Captivating Witness. Melinda Lorenzo Di

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СКАЧАТЬ knife nor his fists were going to be necessary. In spite of the quiet, uneasy air, Brayden’s instincts weren’t screaming a warning. His gut wasn’t wrong often. Eight years a cop—four of them as a detective—saw to that.

      He reached the Dumpster in question and pushed out from the wall to avoid rubbing his back along the sour-smelling bin. He inched along until he got to the corner, where he paused, listening. Not a single sound carried out from the other side. Even the dim light above didn’t emit a hum.

      Feeling confident that he’d find nothing—but cautious nonetheless—he eased out into the open. Silence continued to reign. Brayden relaxed even more. His gaze swept the area in search of anything out of the ordinary. The alley was clean. Almost weirdly so. He slowed his perusal of the space, now looking for something in place instead of out of it. There were no scraps of trash on the cobblestone, no signs of refuse of any sort.

      He frowned. There should’ve been something. A half a dozen businesses shared the alley and the Dumpster. How could it possibly be so clean? The answer was one that made his instincts jump.

      Because someone cleaned it up.

      The trip between the spot where he’d picked up Reggie and the spot where he’d pulled the U-turn to come back had taken a little more than thirty minutes. If someone had come in and taken care of the scene—assuming the waitress was right about what happened—they’d done it in a hurry. Which meant they likely missed something.

      Brayden made himself do a third visual inventory, this time square foot by square foot, surveying everything from the walls to the ground. He still saw nothing. Convinced he’d been thorough but with his gut still telling him something was off, he turned to head back to the car. Then he spotted it. Wedged under the door opposite the large bin. A dull metal soup can with a highly-recognizable logo.

      With a quick glance around, he took a few steps toward the discarded item. Then paused as something far more sinister caught his attention. Just above the can, at chest height on the wall, was a small, rust-colored smear. A few more steps and a closer look confirmed Brayden’s initial suspicion. It was blood. He’d seen enough of it in the course of his career to know.

      Now he backed up, trying to get a wider view. The light was growing steadily worse, but he was almost positive that the wall showed signs of a hasty wipe down. An unnaturally even arc of dirt swept around the smear. Like someone had wiped it clean, then tried to mask the wipe down. An untrained eye might’ve missed it. A few days from then, it would probably be utterly unnoticeable.

      Habit made Brayden want to call it in. But the integrity of the local police was more than just in question—it was possible that at least one of them was responsible. He didn’t even know for sure what the end result of the shooting was. If the man was alive, he stood a chance of being saved. Except he thought the chances of that were slim to none. If he hadn’t been dead when the cleanup happened, he wouldn’t have made it for much longer. A shooting in an alleyway wasn’t a warning—it was a death sentence.

      Make a decision, he ordered silently.

      He tapped his fingers on his thigh for a second, said a silent prayer for the man who’d very likely met his untimely fate in the alley, then yanked out his cell phone. As much as mourning the loss of life felt right, it was action that would make things right. So in quick succession, he took a series of photos, making sure to get the smear from multiple angles. Then he took a panoramic shot of the alley. As soon as he had a good collection of pictures, he dragged them into an album, added a shorthand note and fired them off to a generic email address that he and his team used for communications like this. What were the chances that a town as small as Whispering Woods was home to two criminal masterminds?

      Slim to none.

      This had to have something to do with the slippery crook who killed their father. And if for some crazy reason it all turned out not to be related to his own case, it was still a good record to have. Especially if a man had been shot, as Reggie said.

      Reggie. Right.

      He needed to get back to her. His five minutes were more than likely up, and he had a strong preference for not walking the fifteen miles back to his cabin. Tucking his phone away, he turned up the alley once more. He only got two steps before a bang rocked the air.

      For a second, he was frozen, a tumble of bad memories hitting him hard.

      The bomb. The echo. The debris.

      Video footage of the tragedy jumped to the forefront of his mind. The remembered sound of it filled his thoughts for a minute, blocking out all else. A teenage boy, knowing exactly what it sounded like on the scene where his father was killed.

      Then a second explosion echoed through the alley, and instinct kicked in a little belatedly. Brayden threw himself against the wall and ducked low; his head whipped back and forth as he looked for the source of the noise. Everything was still. There wasn’t even a whiff of smoke.

      So what the—

      A third boom sounded, cutting off his thoughts as he realized it had come from up the alley. Near the spot where Reggie waited in the car.

      Panic hit, this time even harder than before and directed outward rather than inward.

      A rare curse dropped from Brayden’s mouth as he bolted up the cobblestone road. In seconds, he’d reached the street, fear for the green-eyed waitress making his feet move fast. He stopped short, though, when he spotted his car in one piece, Reggie in the same spot he’d left her. Even from a few feet away, he could see the concern on her face, but it was no stronger an expression than it had been a few minutes earlier.

      Puzzled, he took a step out. A fourth boom, then three more rapid-fire ones rang out. Brayden flinched. Then the sky above exploded in light, and he realized what it really was and his body sagged.

      Fireworks. Seriously?

      It might’ve been funny if it weren’t so ridiculous. He almost wanted to laugh anyway. He made himself refrain from doing it, afraid it might come out a little manically if he let it.

      “Way to stay calm under pressure, Detective Maxwell,” he muttered as he picked his way over to the car and opened the driver’s-side door.

      “Are you okay?” Reggie asked right away.

      “Fine.”

      “You’re sure?”

      He forced himself to answer lightly. “This from the woman who got run over by my car.”

      “I guess. But you do look a little green.”

      For the briefest second, he considered telling her about his overreaction and where it came from. Something in her gaze made him think she might offer a sympathetic ear. That she might even genuinely care. He shook off the urge. They didn’t have time for exchanging stories or getting all touchy-feely. What he needed to focus on was getting her away from whatever had happened back there in the alley. Before someone came back to check on their handiwork.

      “I’m really okay,” he assured her.

      “And there wasn’t anything in the alley?” She took a visibly shaky breath. “No body?”

      “No body. But there was something,” he admitted. “I just don’t think we should hang around and talk about it here. And considering the fact that Chuck-The-Cop СКАЧАТЬ