Desperate Girls

11

THE MINI-MART at the intersection of Commerce and South Streets was an impromptu staging area for Dallas law enforcement. Police units and sheriff’s department SUVs crammed the tiny lot, and uniformed officers milled on the sidewalk, sipping coffee and wolfing down breakfast tacos.

Lindsey pulled her unmarked Taurus into a gap beside a fire hydrant. She had no trouble spotting Erik Morgan, who towered over everyone. With his dark suit, mirrored sunglasses, and SIG Sauer at his hip, he looked like he should have been standing beside a president, not arguing with a potbellied sheriff’s deputy in front of a Grab-N-Go.

Erik spied Lindsey and immediately broke off his conversation to walk over.

“I got your message,” she said. “What happened?”

Erik turned to face the intersection. Rush hour had ended, but the sweltering air still was thick with car exhaust.

“At eight sixteen, our vehicle was en route to the courthouse. We had just pulled up to the stoplight when I heard a gunshot.”

“Brynn was with you?”

“That’s correct.”

“Where is she now?”

“In court. We’ve canvassed the neighborhood, interviewing potential witnesses, but so far no sign of a white Dodge pickup or anyone resembling James Corby in the area.”

Lindsey sighed. “Well, shit.”

“I need that list of weapons, ASAP.”

“I don’t have it.”

Erik stared down at her, clearly displeased, and Lindsey saw her reflection in his shades.

“You said McGowan’s son was going to get it to you yesterday.”

“I haven’t heard from him.” She glanced around. “What about surveillance cameras? There have to be at least a couple of traffic cams around here.”

“Four,” he told her. “And three ATM cams within this one-block radius alone. The footage is under review, but as of now, no leads. We haven’t been able to get anyone to corroborate the gunshot I heard. We’ve interviewed store clerks, but a lot of the businesses weren’t open yet.”

“What about the dry cleaner’s there?” Lindsey nodded down the block. “That would have been open.”

“The attendant says she heard something, but she believes it was a car backfiring or maybe a nail gun. She doesn’t think it was a gunshot.”

Lindsey didn’t bother asking if Erik was sure. She’d been checking up on the man. He was a former Marine and had spent his entire career undergoing rigorous weapons training. If he said he’d heard a gunshot, then he’d heard a gunshot.

She studied Erik’s face—the tight line of his mouth, the hard set of his jaw. Intense seemed to be his default, but right now he looked extra uptight.

“I’ve got the address for McGowan’s son,” she said. “I’ll track him down myself and get that list for you.”

“Soon as you have it, send it over.”

Lindsey glanced around. “You know, with all the police traffic back and forth to the courthouse, there have to be a lot of dashboard cams. Maybe someone caught something?”

“We’re looking into it.”

“Good. Let me know what turns up.”

What turned up was nothing.

No bullet holes, no chinks in the concrete, no spent cartridges anywhere near the intersection.

Erik gritted his teeth with frustration as he walked back to Brynn’s apartment, still combing the street for clues. After spending the entire day searching, he hadn’t found one shred of evidence of a shooter.

Not one shred except for his certainty that he’d heard a gunshot. Erik had been looking at Brynn at the time, so he’d been distracted, which was part of his frustration. He’d been distracted then, and he was distracted now. He kept picturing that look of pure fear in her eyes when he’d pulled her from the Tahoe and hustled her into the courthouse.

Another frustration: Erik hadn’t been able to place the direction of the shot, which was inexcusable, given his training. This was why he couldn’t afford to lose focus, not even for a second. The smallest distraction could have deadly consequences.

Erik neared the Atrium and called Brynn. He could have called Hayes to check on things, but he wanted to hear her voice.

“Hey, I was just about to call you,” she said, sounding better than he’d expected.

“What’s up?”

“What’s up with you? I haven’t seen you all day.”

“I’ve had my hands full.”

“Anything on the gunshot?”

“No.”

Silence. Erik scanned the surrounding buildings as he reached the Atrium’s driveway.

“Brynn?”

“I thought you must have, you know, discovered something. You’ve been gone so long.”

“I’m still working on it.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“I’m not. Why were you about to call me?”

“Logistics. I’m going out tonight.”

“Out?”

“I’ve got a business dinner with Reggie.”

Erik tensed. “Why weren’t we informed?”

“This just came up. How soon can we have the Tahoe ready?”

Right. Like it was just a matter of pulling the car around.

Erik swiped his way into the building and went straight for the elevators.

“Erik?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I know, but can you accommodate me? This is important.”

He wanted to accommodate her, absolutely. He prided himself on customer service. But he’d counted on her wanting to stay in tonight, just like he’d counted on having more time to pin down this threat before tomorrow. And now she wanted to spend the evening out at some dinner?

“It’s at Oak Creek Country Club,” she said, predicting his next question.

The elevator slid open, and he strode down her hallway, passing several women with yoga mats tucked under their arms. One of them definitely gave him the once-over.

“When?” he asked.

“Seven o’clock.”

Erik halted outside her apartment. “That’s in forty minutes.”

No answer.

He let himself inside with his key and saw Hayes standing in the kitchen on the phone.

Brynn emerged from her bedroom with a waft of perfume, and Erik stopped cold.

Short black dress. Tall black heels. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in shiny, coppery waves. She smiled and strode up to him.

“Hey, you’re here.” She slipped her phone into a little black purse. “This mean we can go soon?”

He couldn’t speak. Go soon? Was she serious?

She gazed up at him, all innocence. She’d done that smoky thing with her eyes again and something with her mouth, too.

“We’re not going anywhere,” he told her. “I need to know more about this event. Is it a private club?”

“Some golf club.” She rolled her eyes. “The client invited us. Very exclusive, so security shouldn’t be an issue. It’s a gated club within a gated community.”

“Who’s the client?”

She tucked her purse under her arm. “Potential client. We’re hoping to close him tonight.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Reggie and me.”

“Not Ross?”

“No.”

Erik studied her face as his mind raced with logistical issues. She looked perfectly composed. The stammering, wide-eyed woman from this morning was long gone.

“Who’s the client?” he asked again.

“Daniel Sheffield.”

Erik stared down at her. “Danny Sheffield. First baseman for the Rangers?”

She nodded.

And it all snapped into focus. The last-minute dinner, the dress, Ross not going. Erik tried to rein in his temper—not just about the plan but also about the fact that Brynn seemed on board with it.

“Forty minutes isn’t happening.”

“But—”

“Not happening, Brynn. I need to run his record, check out this club, get people in place—”

“Run his record ?” She fisted a hand on her hip. “He’s our client.”

“I thought you haven’t closed him yet?”

“Whatever. We will close him. If I can get there in time to help Reggie negotiate.” She glanced at her watch. “We need to get moving. I can give you his record on the way. In case you haven’t heard, he was recently arrested for punching a tabloid photographer outside a nightclub, and he’s about to fire his lawyer and hire us, if Reggie and I can convince him over dinner.”

“Tell him seven thirty.”

“Seven thirty! He and his agent are already over there, having drinks in the clubhouse.”

“It’s the best I can do, Brynn. Take it or leave it.”