Nancy Bush's Nowhere Bundle: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide & Nowhere Safe. Nancy Bush

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СКАЧАТЬ just too squared away, right? Fishing guide. I bet you’re good with people. People like you. Trust you. That’s why you want to talk me off the ledge. You’re trusting and compassionate and willing to really go that extra mile to make sure the crazy lady thinks she’s being heard!”

      “I don’t think you’re crazy.”

      “Well, I am,” she snapped back. “And I’m through talking.”

      “Where are you going?” he demanded when she stepped through the doorway.

      She was heading to the couch in the living room, such as it was. “Somewhere else,” she said aloud.

      “What happened when you went out?” he called after her. “Did you get done what you needed to do? Where’d you go?” He sounded desperate to keep the conversation going, but she was deaf to him now. She needed to get away.

      “Livvie?”

      She flopped down on the couch, burying her face into the dusty cushions, closing her ears to him. She wished she had a gag, too. Auggie was like a devil on her shoulder, talking, talking, talking. Confusing her.

      “Go to sleep,” she yelled at him, her voice muffled by the cushion.

      “I can’t.”

      “Figure it out!”

      With that she clapped her hands over her ears and blocked out all sound. Everything. She needed sleep, though she doubted she would find it. But she was through discussing anything more with him.

      The call on her cell came in a little after nine P.M. September was at home, curled up on the sofa beneath a quilt her grandmother had made for her mother and that had been handed down to her. Her head was full of the events of the day and she planned on watching TV shows she’d taped to her DVR as a means of clearing her mind. She’d half-expected her plan might fall apart with the Zuma killings, but she’d hoped she’d at least make it till morning. But glancing at her cell, she saw the number was from the station. Steeling herself, she answered, “Rafferty.”

      To her surprise Lieutenant Aubrey D’Annibal himself was on the other end of the line. “There’s been a shooting,” he clipped out. “The victim was found shot to death on the top-floor balcony of a two-story apartment building. I need you to get down there. Can you get hold of Gretchen? She’s not answering her cell.” Quickly, he rattled off the address, which seemed familiar to September though she couldn’t immediately place it.

      It wasn’t like D’Annibal to call her, or anyone, directly. He normally left that to George, if other detectives were out of the office, or he just assigned cases to whoever was available when they were in the office. But George, apparently, wasn’t picking up, either.

      “Do we have a name?” she asked.

      “Not yet. One of the uniforms picked up the call. His name’s Waters. He’s on scene, so if you’ll just get there, he’ll fill you in.” D’Annibal sounded rushed and a little anxious. Totally unlike the put-together lieutenant with his smooth hair, creased pants and expensive shoes.

      “I’m on my way.”

      She tried to reach Gretchen but her cell went directly to voice mail. Failing that, September dug through her closet for a pair of jeans, a black shirt and a black vest. It wasn’t cold, but she wanted something to cover the Glock she was going to place in the small of her back, once she got to the scene and climbed out of her silver Honda Pilot.

      She was rolling in ten minutes, driving with controlled speed to the apartment complex. Something about the address . . . she thought.

      As she cruised onto a side street, she could see the red-and-blue reflection of a cop car’s light bar splashing against the sides of an L-shaped apartment building. She turned into the drive at the northwest corner and around the short end of the L into the parking lot, grabbing the first available spot she saw. Apartment numbers were visible in white paint on each asphalt slot. Too bad if the people from 14A came home, she thought, sliding her Glock under her back waistband and climbing from the vehicle into the dark, hot night. The uniform—Waters—was standing on the second-floor balcony and a group of people were hanging back at the base of the outdoor stairway on the far end away from him. September skirted the group to take the stairs and as she started to climb, Waters yelled at her, “Stay back.”

      “Detective Rafferty,” she called firmly, and, reaching the upper level, she held her ID in front of her as she walked toward him.

      “Thought Rafferty was a man,” he said, holding a flashlight beam into her eyes and then focusing it on her extended ID. Behind him, lying on the ground in front of an apartment door, lay a man, face down, in blue jeans and bare feet, his hair a dark, unkempt tangle to his shoulders.

      “The other Rafferty’s my brother,” she told Waters, her gaze still on the victim. “We’re both detectives.”

      “Huh.”

      She glanced around the place, noting the exterior concrete walkways and the line of doors, all closed. “Do we know who he is?” she asked, nodding toward the victim.

      “No ID. One of them might know.” He glanced to the gogglers down below. “He’s not wearing shoes.”

      “He either lives here, or he’s visiting someone he knows pretty well.” She turned to the group of bystanders and yelled down to them, “There’s been a shooting,” then began to walk their way.

      “Is he dead?” a young man yelled back, cupping his hands over his mouth. He had short, dark hair and it looked as if a tattoo of some kind were trying to escape the neck of his gray T-shirt.

      September stopped at the top of the stairs, getting a good look at them. “The medical examiner is on his way,” she said.

      “He’s dead,” the man beside the yeller stated positively. He was older, his face looking heavily lined in the illumination cast by the overhead light attached beneath the second-floor gallery. She could hear a moth beating itself into the glass.

      One of the two women shivered. She was young and skinny and held her arms hard around her torso like she was freezing even though the night was hot and surprisingly humid for Oregon. “God, I hope it’s not Trask. I think it’s him, but God I hope it’s not.”

      “Trask?” September asked.

      “He lives in the end unit. Just past where he—his body’s—laying.”

      “Check the end unit,” September called over to Waters but he was already on his way, having overheard.

      He knocked, then tried the door. “It’s open,” he yelled back.

      September headed back his way, skirting the sprawled victim. There was that pesky thing about walking into a place without a warrant. She shook her head to Waters, who reluctantly stayed outside the threshold. “Helllooooo. Police officers,” he called into the crack of the now-ajar door.

      “You’re certain Trask lives in the end unit?” September yelled back toward the crowd. She looked over the rail.

      “Well, maybe he lives at the unit he fell in front of,” another woman, older and more heavyset, said.

      “No! СКАЧАТЬ