Читать книгу Murder Mix-Up - Lisa Phillips - Страница 16

It wasn’t far to the hotel, but Portia kept her car behind Declan’s on Charleston Boulevard. Close enough to keep him in sight, but not so close he’d see her. There was no way she was going to let even a trained Secret Service agent go it alone when there was a gunman loose. If Declan figured out she was behind him—doubtful, since she was trained at this—she would simply tell him it was about the case.

Her dead guy. Her killer. Her arrest to make.

He’d probably feel better thinking she’d essentially made him the bait by following him, half expecting that same truck to show up. But it would be worse if he thought she was trying to protect him. She wouldn’t admit it was a little bit of both—along with a side of keeping her eye on a man who’d insinuated himself into her work life. It didn’t matter what his reasoning was, he’d gone behind her back to get on the case.

Portia intended to nurse the sting of that rather than think about the attraction she felt between them every time he turned those dark eyes to her. Soon enough he was going to hop a plane back to his White House detail and she would probably never see him again. There was zero point in even considering anything more than a professional détente.

And yes, that was probably mostly about self-preservation. Not because of what he’d told her about his father. It would be unfair to consider him guilty for something that had nothing to do with him. It wasn’t anything he’d been able to change about his life—who his father was, and what he’d done. She’d seen enough pain on his face to know he’d come through it and found at least a measure of peace on the other side. He wasn’t harboring anger still. Not like his brother.

Portia changed lanes, pushing aside those thoughts. She wasn’t the one who would heal what was wrong with either of them. Their family was none of her business.

A tan truck edged up on her left. Portia glanced aside, then back at the road in front of her. Declan’s car was four in front of hers. She held her place in the middle lane while the truck pressed on. Until it was only red lights in front of her. No rear license plate that she’d seen.

She edged closer, shortening the gap between them so she could make sure. So she could be close if, or when, the shooter made a move.

Declan tapped his brakes. Had he seen the truck in his rearview? Maybe he’d even spotted it before she did.

Portia bit her lip and glanced at the center display. The truck driver hadn’t done anything yet, and maybe wouldn’t. Maybe it wasn’t even the same truck. There wasn’t much for her to call in. She and Declan didn’t need backup.

Not yet.

Declan took the next street, even though his hotel was another five minutes down the highway. Drawing out the truck driver?

Sure enough the tan truck followed. Portia did the same, keeping her distance so they didn’t look like a convoy. That would be too obvious. As it was, Declan had slowed.

Portia’s phone rang, lighting up the dash display. She tapped the screen and the ringing in the car speakers switched to the low drone of tires on the road.

“Special Agent Finch.”

“It’s Declan.”

She lifted her eyebrows at his number on the screen. Before she could say anything else, he said, “Listen, I’m on my way to the hotel, like I said.” He paused. “But there’s a tan truck behind me.”

Apparently he felt the need to impress on her the fact he was doing what he’d told her he would this time. But instead of commenting on that, she said, “I’m behind the truck, on your six.”

He was a smart man with training. He’d get the military reference, meaning she was directly behind him.

Silence filled the line.

“You’re welcome.” She laced the words with all the frustration this man brought out in her. Why was that? She didn’t care about Declan Stringer enough for him to rub her the wrong way to this extent. Not after only knowing him for a few hours.

“Of course you are.” More silence. Then, “I guess you should brace yourself.”

“What—” She didn’t get to finish before Declan’s car brakes came on. He pulled up sharply, and the back end of his car swung out in a wide arc. When he was almost nose to nose with the truck, she saw the whites of Declan’s teeth flash in the truck’s headlights.

The man was crazy. He’d deliberately confronted the truck driver, not even knowing if it was the shooter. Declan could have just scared the life out of an innocent man who was only guilty of driving a tan-colored truck.

The truck driver hit the gas and pulled around Declan to speed off.

Declan’s voice came through the car speakers. “Go get him.”

Portia hung up. She was already doing what he ordered, even before his instruction. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of acquiescing over the phone. Not after the stunt he’d just pulled. Besides, hanging up on someone was just so satisfying.

She drove after the truck, following reasonably close to see where he went. The person driving still hadn’t actually done anything illegal. The truck took a right turn onto a side street. Portia followed for two more turns before he pulled back into traffic on the highway about a mile closer to the hotel.

The phone rang, echoing through her car speakers. She turned the volume down.

Changed lanes, tried to spot the truck.

It was too far ahead.

Another mile, and she realized she’d lost him. Whoever he was, killer or not, he was gone now. She couldn’t call in local PD to assist when the driver hadn’t even done anything, and her own team was too far away at this time of night.

Portia slammed the heel of her hand against the steering wheel. She made a U-turn at the next intersection and drove back to where Declan had made that move, her phone ringing in the speakers the entire time. She ignored it.

When she pulled up behind his car he was standing in the open driver’s door, phone to his ear. He hung up and tossed the phone inside, onto the seat, then stalked toward her.

Why was he mad?

Portia swung out of the car and slammed the door with every ounce of frustration she felt.

“Why didn’t you answer the phone?”

She moved right into his space, her bootheels bringing her to eye level with him and she thanked God for that bit of extra height. Normally she didn’t much appreciate that fact about herself. But she was grateful she could face him almost nose to nose right now. “Why did you do that stupid maneuver?”

“You mean bring the situation to a head, rather than lead him to the hotel where I’m staying?” His loud voice was laced with sarcasm.

Portia met him beat for beat. “I meant pushing it. Acting rashly.”

“You lost him, didn’t you?”

“Because you forced him to break off.”

“This isn’t my fault,” he said.

“Well it’s hardly mine.”

“Fine. Neither of us is at fault.”

She folded her arms and stared at him. Did he think that absolved him of the stupidity of that overly flashy maneuver? “Do they teach those stunts at Secret Service school?”

“You didn’t get that training?”

“Not the kind which involves stunt driving just to show off.” And she was done with this yelling match on the side of the road. “Did you get a license plate this time?”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t see them. You?”

“No.” She wanted to make a frustrated noise, but then he’d know this case was getting to her. Why couldn’t anything in her life be easy? Why did it always feel like she was pushing a boulder uphill just to make it? God hadn’t promised her easy days, but did it have to be this hard? She sighed, realizing that might be why it had been so long since she’d prayed.

She said, “I’ll follow you to your hotel.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

She wasn’t even going to respond to that. If he wanted to play the solitary hero, she would simply call it a free country—thank You, Lord—and follow him anyway. Because she had every right to be on the road.

It would just happen to be on the road right behind him.

Declan’s eyes narrowed, as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. He wandered to his car and got in. Backing down? That didn’t seem like him.

Portia called in what had happened as she followed him to the hotel. Maybe tomorrow she would wake up fresh—and a whole lot less frustrated with Declan Stringer.

At least, she prayed that would be the case.

* * *

Declan’s phone rang just before eight the next morning. The screen of his phone switched from his Bible app to signify an incoming call. Agent Finch. He’d labeled her contact that to keep things professional between them. The phone vibrated across the surface of the diner booth table and clanged into his knife.

The night had been uneventful, and he’d occupied himself in those quiet hours constructing an email to his brother. He hadn’t sent it. That conversation could come later, when he wasn’t smack in the middle of a murder investigation. At least that was what he was telling himself. Plenty of self-denial going on here.

“Agent Stringer.” His voice held that edge of frustration he’d been nursing since she lost the truck.

“It’s Portia.” Hers had the same tone. Either they were destined to be best friends, or they’d part as sworn enemies.

“Didn’t figure I’d hear from you this morning.”

“Too bad. Rise and shine, cupcake.” In the background, he could hear the muffled sounds of someone jostling keys. “Time to get to work.”

He signaled the waitress. “Let me get the check. Where are we going?”

“The check? I thought you’d be sleeping in.”

“I’ve been up since four. East Coast time, remember?” He handed the waitress a twenty and pushed his chair in before he strode to the door of the diner. “Went for a run. Took a shower, and then decided I needed an omelet.”

“How nice for you. I’ve been in the office two hours already, running down leads and trying to figure out who tried to kill you yesterday.”

“I didn’t hit a trail, though I wanted to. Hotel gym.”

“At least there’s that.” He heard the relief in her voice. She cared about him. Or she just didn’t want to do the paperwork if he died.

“I’d much rather run outside.” Before thinking about it, he added, “Maybe before I go home you’ll show me a trail.”

Silence. “Maybe.”

“Don’t like to run?”

“I’d be more concerned with whether or not you’ll be able to keep up.” Now there was an edge of a smile in her voice. Were they approaching friendly banter, or something else entirely?

Declan beeped the locks, and then climbed in the rental. “So where are we going?”

“The address listed on the John Doe’s license was the one he rented under Nicholas’s name. Squire ID’d him early this morning from his print. His name was Frank Parsons. Was in the navy for a few years. He lived in Tacoma. You want to get a peek at his house?”

“Definitely.” Frank Parsons had been killed pretending to be his brother, or someone with the name Nicholas Stringer. A close enough match physically that the killer likely thought he was Declan’s brother. Maybe. There was a resemblance. He figured that was why Frank Parsons had been killed.

And why the killer had come after Declan. Twice.

The address Portia texted over had a unit number, which he figured was an apartment. When he pulled onto the street, the neighborhood took a significant downturn. Run-down buildings that looked to have been erected in the seventies, and maybe never updated. The parking spots had green corrugated metal roofs. Declan found a visitor’s spot close to where the forensics van had parked, then climbed the stairs where neighbors had congregated.

He gave his information to the officer at the door and showed his badge. The officer said “Thanks.”

The smell inside made him wrinkle his nose. “Agent Finch?” He didn’t want to venture into every room. Not when certain ones smelled worse than the living room/kitchen/dining area.

She called back, “Second door on the left.”

The first room had a double bed and rumpled covers. Two forensics guys were going over a dresser. He found Portia in the second room, what would’ve been an office or guest room in any other house. Frank Parsons had piled in there what most people would have thrown in a storage unit to keep it from cluttering up their place.

Boxes were stacked high. Trash bags bulged with papers, or clothes. A bike, a kayak and a dog crate were among the stacks. He even saw an ironing board.

“Whoa.”

Portia looked up from a stack of papers. “Pretty much. Though, this actually makes life easier for us.”

“Assuming he doesn’t have a storage unit, or some other place, equally as packed with boxes that should all be labeled Miscellaneous.”

She cracked a smile at that, then said, “I’ve managed to solve one mystery, at least.”

“What’s that?”

She pulled a paper from the pile and stepped over an overflowing bag of shoes and boots. “Frank Parsons owned a tan truck.”

Declan felt his eyebrows lift. “And our mysterious gunman happens to be driving one?”

“Same make and model from last night.”

He didn’t want to get into an argument about that. “BOLO?”

She nodded. “Already sent the information across the wires. Now all we need is for local police, or one of our people, to spot the truck.”

Hopefully with the gunman in it. Or close by, so they could nab him. The fact they were able to alert all law enforcement to “be on the lookout” for their truck could mean the difference between the shooter finding them, or their finding him first.

“I’m going to get this to the techs so they can bag it up.” She wandered out, and he went over to the stack she’d been working on.

A minute later gunshots rang out, followed immediately by the shattering of glass.