The Last Execution (4 page)

This is so not happening.

“It wasn’t important,” she managed to choke out.

“If you say so.” He dipped his head slightly.

She reached for the check, anything to slow the flush washing up her cheeks.

“I’ve got it.” He tossed a twenty on the table, walked to the front, and held the door open for her.

“Thank you.”

The scent of wild honeysuckle greeted her on the way to the car. Summer was coming, and school would be out soon. She and Ethan loved the outdoors, spending hours in the park. “April makes me want to find a hammock, stretch out with a good book, and Eth...a cold beer.” Damn. She’d almost said
with Ethan at her side
.

His shoulders stiffened. “You need alcohol to loosen up?”

The breath of fresh air she’d taken soured at his odd question. J.T. slid behind the wheel and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Call your friend at the lab. Ask him to send me side-by-side comparisons of all three shell casings.”

He’d moved on without giving her the opportunity to answer his question about alcohol, so Leigh let his comment slide. “Willem said the crime scene techs had to dig each one out of a brick wall.”

“Exactly. All three spent bullets being destroyed is a bit convenient. It’s no accident. The son of a bitch makes sure the markings are unrecognizable. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“If you’re right, and he’s not military trained, maybe he’s SWAT.” She hated what she was thinking. Worse yet, she hated the possibility she could be right.

“Jesus Christ.” He shifted his gaze upward. “Gear up for a shit-storm if he’s one of us.”

Chapter Three

Thursday, April 22, 7:00 p.m.

Jason held the amber liquid up to the light before taking a sip. After the initial burn diminished, a hint of
oak, maple sweetness, and grass caressed his palate. He
smiled appreciatively. His father’s taste ran to the expensive, and the single-barrel Jack Daniels helped make the pompous bastard tolerable.

Carlton Carrington’s presence filled the room with the scent of greed and prosperity. Jason barely contained his disdain.

“Son, you sure you’re ready to come back to work?”

“Absolutely. You and Mother believed in me. That belief helped me survive six years in prison. I can only try to repay you.”

Jason had a debt to settle with Leigh McBride, too. The bitch was going to suffer a hell of a lot more than he had. For now, he’d play the part of the repentant son.

“Your office is waiting.”

“Thanks, Father. You believing in my innocence meant everything to me. Oh sure, the sex got rough.” He cast his gaze down and then back up, feigning embarrassment. “I didn’t rape or hit Leigh McBride in anger. She flipped when I broke off with her. Her jealousy made her crazy, made her lie.”

“I never doubted you. Not for one minute. We’ll get you in the office and put this nasty business behind us.”

“You’re right, as always.” Jason leaned back on his new tan leather couch in the apartment his mother had rented for him in an outrageously expensive neighborhood of Atlanta.

This “nasty business” wouldn’t be over until Leigh McBride paid for every night he’d spent in Metro State Prison. His money had bought solid contacts on the outside. Through them, he’d closely monitored Leigh for six long, fucking years. She’d had his kid without his permission. Because of the boy’s age, the little bastard had to be his.

First, he’d convince his parents their baby boy was a dedicated son who wanted nothing more than to be a good dad. He’d have an ironclad alibi for each time misfortune visited Leigh over the next few weeks. With careful planning and patience, no one would doubt her suicide. When the time was right, that brat of hers would die swinging from a rope in front of her. Then she’d hang. The vision of her kicking feet kick, her tongue swelling, and the life oozing from her cold eyes had kept him going for seven years.

“I’d like to discuss something with you before we join Mother for dinner.” Every nerve ending sizzled. “Something of great interest to you both.”

“What’s that, son?”

Blood raced through his veins. Rocking the old man’s world was going to be fun. Jason had mentally rehearsed the words, measured each one for impact. He savored the moment the way he had the fine whiskey, rolled the words around on his tongue, and tasted victory.

“An heir to the Carrington fortune.”

****

Friday, April 23, 8:15 a.m
.

Olivia ruffled Romeo’s hair and dropped onto the chair next to Leigh. “Hello, gang.”

“Morning.” Leigh interpreted Olivia’s warm greeting to mean acceptance. Before Leigh started a conversation, a thundercloud named J.T. blew into the room and hovered over Romeo.

“You fixed this disgusting crap, didn’t you?” J.T. held a coffee mug out for evidence. He whipped a chair around backward and straddled it. “You’re incapable of fixing decent coffee. From now on, tell me when the pot’s empty.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Romeo smiled wide-eyed. His expression made him look eighteen years old instead of twenty-five.

“Nothing.” Leigh swallowed a chuckle and jumped to Romeo’s defense. The temptation to tease J.T. was too great. She’d tried to drink the sludge and poured hers out. No way was she admitting he was right.

“You want to grow hair on your chest?” J.T. hiked one eyebrow up in a challenge.

Leigh and Olivia glanced at each other then laughed.

“She has good taste.” Romeo rewarded the group with another toothy smile.

“So you say.”

J.T. frowned. The mischievous light in his eyes told a different story. Apparently, he and Romeo had frequent oral sparring matches. While they waited for Casey, Leigh took the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity. “How did you get the nickname Romeo when your name’s Tobias?”

“God, don’t ask,” J.T. grumbled.

Romeo waved J.T. off. “Because the ladies love me. A fact certain people can’t accept. Plus, I can romance information from the network when no one else in this office can.” He sent a challenging look at J.T.

“He’s a geek. And he needs a personal secretary.” J.T. pushed his cup across the table, grimaced, and slid his tongue over his lip.

Leigh’s gaze locked on J.T.’s mouth. A ball of heat started in her stomach and shot south. The reaction surprised her, and in a way, came as a relief. She hadn’t experienced that particular stirring in years. Maybe there was hope for her after all. Maybe someday she’d welcome a man’s touch. Maybe.
After Ethan was older.

“I get a lot of phone calls from women,” Romeo continued. “And J.T. gets—wait, let me think…right. None.”

Olivia, who kept glancing toward the doorway, interrupted. “Here comes our leader.”

“Sorry, folks.” Casey hustled in, dropping his briefcase on his desk before joining them at the conference table. “I had an early morning call from an old partner. What did I miss?”

“Not a damn thing.” J.T. crossed his arms over his expansive chest. “We didn’t stop by the precinct yesterday. I’m looking forward to chatting with the boys in blue.”

“I, on the other hand, had a productive day.” Romeo preened, running his hand through thick, wavy dark hair. “Mrs. Slocum apparently falls down a lot.” He held his hands up to Casey’s raised eyebrows. “I didn’t hack into her medical records. However, she’s had more than one brush with the stairs at her house. Broke her jaw once.”

“Bastard,” J.T. muttered.

“If you’re referring to Brian Slocum, I concur.” Romeo flipped the page on his iPad. “Mrs. Slocum writes a check for these ‘accidents’ instead of filing an insurance claim.”

“Good information. How does it get us closer to the sniper?” Casey’s gaze slid around the table. “Anybody?”

“Keeps me from having to fight my way out of the Sixth Precinct.” J.T. shrugged his shoulders. “Romeo confirmed our suspicion.”

Leigh passed around pictures of the three bullets. J.T.’s hand folded around hers when he reached for his copy. She pulled away from the warmth of his fingers on her skin. “The shell casings are crushed beyond analysis.”

Olivia pushed a diagram to the center of the table. “Based on the estimated trajectory and damage to the victim’s head, the sniper’s rifle has long range capacity.”

“My guess is he’s using a Remington 700,” J.T. said.

“It’s a workable theory. Go with it.” Casey leaned across the table to study the diagram.

“It’s been the weapon of choice for years by hunters and SWAT, even some military. Our killer isn’t military. Many shooters tailor the barrel to take a .308 caliber bullet, or a .300 Winchester magnum, or hell, the larger .338. As I said, you can’t tell which by the shell casings. Judging by the damage to the skull, I’m betting on the .338.”

“Damn, J.T. You constantly impress us with your knowledge of how to kill. Where’d you learn all this?” Romeo’s eyes were wide. While he tried to sound flippant, his hero worship showed.

“Past experience. If I had you in the crosshairs, I’d use the Barrett .50 cal round.” J.T.’s lips curved upward. “It’s large enough to take off your ego-inflated head. The bullet and shell casing will reach from your thumb to fully extended index finger.” He leaned back, crossed one foot over a knee, and closed his mouth. His chest expanded wide and fell with each breath as if such a lengthy speech had winded him.

“Why not military?” Leigh asked.

“Because a trained sniper from any branch of the military aims for the heart. Never fails. One shot. One kill. Head shots are for showoffs and the movies. Too small a target. If you don’t drill them dead center, the bullet can ricochet off the skull and hit somebody else.”

Leigh sat in awe. Not only did J.T. talk, he talked in full-blown sentences and with conviction. His knowledge of rifles, snipers, and the military impressed her. She’d wondered if his scar came from a tour of duty. Now she’d bet on it.

“Casey, the idea the sniper uses a 700 put a frown on your face. Why?” Olivia asked.

He blew out a sigh. “I know of a sniper who used that particular weapon, and he’s in the wind. Let me assure you, he’s a hell of a lot more than a pissed-off citizen. He’s a trained killer. Ex-SWAT sharpshooter turned vigilante. Someone who’s dedicated his life to extracting justice and who believes the judicial system has failed.”

“Anna Slocum never filed a formal complaint,” Romeo protested. “How can the system fail if you never asked for help?”

“The fact Mrs. Slocum never filed a report on the abuse makes me doubt it’s the same man. The sniper in New York joined an underground organization when his daughter was beaten to death by an ex-boyfriend. NYPD couldn’t put together enough proof to arrest the bastard, so he was never charged.”

“We need more background on that sniper, in case he’s relocated to Atlanta.” J.T. pushed back from the conference table.

“I’ll make a few calls. We’ll meet back here at four thirty.” Casey gathered his notes.

Mrs. Slocum’s bruises and broken jaw nagged at Leigh. “Wait.” She stopped the group. “We should check out the other victims’ wives. Abuse may be the link we’re looking for.”

J.T.’s gaze caught hers and held. A flicker of approval flashed in his eyes as he winked with a slight nod.

“Let’s start with the first widow. Maybe all of them had trouble with stairs.”

****

Friday, April 23, 10:00 a.m.

“I’m sorry. Mrs. Ortega not home.”

Leigh noticed the diminutive housekeeper shift from one foot to the other and the tightly gripped dust rag and can of furniture polish.

“It’s important we speak to her,” J.T. said in a take-no-prisoners tone.

Leigh stepped in front of him. His size, scowl, and identification probably scared the poor housekeeper to death. “Were you working here when Mr. Ortega died?”

“
Si
. Long time.”

“Before his death, did Mr. Ortega hit his wife?”

“I don’t want trouble.” She fidgeted, looking at everything except the two of them.

“We’re not from Immigration, don’t know, and don’t care about your papers,” Leigh assured. “We need the truth about Mr. Ortega.”

The woman studied Leigh for a few seconds. “Mr. Ortega lose his temper a lot. Was me called 9-1-1 last time. He fire me. Missus bring me back after he is dead.”

“What hospital did they take her to?”

The frightened woman shook her head and tears welled in her eyes.

Leigh released her hands. “You don’t have to tell Mrs. Ortega we came by unless you want to.” Leigh looked up at her new partner. “Any questions you’d like to ask?”

“Nope. We got what we came for.”

She thanked the terrified woman and followed J.T. down the steps to the car. He paused at the curb.

“So, Hotshot, if I compliment you on being right and how well you handled her, you gonna bite my head off?”

“Not if you don’t bite mine off for being stone-cold surprised when you talk to me in complete sentences.” Leigh heard him scoff at her comeback. “And stop calling me ‘hotshot.’”

“Like your fiery temper doesn’t shoot sparks?” He arched an eyebrow before he ducked into the car.

“I’m the calmest person you’ll meet.” Truth was, her nerves jumped faster than a hamster running on a wheel. Thank God, J.T. didn’t know her well enough to pick up on her lie. “Next stop, the Mussa-Shir home. See if his wife was abused.” Leigh entered the address in the GPS, buckling up when he eased the sedan onto the freeway. “I thought you Feds drove big black SUVs everywhere you went.”