had gone after Rick’s adoptive mother for revenge. It was just chance that Hayes Carson had stopped by when he was off duty, in his unmarked truck, to ask her about catering an event. The ex-convict had piled out of his car and come right up on the porch with a drawn gun—in violation of parole—and banged on the door demanding that Barbara come outside. Hayes had come outside, disarmed him, cuffed him and taken him right to jail. The man was now serving another term in prison, for assault on a police officer, trespassing, attempted assault, possessing a firearm in violation of parole and resisting arrest. Barbara had testified at his trial. So had Hayes.
Rick shook his head. “I hate having you in danger because of my job.”
“It was only the one time,” she said, comforting him. “It could have been somebody who carried a grudge because their apple pie wasn’t served with ice cream or something.”
He smiled. “Dream on. You even make the ice cream you serve with it. Your pies are out of this world.”
“Don’t you have an in-house seminar coming up at work?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Why don’t you take a couple of pies back with you?”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” She pursed her lips. “Does Gwen like apple pie?”
He turned and stared at her. “Gwen is a colleague. I never, never date colleagues.”
She sighed. “Okay.”
He went back to work on the tomatoes. This could turn into a problem. His mother, well-meaning and loving, nevertheless was determined to get him married. That was one area in which he wanted to do his own prospecting. And never in this lifetime did he want to end up with someone like Gwen, who had two left feet and the dress sense of a Neanderthal woman. He laughed at the idea of her in bearskins carrying a spear. But he didn’t share the joke with his mother.
When he went to work the next day, it was qualifying time on the firing range. Rick was a good shot, and he kept excellent care of his service weapon. But the testing was one of the things he really hated about police work.
His lieutenant, Cal Hollister, could outshoot any man in the precinct. He scored a hundred percent regularly. Rick could usually manage in the nineties but never a perfect score. He always seemed to do the qualifying when the lieutenant was doing his, and his ego suffered.
Today, Gwen Cassaway also showed up. Rick tried not to groan out loud. Gwen would drop her pistol, accidentally kill the lieutenant and Rick would be prosecuted for manslaughter …
“Why are you groaning like that?” Hollister asked curtly as he checked the clip for his.45 in preparation for target shooting.
“Just a stray thought, sir, nothing important.” His eyes went involuntarily to Gwen, who was also loading her own pistol.
On the firing range, shooters wore eye protection and ear protection. They customarily loaded only six bullets into the clip of the automatic, and this was done at the time they got into position to fire. The pistol would be held at low or medium ready position, after being carefully drawn from its snapped holster for firing, with the safety on. The pistol, even unloaded, would never be pointed in any direction except that of the target and the trigger finger would never rest on the trigger. When in firing position, the safety would be released, and the shooter would fire at the target using either the Weaver, modified Weaver, or Isosceles shooting stance.
One of the most difficult parts of shooting, and one of the most important to master, was trigger pull. The pressure exerted on the trigger had to be perfect in order to place a shot correctly. There were graphs on the firing range that helped participants check the efficiency of their trigger pull and help to improve it. Rick’s was improving. But his lieutenant consistently showed him up on the gun range, and it made him uncomfortable. He tried not to practice or qualify when the other man was around. Unfortunately, he always seemed to be on the range when Rick was.
Hollister followed Rick’s gaze to Gwen. He knew, as Rick did, that she had some difficulty with coordination. He pursed his lips. His black eyes danced as he glanced covertly at Gwen. “It’s okay, Marquez. We’re insured,” he said under his breath.
Rick cleared his throat and tried not to laugh.
Hollister moved onto the firing line. His thick blond hair gleamed like pale honey in the sunlight. He glanced at Gwen. “Ready, Detective?” he drawled, pulling the heavy ear protectors on over his hair.
Gwen gave him a nice smile. “Ready when you are, sir.”
The Range Master moved into position, indicated that everything was ready and gave the signal to fire.
Hollister, confident and relaxed, chuckled, aimed at the target and proceeded to blow the living hell out of it.
Rick, watching Gwen worriedly, saw something incredible happen next. Gwen snapped into a modified Weaver position, barely even aimed and threw six shots into the center of the target with pinpoint accuracy.
His mouth flew open.
She took the clip out of her automatic, checked the cylinder and waited for the Range Master to check her score.
“Cassaway,” he said eventually, and hesitated. “One hundred percent.”
Rick and the lieutenant stared at each other.
“Lieutenant Hollister,” the officer continued, and was obviously trying not to smile, “ninety-nine percent.”
“What the hell …!” Hollister burst out. “I hit dead center!”
“Missed one, sir, by a hair,” the officer replied with a twinkle in his eyes. “Sorry.”
Hollister let out a furious bad word. Gwen marched right up to him and glared at him from pale green eyes.
“Sir, I find that word offensive and I’d appreciate it if you would refrain from using it in my presence,” she said curtly.
Hollister’s high cheekbones actually flushed. Rick tensed, waiting for the explosion.
But Hollister didn’t erupt. His black eyes smiled down at the rookie detective. “Point taken, Detective,” he said, and his deep voice was even pleasant. “I apologize.”
Gwen swallowed. She was almost shaking. “Thank you, sir.”
She turned and walked off.
“Not bad shooting, by the way,” he commented as he removed the clip from his own pistol.
She grinned. “Thanks.” She glanced at Rick, who was still gaping, and almost made a smart remark. But she thought better of it in time.
Rick let out the breath he’d been holding. “She trips over her own feet,” he remarked. “But that was some damned fine shooting.”
“It was,” the lieutenant agreed. He shook his head. “You can never figure people, can you, Marquez?”
“True, sir. Very true.”
Later that
