motto.
Always Ready.
“Ready or not,” he said under his breath as he followed.
* * *
Donna whirled around so fast she upset the empty water pitcher she’d left on the table. It clattered to the floor but did not break. She ignored it, still tingling with fear over what she’d thought she’d seen out of the corner of her eye behind the bank of file cabinets. The creak of the floor had not repeated itself. Her eyes were playing tricks. Must be.
The cell phone shook in her hands as her finger hovered on the buttons to call 911. Breath in her throat, she tiptoed toward the cabinets. She crept slowly until she got within a step of the cabinet’s edge, then quickly poked her head around, ready to summon help.
No one. She heaved out a breath. There was no one there in the office, save one silly, frightened, grief-stricken twenty-seven-year-old woman.
Her sisters were right. Her mountain of sorrow and regret was causing her to imagine things. She retrieved the pitcher and walked it back to the conference room, the file folder tucked under her arm. She settled into a chair at the side. The head of the table would always be her father’s spot. Her throat thickened. Had it really been only two weeks since he was sitting there, strong and solid, thumbing through files and drinking the ultra-strong coffee he enjoyed? Only two weeks of anguish and grief so strong she’d had to take a leave from her veterinary practice? The Gallagher family had spent endless hours listening to the detailed police findings. It was an accident that took their father’s Lexus over the guardrail and down a rocky slope along Highway 1. Days had been spent wondering whether Sarah would recover and watching their mother remain at Sarah’s bedside, deep in prayer.
Suppose they were right and it had been an accident. Sarah, the driver, had been rear ended, causing the Gallagher’s car to plunge over the side. The other driver had not stopped. Maybe Sarah would regain her memory of the accident and confirm that it had been nothing more than a horrible, tragic mistake.
But something did not feel right—she had the feeling she got sometimes when a dog’s symptoms told one story but her gut supplied another. Odd that the driver had not stopped to call for help.
Before his death, her normally cheerful father had been preoccupied, working late hours, investigating some case that he had not wanted to discuss.
Or, she thought with a pang of guilt, had they all been too busy to listen? She had her own career, her sister Sarah had a busy life as a surgical nurse, and Candace was grieving over the loss of her marine husband with a child to raise. Most worrying of all was Navy Chaplain Angela, struggling to recover from a devastating tour in Afghanistan.
They’d all been happy that Bruce Gallagher had started up his private investigation service. It gave him purpose, and he’d enjoyed solving cases only for people with military connections. It filled that part of his soul that had never stopped being a marine. Semper Fidelis was not just a motto to her father. He had been faithful to his family and the corps until the last moment of his life. He’d always done the right thing, the difficult thing, even when she’d openly despised him for it.
She opened the file again. She’d removed the folders from the cabinet methodically and this was the only one from the drawer labeled Current that she had not gone through thoroughly. Pauline Mitchell’s file. Inside, there was only a list of names.
Curious.
The others were crammed full of statements, detailed bank information and even photographs, but this one had nothing except a list of names.
3. Darius Fields
2. Jeff Kinsey
1. Brent Mitchell
The shadow caught her eye. Her head jerked toward the door. Again, nothing. Only the pounding of her heart, the rasping of her own breath. Then she thought she caught the sound of someone moving along the front walkway. Clutching the file in her hand, she shot to her feet. She’d lock the door to put her mind at ease.
As she pushed the chair out, a man’s hand reached from under the table and wrapped around her ankle, the fingers slick with sweat.
Brent trailed a step behind Marco as they sprinted up the steps. He finally caught the name on the front window as he passed.
Pacific Coast Investigations.
Why hadn’t Pauline mentioned it? His heart sped up a notch, but there was no time to indulge the feeling. They arrived in a well-appointed office cluttered with files. A Christmas tree occupied the corner, and he caught a whiff of pine.
Marco scanned the room.
“What are you looking for?”
“Thought I told you to beat it.”
“I don’t take orders from swabbies.”
Marco’s eyes swiveled to the conference room just as the door slammed shut. He raced to it and tried the handle.
“Donna?” he yelled, pounding on the door. “Are you in there?”
Brent opened his mouth to ask a question, when Marco picked up a chair and crashed it into the door. Bits of wood splintered everywhere, but the door didn’t budge.
He didn’t waste time questioning. If there was a woman in there not responding... “Is there another way in?”
“One exit door to the outside.”
“On it.” Brent sprinted back down the hall and out the front door, then rounded the corner of the building.
He reached what he supposed was the correct door. Locked, but there was a large window to catch the bay view. He pressed a hand to the glass and peered in. A guy with a ski mask knelt, his knee on the back of a prostrate woman. He saw only her cascade of wavy blond hair, her hands splayed away from her body, fingers balled into terrified fists. Across the room the door vibrated as Marco attempted to force it, probably with his booted foot this time. Despite Marco’s muscles, it was going to take a while and the woman on the floor had no time to spare.
Brent tore his eyes away from the horrifying scene and hunted for something solid and heavy. No rocks or handy blocks of wood. He’d do what coasties did best: improvise.
Time to do some damage.
* * *
Donna lay on the floor stomach-down, as the man in the ski mask had directed after he’d locked the door. Her heart thundered in her throat. He must have seen something in the window, because he eased off her for a moment to look. Instantly, she was on her feet, scanning the room for a weapon with which to protect herself. There was nothing in the perfectly ordered space except for the pitcher, which she snatched up.
The intruder’s mouth twisted into a smile.
Notice the details, she heard her father say. Most witnesses can’t offer anything helpful to catch the offender.
Dark eyes, Caucasian, tall. But was she going to live to be a witness?
