’t be surprising, given that going to war isn’t exactly a normal life situation for anyone— doesn’t mean he’s a potential serial killer.’’

‘‘I was just considering all the possible angles,’’ Cait said. ‘‘Though that scenario gets tricky when you try to connect it to the first murder.’’ The white queen was a little off center on its black square. She absently moved it back into place. ‘‘I wonder, since the parents are dead, who inherits in the event of Captain Davis’s death.’’

‘‘I imagine that would be Kristin. Unless she’d signed a prenup. But Will didn’t seem at all concerned with his family’s wealth, so I kinda doubt that.’’

‘‘These are pretty snazzy digs for a guy who supposedly doesn’t care about money.’’

‘‘The place has been in the family since it was built.’’ Quinn shrugged. ‘‘No point in not taking advantage of free housing.’’

‘‘Convenient,’’ Cait murmured.

‘‘You don’t suspect—’’

‘‘I never rule anyone or anything out,’’ she said, cutting him off. ‘‘Besides, most homicides are personal.’’

They heard a door outside the library shut. There was an exchange of voices.

Then the paneled door opened and a willowy blonde entered the library. Her pale hair had been tucked into a French roll that was just messy enough to look retro rather than dated. At five-six and one-twenty, Cait had always rued her lack of curves. But she had a good ten or fifteen pounds on Kristin Davis, who looked as if the slightest wind might blow her away.

The widow was wearing a cream silk blouse, ivory slacks, and strappy sandals. A slender gold link belt circled the slacks’ high waist.

The top two buttons of the blouse were unbuttoned, revealing a strand of what appeared to be very good pearls, which matched the pearls in her ears. Along with the pearls she wore a white-and-yellow-gold Rolex on her right wrist and an antique wedding band that Cait figured for an heirloom on the fourth finger of her left hand. The emerald-cut diamond in the center of the band, framed on either side with baguettes, was impressive, but not as gaudy as it might have been, given her deceased husband’s bucks. Two carats, Cait decided. Of high enough quality to send off blue sparks beneath the light of the overhead chandelier.

‘‘Quinn.’’ Kristin Davis greeted him with a warm smile and an outstretched hand. ‘‘What a lovely surprise. I do hope you can stay for dinner.’’

Her hand disappeared between his two very much larger ones. ‘‘I’m afraid this isn’t a social call, Kristin.’’

Her gaze moved to Cait. ‘‘Eugenia said something about the FBI?’’ A puzzled frown furrowed her brow.

‘‘I’m Special Agent Caitlin Cavanaugh.’’ Cait showed her shield, as she’d done with the housekeeper. ‘‘We’re here about your husband, Mrs. Davis.’’

‘‘Will?’’ Scandinavian blue eyes moved from Cait to Quinn. Then back again. ‘‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’’

‘‘This is tough, Kristin,’’ Quinn said soberly. ‘‘I’m afraid Will’s dead.’’

‘‘Dead?’’ She blanched, the color draining from her face. ‘‘That’s impossible.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘I was just talking with him a couple hours ago. He was finishing up tweaking this year’s lesson plan. We were going to have a light supper in, then go out to watch the fireworks over the harbor.’’ Her eyes welled with tears. ‘‘Was it an accident? I always warned him that stupid motorcycle was dangerous.’’

‘‘He was fatally shot,’’ Cait said gently. ‘‘At the academy.’’

‘‘Shot?’’ Her beringed hand flew to her breast. Her startled, disbelieving gaze shot up to meet Quinn’s. ‘‘That’s impossible,’’ she insisted yet again.

Then, before Quinn could catch her, Kristin Davis’s knees buckled and she slipped bonelessly toward the floor.

‘‘Damn.’’ Cait dragged a hand down her face. ‘‘I hate it when that happens.’’