Читать книгу The Cop - Cara Summers - Страница 8

ST. PETER’S CHURCH looked quiet enough when he pulled up to the corner of the intersection. No cars parked in front. No pedestrian traffic on the street. Since there was no sign of backup yet, Nik turned the corner and pulled into the parking area behind the church. Three vehicles were parked there. One was a black Mercedes sedan, another a white van with Have an Affair with J.C. scrawled across the side. It was the third one that had Nik frowning. He recognized both the car and the plate; it had been parked in the driveway of his aunt Cass’s house often enough. It belonged to his brother’s best friend, Roman Oliver.

He got out of his car, pulled out his gun and moved quickly toward a covered walkway connecting the rectory to the church. He should wait for backup to arrive, but the door to the church was open…and it was too damn quiet.

Nik spotted the body from the walkway. The tightening in his stomach eased the moment that he registered the man lying on the floor of the sacristy was too big to be Roman. Crouching, he stepped into the room and fanned his gun.

No one. The space was small and lined with cupboards. Shots had been fired all right. A mirror had been splintered and so had a doorjamb. The body at his feet was lying in a pool of blood. Keeping his gun aimed at the open door leading to the altar, he squatted down and checked for a pulse. None. The dead man was large, with the kind of build that required regular maintenance and custom-made suits. His tie was silk, his shoes expensive-looking. He was also holding a Glock in his right hand. Bodyguard or hired gun?

This wasn’t going to be the only body. Nik was certain of that. Sirens sounded in the distance as he rose and moved into the doorway that opened onto the altar. Once more he fanned his gun, taking in the choir loft that ran along both the sides and the back of the church.

Nothing. Then he moved toward the body of the priest that lay behind the altar. This time he found a pulse—weak but steady. From what he could see, the blood was coming from a shoulder wound. Pulling off his shirt, he ripped it in half, then fashioned a pressure bandage. He’d just satisfied himself that he’d slowed the bleeding when the priest’s hand closed over his wrist.

“Pro…tect.”

Nik leaned closer. “Don’t try to talk, Father. An ambulance is on the way.”

“Protect…them.”

The words carried only a thread of sound. “Protect who?”

“Bride,” the priest breathed, tightening his grip on Nik’s wrist. “Ju…liana Ol…iver.”

The pricking sensation in Nik’s thumbs grew very sharp. “And the groom?”

“Paulo…” the priest gasped. “Carlucci. Grave danger.”

Dread formed a cold hard ball in Nik’s gut. He recognized the names—and if there was ever a pair of star-crossed lovers, Juliana Oliver and Paulo Carlucci had to be it. If his memory served him correctly, Juliana was young, still in her teens, and Paulo couldn’t be much more than that. Nik couldn’t imagine how they’d even met. The Oliver and Carlucci families had a bitter rivalry that went back over fifty years, to a time when both families had ties to organized crime. Since then, both the Olivers and the Carluccis had become rich and influential by running legitimate businesses, but the rivalry was just as bitter as it had been three generations back. They refused to even appear in public together.

Of course, San Francisco was reaping great benefits. If the Carluccis donated a pediatric wing to a hospital, the Olivers, not to be outdone, would build a new aquarium. Recently, the feud had been freshly stoked by a lucrative land deal—a still pristine stretch of beach along the California coastline that both families had bid on. For the past week, the papers had been hinting that the Olivers had clinched the deal.

“Help…them.” The priest’s eyes drifted shut. “Choir…loft.”

“Hang on, Father,” Nik murmured.

A sudden noise from the sacristy behind him had him raising his gun and whirling. The uniform in the doorway had his gun raised, too. He was young, a rookie, Nik surmised. They’d each lowered their weapons by the time the young man’s partner appeared in the doorway.

Nik spoke to the young officer. “I want you to stand in the walkway and keep everyone but EMTs out.”

“There’s another squad car—they’re coming in through the front of the church,” the older officer said.

Nik gave him a nod. “Come here. I need you to put pressure on the wound until the EMTs arrive.” Once he had the officer in position, Nik rose and started off the altar. He paused when he spotted a cell phone lying on the marble floor a few feet away. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, “When the crime-scene guys arrive, tell them to bag this cell phone.” Then he hurried down the aisle. Two more uniforms waited for him in the vestibule. One was kneeling over a man’s body. Nik tried to ignore the sensation in his thumbs as he noted the gun in the man’s hand and the twisted position of the body. Moving quickly, he squatted down and confirmed what he already knew. The man lying to the side of the circular staircase was Roman Oliver.

“Alive or dead?” Even as he asked the question, he rested his fingers lightly against Roman’s throat. Relief shot through him when he detected the pulse.

“He’s breathing, but unconscious,” one uniform replied. “No bullet wound. But his gun’s been fired. Looks like he took a bad tumble down the stairs.”

“Either that or he fell over the railing,” the other cop said.

Even as his mind raced, Nik managed a nod. Roman Oliver was the bride’s older brother and even though he usually kept his temper under control, Nik had seen it flare on occasion. The dread in his gut grew colder. Not only had Roman been Kit’s best friend since college, but he’d helped Theo out when he’d first opened his own law office. And six years ago, Roman had saved his sister Philly’s life. She’d wanted to take Nik’s sailboat out by herself. Roman, who’d been with them at the cabin that weekend, had been the only one to object, and he’d insisted on going with her. When the sudden squall had come up and the boat had capsized, Roman had gotten her to shore.

All the Angelises figured they owed him for that.

Pushing that thought aside, Nik forced himself to think like a cop. As the next in line to take over the Oliver business interests, he figured that Roman wouldn’t have been happy about his sister’s wedding. In fact, he might have done anything to prevent it.

Still crouched down, he glanced around the area. The space beneath and behind the circular staircase was shrouded in shadows, and it wasn’t until his gaze swept the area a second time that he spotted the purse lying beneath the first step. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out plastic gloves and slipped them on. Then he lifted the purse and dumped the contents out. Neat was his first thought. In his experience most women carried an enormous amount of junk around in their purses. This one contained only a cell phone, a wallet, a day planner, a lipstick and a pen. When he flipped open the wallet, he found the driver’s license in a clear plastic frame. His stomach clenched. Sadie Oliver, Roman’s other sister.

Searching his memory, Nik pulled up details. If he remembered correctly, Sadie was about four years Roman’s junior. He’d never met her, but there’d been a shot of all three of the Oliver siblings in the paper recently. Like her brother and sister, Sadie was tall, and she had long dark hair. She’d graduated from Harvard Law School recently and come home to work at Oliver Enterprises. So Sadie, Roman and Juliana had all been here in the church when the shooting had started. That wasn’t good.

After slipping the items back into the purse, Nik rose, and drew out his gun again. He had a very bad feeling about what he was going to find in the choir loft. Signaling to one cop to follow him, he spoke to the other officer. “Don’t let anyone else in except the EMTs. There’s a dead man in the sacristy and the priest’s been shot. Call the crime lab and tell them to get a team here ASAP.”

“Yes, sir,” the uniform said as he pulled out his cell.

At the top of the stairs, Nik stopped. The choir loft was empty but there was a closed door ten feet from where he was standing. He motioned the uniformed officer to one side and he took the other. As soon as they were both in position, he threw open the door and went in low, while his companion went in high.

The room was small, ten by ten, and it was empty. Except for the wedding bouquet—and the bloodstains on two walls.

J.C. WASN’T SURE how much longer she could stay hidden in the depths of the closet. Even as a child, she’d hated to wait for anything. Plus, she was absolutely starving. She always got ravenously hungry whenever she was nervous or scared. Surely the police should have arrived by now.

She thought she’d heard a siren, but that had been a while ago. And it could have been wishful thinking. She wasn’t even sure how long she’d been hiding. She’d tried to say a rosary—something she hadn’t done in years. How long had that taken? Five minutes? Ten? She wanted to check on Father Mike but she wouldn’t do him much good if Snake Eyes was still out there.

It was too dark to check her watch. If she could just hear something…Whatever the priest’s vestments were made of, they certainly blocked out sound. The police could be out there right now, and she wouldn’t know it.

What J.C. did know was that her fear of the snake-eyed man was gradually being replaced by her fear of being confined in a small space. And Father Mike’s closet gave new meaning to the word confined. She felt as if she were buried in robes and the incense lingering on them had grown cloying. Keep calm, she told herself. But she could feel her heart beating faster and faster.

As the urge to bolt began to grow, J.C. imagined Snake Eyes looking for her—searching the rectory, then returning to the sacristy. At any moment he could fling open the cupboard and start plowing through the garments. She was nothing more than a sitting duck.

Well, there was no sense in making it easy for him.

Slowly, she burrowed her way toward the front of the cupboard, holding her breath each time one vestment rubbed against another. When she reached the door, she discovered that in her rush to hide herself, she hadn’t closed it completely. Pressing her face to the narrow opening, she peered through it and fear bubbled through her again.

A man stood over the body of the dead man. He had his back to her, but she knew he wasn’t Snake Eyes. This man was taller, broader. Snake Eyes’s hair had been slicked back close to his head because of the ski mask. This man’s dark hair was dark, curly and unruly. But she could sense just as much danger emanating from him as she had from the killer.

He was wearing a tank top that fit snugly over nearly bronze-colored skin. As he began to move slowly around the dead man, she caught her first glimpse of his face and for a moment she stared, fascinated. He reminded her of the Greek gods she’d had to study in a required mythology class. Unlike most of her peers who’d complained noisily about the class, she’d been fascinated with the stories. This man reminded her of Adonis. Of course, Adonis hadn’t been a god—just the human lover of two very powerful goddesses, Persephone and Aphrodite, who’d fought over him constantly. She’d found the story intriguing, but personally, she’d yet to meet a man worth fighting another woman for.

J.C. gave herself a mental shake. This man might not be Snake Eyes, but he might very well be the man who’d fired those other shots she’d heard. He was certainly tough enough looking. His nose wasn’t quite straight, and taking in the sharp slash of cheekbone and the strong line of his jaw, she thought of a warrior—the kind of man who would lead armies into war…and win. This didn’t at all explain why she had the oddest urge to touch his face—to feel the planes and angles beneath her hands.

What was up with that, she thought with a frown. Warriors had never been her type.

But then when it came to men, she really hadn’t had much experience determining her type. The kind of men her dad and stepmom wanted her to date might as well be clones of each other, successful young metro males with the right kind of family backgrounds. She found them almost as boring as the temperamental prima donnas she’d met when she’d trained at the American Culinary Institute.

The man in front of her had circled the body so that he was standing with his back to her again, and she caught herself noticing the way his threadbare jeans molded his butt. Good Lord, she wanted to touch that, too.

Whoa! J.C. reined in her thoughts again. A vivid imagination had always plagued her as a child, but she’d never reacted in quite this physical a way to a man before. Just looking at him made her palms itch.

For the first time, she noticed the gun and her throat went dry. It was tucked into the waistband of his jeans, right above his exceptional-looking—

Stop it, she scolded herself. She could very well be looking at a killer. A ruthless, cold-blooded killer.

In that very instant, he whirled on her and she found herself looking down the barrel of a very big gun.

“Open the door slowly and keep your hands where I can see them. Don’t make me shoot you.”