Running for Cover. Shirlee McCoy

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СКАЧАТЬ got Morgan out here with me. She’s hurt.”

      A face pressed against the window, and Morgan twisted in Jackson’s grip, offering a quick wave that seemed to reassure the elderly woman.

      The door opened, and she hovered in the threshold, white hair puffed around a powder-pink face that nearly matched the color of her flowered bathrobe. “Morgan?”

      “I’m afraid so,” Morgan said, her voice shaky.

      “Come on. Inside.” Jackson kept his hold on her waist and urged her into the house, not waiting for further introductions or an invitation.

      “What in the world happened to you?” Mrs. Richardson put a hand on Morgan’s arm, her gaze darting to Jackson and to the gun he held, her eyes widening with fear.

      “Some men came into the gallery right before I closed. They—”

      “I’m going to look for them,” Jackson cut in. “Close and lock the door when I leave. Don’t let anyone but the police inside.” There were two armed men on the loose and no time for chitchat.

      “You can’t. They could kill you.” Morgan grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. Her bruises looked darker in the stark fluorescent light, her eyes pale silvery-blue, the pupils dilated. Trembling with fear or with shock, she didn’t look capable of staying on her feet, let alone arguing with Jackson. Somehow, though, she was managing it.

      “The police should be here soon.” Jackson pulled off his jacket, draping it around her shoulders, hoping to warm her.

      “But—”

      He didn’t let her finish, just walked outside, pulling the door closed, his gun still firmly in hand. The sense of danger and urgency he’d felt while waiting for Mrs. Richardson to open her door had dissipated, and Jackson jogged back to the gallery, knowing the men were already gone, the opportunity to bring them into custody gone with them.

      Except for his car, the parking lot was empty, light from the upstairs windows spilling onto the pavement. The gallery’s double doors yawned open, inviting Jackson to explore the darkened area beyond. If he hadn’t spent nine years as a police officer, he might have, but he knew that contaminating the evidence would make prosecuting a lot more difficult.

      He turned away from the building, searching the area for any signs of the men who’d been there. There was nothing. No bullets. No casings. No tread marks, cigarette butts or trash. Everything clean and tidy and free of clues.

      Jackson had just completed a circuit of the area when a squad car raced into the parking lot, lights and sirens off. An officer jumped out, her frantic energy freezing Jackson in place. No way did he want to get shot by a police officer, and the way the cop pulled her gun and pointed it in his direction, getting shot looked like a distinct possibility.

      “Drop the weapon, sir, and step away from it,” she ordered.

      Now wasn’t the time to explain things, so Jackson did as she asked.

      She eased forward, lifting the gun, her gaze never wavering. “Facedown on the ground, sir. Hands where I can see them.”

      Jackson knew the drill. He’d issued the same command enough times in his years on the New York City police force. He dropped to the ground, waiting impatiently as the officer checked the safety on his gun, frisked him for weapons and pulled the wallet from his pocket.

      “I guess you have a permit for your gun?” Judging from the way she asked the question, Jackson figured she didn’t guess any such thing.

      “I do. I’m a private investigator. My ID and permit are in my wallet.”

      The deputy opened the wallet and took her time looking through it. Finally, she seemed satisfied with what she’d found. “You can get up, Mr. Sharo. Did you fire your weapon tonight?”

      “One shot.”

      “Did you hit your target?”

      “Unfortunately, no,” he said as he accepted the wallet she held out to him.

      “I’m not sure the law would agree with that.”

      “I was firing in self-defense, Officer…?”

      “Deputy Lowry. Want to tell me what happened here?”

      “I saw a light on in the gallery and thought it might be open for business. When I rang the doorbell a woman answered. She looked beat-up and scared, so I searched the perimeter of the building to try to get a feel for what was going on.”

      “You didn’t think to call the police?”

      “For all I knew, she’d been in an accident of some sort and didn’t need help.”

      “So, you walked around the house and…?”

      “I didn’t see any reason to be concerned.” But he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something was wrong or to forget the look of stark terror in Morgan’s eyes. “I was going to leave, but decided to check on the owner one more time. Before I got to the door, she ran out. Next thing I knew, two men were shooting at us.”

      “And you fired back.”

      “One shot.” He repeated the answer he’d given before, knowing he’d probably be asked the same thing a hundred times before the night was over.

      “Have you been back in the gallery since you fired the shot?”

      “I was never in the gallery.”

      “I see.”

      Before she could explain what she thought she saw, another squad car pulled into the parking lot. The door opened and a tall, dark-haired man got out. He wasn’t alone. Morgan sat in the passenger seat, huddled beneath a blanket, a coffee mug cupped in her hands. She met Jackson’s gaze, offering a smile that turned into a grimace of pain.

      “You should be on your way to the hospital,” he said as he walked to the vehicle, ignoring the deputy’s sputtered protest.

      “She will be,” the man offered before Morgan could reply. “I’ve already called an ambulance, but Morgan wanted to make sure you were all right while we waited for it. I’m Sheriff Jake Reed.”

      “Jackson Sharo.”

      “From New York?” The sheriff’s brow furrowed and he cocked his head to the side, studying Jackson.

      “That’s right.”

      “You’re here for the Sinclair wedding?”

      “Right again.”

      “Jude told me you were coming. Said you were partners when you worked homicide in New York. I’m surprised you’re not hanging out with him. This being his last night as a bachelor and all.”

      “That’s exactly what I’d be doing if I hadn’t run into trouble.”

      “I guess what I’m asking is how you ended up at Morgan’s gallery tonight.”

      “I’m СКАЧАТЬ