retreated into the darkness behind him and waited.
The gunfire stopped, followed by the longest stretch of silence that Rafe had ever experienced. His heart pounded wildly as he waited for the perp to make a move. He figured the guy would either start shooting again—assuming he had the rounds—or make like a jackrabbit.
Rafe didn’t have to wait long for the perp to decide. A dark figure popped up from behind the equally dark silhouette of a car and took off, heading for a door on the left side of the garage.
Rafe shot to his feet and shouted, “Hold it!” as he took off after the guy, leaping over stray tools and car parts that lay on the garage floor.
A moment later he was at the door and about to crash through it, when he stopped himself, thinking that might not be a wise move.
What if the perp was out there waiting for him?
Instead, he stepped to the right side of the doorway and crouched down to avoid being in the line of fire. Then he reached a hand out, turned the knob, and flung the door open.
As it swung wide, he half expected another flurry of gunshots—
But nothing happened. All he heard was the distant drone of street traffic.
Getting back to his feet, he carefully peeked around the door frame and saw the perp several yards away, working his way through the maze of cars in the front of the lot.
“Police!” Rafe shouted as he took off after him. “Stop right now!”
The guy didn’t slow down. He was nearly to the sidewalk now, only feet from where Rafe had left his cruiser. As the perp barreled past the last of the cars, he brought his gun up and shot at the black-and-white, shattering the windshield and puncturing one of the tires.
Rafe swore under his breath and kept running, moving into and through the maze—
Now the guy was on the street and jumping into a gray BMW. The engine roared to life as Rafe vaulted the hood of a junked Mazda and scrambled after him.
Just as he reached the street, the BMW’s rear tires began to spin and smoke, the car laying rubber as it tore away from the curb.
Rafe tried to read the license plate, but the streetlight was too dim and the plate was obscured by darkness. He whirled around, hoping his cruiser was still good to go, and found that the shooter had hit his mark. The right front tire was shredded and leaking air. Fast. No way he’d get very far.
Swearing under his breath again, he watched the BMW disappear down the street, then reached for his radio.
“The suspect has escaped,” he said. “He’s headed north on Davis Avenue in a gray BMW, license plate unknown. My vehicle has been compromised.”
“Roger, Fourteen. Patrol’s been alerted and backup is on its way.”
AS HE WAITED for his fellow deputies to arrive, Rafe went back into the garage. He found the switch for the overhead lights and took a closer look at the bodies inside the Jaguar.
Two males, approximately thirty years old, one with a tattoo of a spider on his neck. They both looked Slavic to Rafe, maybe Russian, which immediately brought to mind the Russian mob.
Were these guys connected?
Was it a contract killing?
Judging by the placement of the wounds, Rafe had no doubt it was a professional hit, but he’d failed to get a look at the shooter and had no idea if he’d been chasing another Russian or someone else entirely.
Knowing full well that he was breaking protocol, Rafe untucked and used his shirttail for protection as he reached for the passenger door handle. He’d have a heck of a time explaining any stray prints. Swinging the door open, he leaned inside and carefully checked the pockets of the victim closest to him.
Nothing. No wallet. Keys. Coins. Cigarettes. Not even a stick of gum. Rafe closed the door, then moved around to the driver’s side and did the same thing with the other victim, getting the same results. The shooter had obviously cleaned house after he’d made the hit.
Rafe was about to close the car door when he spotted something on the floor mat near the driver’s left foot.
A small, narrow slip of paper.
He reached down, snatched it up and tilted it toward the light, noting that it was a receipt for a fill-up at a Western Star service station just across town.
The time stamp read 2:45 a.m.
Rafe knew this could very well be the key to identifying the victims—and, by extension, the shooter. He also knew he should return it to the floor mat where he’d found it. But as the sound of approaching sirens filled his ears, he stuffed it into his jacket pocket and closed the car door.
A moment later, he stepped outside to greet his colleagues.
Chapter Three
“Let’s go through it one more time,” Kate said.
Rafe balked. “Seriously?”
They were standing outside the auto repair shop. The roll doors had all been raised, the garage overheads lighting the yard as a flurry of crime scene techs moved in and out of the building.
“Look, Rafe, I know it’s late, I know your shift is almost over, but if this is a mob hit, things could get sticky. I want to make sure all our bases are covered.”
Rafe hadn’t been surprised when his big sister, Kate, showed up at the scene. She was the Homicide Squad’s best investigator, specializing in organized crime, and anything that smacked of a professional hit was usually passed off to her. She took her job very seriously and had the tenaciousness of a bulldog. She also got results and was the envy of every investigator on the squad.
Growing up in Kate’s shadow had not been easy for Rafe. Ever since he’d graduated from college and had joined the department, he had been trying to live up to her reputation. He had put in extra hours, volunteered for event work, even worked the holidays no one else wanted to—all in hopes that he could make just the fraction of the impression that his sister had made. Unfortunately, nobody seemed to have taken notice of these sacrifices.
Including Kate.
“I don’t care about working a little overtime,” he told her. “I’m here for the duration.”
It wasn’t as if he could go anywhere anyway. His cruiser was being towed to the police garage as they spoke and he’d have to hitch a ride with one of the other deputies to get back to the station. He was bound to be here at least another hour.
“Good,” Kate said. “So let’s go through it again.”
Rafe sighed. “As I said, I got the call out at about 0300 hours, give or take. Dispatch’ll have the exact time.”
“And no ID on the caller, right?”
“Right,” Rafe said. “Although he said his apartment overlooks the lot.”
Kate
