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.
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