the CIA who wanted them dead.
This man? This poor guy gunned down in front of her? She had no idea who he was or why those two men had killed him. The way they were dressed suggested they were gang members. The way they handled the killing made her certain of it.
Her stomach rebelled and she had to pause for a moment, breathe deeply to stop from throwing up. When she could handle it, she started down again, moving faster now, afraid that the police would see her and want to question her.
Her steps slowed as the realization sunk in—they were gangbangers. Not CIA agents. Not Omicron. Oh, God. She hadn’t been their target at all. She’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She would have laughed if it hadn’t been so horribly tragic.
She’d witnessed a murder.
In her old life she would have stayed. She would have done everything she could to help. That wasn’t possible now.
She was one of the hunted. The people who’d tried to kill her in Kosovo wanted her dead. Silenced. She’d seen things the government, her government, hadn’t wanted her to see. They’d meant for her to die in a lonely warehouse in a small Serbian village. Her very existence made them vulnerable. She’d seen the lengths to which these people would go to stop her.
It would have been easier if she had money. But there was none. Not for any of them. No legitimate jobs, absolutely no using their real names. Her entire family thought she was dead.
She paused in front of the garage exit. There were probably police behind the door, and she needed to make it to her car without being spotted. The best thing she could do was act as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
There was, in fact, a police car. And an ambulance. But they weren’t that close to the exit, and she had, as always, parked with an eye toward a quick getaway. Walking across the parking lot ramped up her heart rate, but the rubber soles of her shoes muffled her steps, and there was so much chatter from the cop’s radio that by the time she was in her car she was pretty damn sure she was going to make it.
It occurred to her that she wasn’t coming back. And that she had a full two-weeks’ pay that she hadn’t collected. That left her with maybe a hundred, which wasn’t going to take her far.
She started her car and drove slowly to the busy downtown street. Once she reached the freeway heading toward the Valley, she started shaking.
DETECTIVE VINCE YARROW stared at the body on the floor. He tried like hell to think in terms of weapons, trajectories, points of impact, but this wasn’t just another body. It was Tim Purchase, a man Vince had grown to respect and admire. A friend.
“Christ, they didn’t leave much.”
Vince glanced at his partner, Jeff Stoller, who looked small and weary in his heavy coat. “Just a message.”
Jeff shook his head as he went over to the department photographer, there to capture the scene for the detectives and for a jury that would probably never be called.
The room was starting to get crowded, and that wouldn’t do. There wasn’t going to be much evidence, that much Vince knew; still he’d collect what he could. Then he would leave Tim to the coroner while he and Jeff went room to room looking for a witness.
He also knew that no one would talk. No one would admit that the perpetrators had been gangbangers. Everything about the murder screamed colors. The question was, which gang? Tim had worked against most of them, from the MS-13s, Crips and Bloods to the Aryan Nation. He’d dedicated his life to stealing kids from the gangs, to giving them opportunities to make something of themselves. He’d been a hero. A savior to hundreds. If it took him the rest of his life, Vince would catch the pricks who’d done this.
He got out his notebook and began the work. Most of the time, getting into the case soothed him. The familiar procedures helped distance him from the inhumanity of the crime. Not today. With every notation, every cold observance, his anger grew until he could feel the heat in his face and the grinding of his molars. God damn them. All of them. All the selfish little bastards who thought nothing more of murder than they thought of taking a piss.
“Vince.”
He looked up from his book to find Jeff scowling. The reason was Corky Baker, a reporter for the Times who was a walking pain in the ass. Whenever there was a high profile murder, Baker would attach himself, leechlike, to whomever he could. Vince was all for freedom of the press and the public’s right to know, though not at the victims’ expense. Baker had caused him problems too many times in the past with his sleazy version of crime reporting. He owed it to Tim not to let that happen this time.
“Get him out of here.” Vince looked pointedly at the bottom-feeder. “This is still an active crime scene.”
Baker didn’t move. “Yarrow, you never fail to enchant. I have a couple of questions—”
“Go jump off the roof.”
“Can I quote you on that?”
“Jeff. Ask the officers to come in and remove Mr. Baker.”
“You got it.” Jeff smiled broadly at the reporter. “Should I tell them to use all necessary force?”
“Sounds good to me.” Vince went back to his notebook, reading what he’d written before the interruption.
“All right, I’ll go. Just tell me, was it crack? I heard Purchase was taking a hefty percentage as hush money.”
Vince dropped his notebook as he crossed the room. He hit Baker so goddamned hard his head bounced off the doorframe. It wasn’t nearly enough. As he moved in for round two, the bastard slid down the wall, landing in a messy heap on the floor.
Jeff stepped in front of Vince carefully. “You might have made your point there, buddy.”
“Not even close.”
“He’s an asshole. Let it go.”
Vince took in a deep breath, his body still thrumming with the need to pummel. “Get him gone, Jeff. Now.”
“Why don’t you go get some water, huh?”
Vince sniffed as he looked at the reporter who was just coming to. A small trickle of blood had started at the corner of his mouth, which wasn’t as satisfying as one would think. The bruise would be a good one though, large and painful.
He headed for the bar, wishing he could have something a lot stronger than water. His thoughts of bourbon were interrupted by the sight of the room service cart. It was open, with all the little liquor bottles, candy bars and fruit drinks in neat order. He turned to Jeff, but cut his remark off as he saw Baker rise to his feet. The last thing Vince wanted in the paper was that there had been a witness in the room.
Baker raised his hand, swatted at the blood on his face and stared at the evidence on his fingers, then at Vince. “Thank you, you miserable prick. I’m going to sue you and your department for so much money they won’t have enough left over for toilet paper. You got that?”
“Fine. Just do it somewhere else.”
One of the uniforms put his hand on Baker’s elbow, but he shook him off. “You’ll be hearing from me.”
Vince
