Bear Claw Lawman. Jessica Andersen

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       Chapter Three

      Nick paused on the landing and stuck his head through the stairwell door for a quick survey of the fourth floor, one level below the victim’s apartment. A couple of doors down, a uniformed officer paused midknock, then relaxed. “Oh. Hey, Nick.”

      “Hey, Doanes. Give me some good news.”

      But, like his buddies door-to-dooring it on the second and third floors, the cop shook his head. “Sorry, man. I got nothing. Lots of empty apartments, and the few people who’ve answered didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything, and mostly don’t even know the people on their own floor, never mind one up. Merry said she was going to track down the super, though. Maybe she’s got something better.”

      “I already talked to her. The super didn’t recognize the vic’s picture, said the apartment belongs to a woman, gave up her name and contact info. Merry got the renter on her cell phone—she was evasive, but eventually fessed up that she’s out of the city on a training assignment, and advertised online for a sublet to offset the bills. Dennison said he’d only be here for a couple of weeks, but he paid her for a whole month. In cash.”

      “He was moving around, keeping a low profile like the others,” Doanes observed.

      “Seems like it.” Question was, why? And why had he stayed in Bear Claw? What were the Investor and the other remaining members of the militia looking for? And why was the head honcho suddenly taking out his own people? What was going on here?

      It felt as if they were chasing their own tails like a bunch of bomb dogs with C-4 strapped to their butts. Shaking his head, Nick continued, “Anyway, looks like the lady who rents the place is a dead end. She dealt with Dennison on the phone, never met him in person, didn’t care what he was doing in town as long as he paid in full.” He paused. “Are the CSIs still up there?”

      Doanes shook his head. “I think they’re done. I saw Gigi leaving a little while ago.”

      “Thanks.” Nick waved him off. “Catch you later.”

      It shouldn’t have mattered to him whether or not the analysts had finished up their preliminary run, just like it shouldn’t have mattered that Jenn had been assigned to the scene. They had crossed paths plenty since the breakup, and had kept it friendly and polite. There shouldn’t be any problem there. Hell, there wasn’t any problem there.

      Still, he breathed a little easier as he headed up the next flight of stairs, knowing he’d have the quiet solitude he needed to put himself into the head of Chuckie Dennison—a victim who had also been a killer in his own right. Nick wouldn’t ever know the dead man personally, but for a few minutes—or longer, if necessary—he would do his damnedest to become him, standing in his space, seeing the things he’d thought were important, the things he hadn’t.

      Dennison had been a fugitive from both the law and his former boss…but he’d stayed in the city. What was keeping him here? And then the torture. What had the Investor wanted from his former lieutenant? Information, obviously, but what kind? What was the endgame here?

      Nick probably wouldn’t get the answers today, of course, but he would absorb everything he could of Dennison’s space, his life, his death. And maybe—if he was damn lucky—get a flash of the kind that sometimes hit him, the sort of lightbulb gotcha that sent him in a new direction, or back down an old one, until he hit pay dirt. All because he’d stood there for ten minutes or an hour, absorbing every detail of a stranger’s life and trying to figure out what made him tick.

      The members of his sprawling, affectionate and high-drama family called it method acting and were as proud of his skills as they were baffled by his choices. His bosses were just glad he could do it, and used him as often as they could. And he was okay with that. More than okay with it. He came, he saw, he blended, he helped catch the bad guy and then he moved on again. That was his life, his skill set, and if it meant he’d put some other things on hold, better that than repeating past mistakes.

      Now, as he pushed through the door to the fifth floor, he did his damnedest to put himself into the mind of a former member of the Ghost Militia, an ex-con who’d done a stint for aggravated assault and attempted murder, and who had been on the run, aware that the Investor was tracking down his former lieutenants and tearing them open to see what secrets he could find.

      The hallway was identical to those on the other floors, with white walls, a red carpet that was starting to go threadbare pink along the traffic pattern and numbered doors leading off on either side. The one difference was that the door on the far end was marked as a crime scene.

      Already deep in Dennison’s head—I’m here, nobody followed me, gotta check the apartment first before I can relax, make sure I haven’t been made yet—Nick headed up the hall, senses attuned for the slightest warning of danger to his fugitive self.

      Thud. The noise from behind the far door brought him up short and set off all sorts of warning bells—someone was in the apartment!

      Where Dennison would’ve done a one-eighty and taken off, though, Nick powered straight ahead with his weapon appearing in his hand without him consciously reaching for it. It was probably one of the cops, he knew, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Especially not when the others were supposed to be canvassing.

      He went quiet as he got close to the door, moving almost silently on his lug-soled boots and letting out a breath as there was another thudda-thudda-thud, then a scuffle.

      Instincts on overdrive, he twisted the knob, booted open the door and flattened himself against the outside wall for a second. When there was no response, he went in low, leading with his gun. “Freeze! Police!”

      In the next moment, two impressions seared his retinas and competed for priority in his head: Jenn lay on the floor, motionless beside a battered chair, near a dark pool of blood he hoped to hell wasn’t hers. And heavy footsteps coming from the back room said she wasn’t alone.

      Jenn! The word shouted in his head but didn’t leave his lips. He reached her in two strides, went down on his knees before he knew it, and then had his hands on her for the first time in a month. Her pulse was fast, her breathing shallow, her eyes were closed, the side of her face already reddened and starting to swell. He didn’t see any fresh blood, and the spatter nearby was old and set, but that didn’t change the basic fact: someone had gone after her. And that someone was getting away.

      He lunged to his feet, bellowing, “Stop! Police!”

      Not that the guy stopped—they never did, and this one was already out the window. Nick knew it even as he cleared the door into the bedroom and heard the traffic, then the feet pounding down the fire escape. “Damn it!”

      He stuck his head out, and just barely saw the guy from the back as he bolted around the corner onto the main road. But that was enough to relay the bad news—the guy had a pair of plastic boxes under one arm. He’d taken the evidence kits.

      Cursing viciously, Nick holstered his weapon, went for his phone and called it in. But even with “white guy, six-something, dark pants and a suit jacket, carrying a couple of evidence kits” as a description, he didn’t hold out much hope.

      Given the head start, though, there was no point in Nick giving chase. Especially not when there was a vic who need medical attention.

      Not a vic. Jenn. He had to think of her СКАЧАТЬ