Deadly Aim (29 page)

“That’s right.” Angel moved her hand slightly. “I was four, maybe five steps above him—six feet away at the most.”

“Another shot went into his stomach. And a third into his chest. That’s the bullet that actually killed him. The shots to his chest and stomach were fired from more than ten feet away and went in at a different angle.”

“Are they sure?”

“That’s what I was told.”

Angel watched the waitress fill their coffees. Relief washed through her. “I was right, then?”

“It looks that way.” But Rachael didn’t look as thrilled as she should have.

“That’s good news, isn’t it?” Tim asked.

“Well, maybe,” Rachael hedged. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t prove she didn’t fire all three shots. She could have fired as she came down the steps toward him.”

“But I didn’t.” She felt her hope sink. Without any concrete evidence, there would be no proof of her story.

Rachael nodded. “The medical examiner says it’s possible that Billy was shot by two different people, but without the actual bullets and Angel’s duty gun and magazine, there’s no way of knowing for sure.”

“Say there was another shooter,” Tim said. “It stands to reason that whoever it was would want to get rid of any evidence that implicated him.”

“Yes, but who?” Angel asked. “Billy and I were the only ones in the building until the other officers got there.” Once again the image of her father emerged, and again she shook off the thought.

“Maybe you weren’t. It’s a big place. Suppose someone was there, like one of the gang members?” Tim pressed back in his chair to let the waitress take his empty plate. Before it disappeared, Angel snagged a slice of toast.

“You may have something there, big brother.” She felt the fog lifting for the first time in days. The possibility of Billy being shot by a gang member seemed plausible. “Maybe when he saw that Billy had been caught, he killed him to keep him from talking.”

“Wouldn’t you have known if someone was there?” Rachael patted her lips with the napkin.

“I don’t know. I was too intent on Billy. I remember being so shocked. I mean... his eyes and all the blood. I was too focused on him to notice anything else.” Angel spread the toast with jam and took a bite.

Rachael studied the notepad she’d been writing on. “If Billy was shot by one of his buddies, wouldn’t someone close to the gang know about it?”

“They probably do, but getting them to narc on a buddy is not going to happen.” Angel rubbed her neck to ease some of the stiffness. “I’ll mention that to Detective Riley. Also, Mike Rawlings has been working with some of the kids down at the youth center. He might have some contacts there.”

Angel polished off the piece of toast, suddenly feeling ravenous. She was beginning to think that maybe there might be hope after all. She had been right all along about firing only once. Angel knew
for certain she had been looking down at Billy and hadn’t moved until he went down—until all three shots had been fired. If someone had fired at him from more than ten feet, it hadn’t been her.

Angel hadn’t fired the bullet that killed Billy. Someone else had—someone she needed to find in order to prove her innocence.

Angel hitched a ride with Rachael to the hospital, where she had left Brandon’s car. From there she drove home and put in a call to Janet. She got an answering machine and realized the office was probably closed for the weekend. Disappointed, she hung up without leaving a message. Janet had told her to call anytime, but Angel didn’t want to bother her on her days off. Besides, this wasn’t exactly an emergency.

Still, Angel wanted to undergo hypnosis again and let the memories come without restraint. Maybe she would remember the details more clearly. Had she heard someone in the warehouse? Had she sensed someone lurking in the shadows? Janet had told her that there was no guarantee she’d ever remember exactly what had taken place, but if there was a chance, she wanted to take it.

She paced around her apartment for a while, feeling anxious. Maybe a run on the beach would help her relax. She always felt more at peace there than anywhere. Determined to do just that, she dressed in water-resistant sweats, went down the back steps of her apartment, and hurried along the path leading to the beach. The fog had lifted some, revealing thick, soppy clouds that leaked a steady mist. Her hair was already forming into damp ringlets.

She ran her usual route and paused briefly to admire one of the houses that was being remodeled. She had enjoyed watching the restoration process of the aging beach house, glad someone had chosen to salvage it rather than tear it down. The house wasn’t elegant but looked homey and inviting. The exterior was a weathered gray, and the trim a spectacular shade of blue. The owner had good taste.

Angel hoped to buy a house on the beach one day. She frowned, realizing she could have that and more with Brandon. But she wasn’t ready for a commitment now and wasn’t sure she ever would be.

She sat down on a large piece of driftwood near the remodeled house. The beach was quiet here. No public access, and the misty fog kept tourists inside visiting galleries and gift shops. Letting her arms support her, she tipped her head back, shaking out the excess moisture in her hair.

Dropping to the sand, she used the driftwood as a backrest, then closed her eyes and listened to the waves. “God, please help me to remember what really happened.” She focused on her breathing, like Janet had taught her, letting her mind drift to where it wanted.

Images of the pharmacy came into focus—the quiet street, then the shattered window. She and Eric calling for backup and going inside, finding Mr. Bergman lying in a pool of blood. Spotting Billy, ordering him to drop his gun. Billy looking frightened and pretending like he was going to give up. He put his gun down. Two gang members rushed out and fired, pinning her down.

Even in her relaxed state, Angel could feel the terror of those awful moments seep back into her bones. She wanted to stop.

Go on
.

She took several deep breaths.

You can do this, Angel. Keep going
.

She focused on relaxing the muscles in her neck and shoulders and breathing away the tightness in her chest. The three of them had escaped through the back of the pharmacy. Several minutes later Billy had ducked into the abandoned warehouse. She followed him and called out, looking around for the other gang members. The rear of the building was in shadows. She heard footsteps on the second floor and started up the steps. Billy barreled down them as though he were being chased. Had he seen something or someone who’d frightened him? Billy’s family had insisted he hadn’t been a gang member. Had the thieves found him in the pharmacy and forced him to go along with them? Had they been on the second floor waiting for her?

Angel had yelled for him to stop, and he did, but then he raised his gun. She remembered hesitating. “I didn’t want to shoot,” she murmured. “But I had to.” She fired once,
hitting him in the shoulder. “I was lowering my arm when the second two shots went off.”

I lowered the gun
. If she had fired those last two shots, wouldn’t they have been lower—to his legs?

Angel opened her eyes. She hadn’t killed Billy, but who had? She stood and dusted off her backside, then started running back toward the apartment.

Both times she’d confronted Billy, he’d acted frightened. She had assumed he was afraid of her—of being caught. But maybe that wasn’t it at all. Billy must’ve seen something or someone who had frightened him more than she had. Someone else must’ve been in that building, someone who had shot Billy and stolen the evidence to keep anyone from finding out.

Angel paused at the base of the back stairs leading to her apartment and placed her hands on her knees to catch her breath.
What did you see, Billy? What frightened you? Did the gang recruit you or just use you as a decoy
?

Angel pondered those questions while she showered, dried her hair, and got dressed. Sitting down with a cup of tea, she tried to assimilate the information she’d gotten from Rachael and from her own memories. Who had been in that building? Why would that person shoot Billy? She grabbed a pen and pad and began making notes.

Why shoot Billy?

Because he could ID the gang members, and they were afraid he’d talk.

Angel frowned, remembering the body Callen had found behind the warehouse. J.J. Monroe had been shot at around 3:00
A.M.
, but his body hadn’t been found until later, after the incident with Billy. The body was still on the dock when Angel shot at Billy. Was there a connection?

Had the gang members shot Billy and escaped through a rear entrance? As much as she wanted to believe that scenario, she didn’t think it likely. Angel doubted any of
the gang members had access to the evidence locker keys—which left one of her coworkers as the suspect. Her father?

“No way.” She tossed her pen and pad on the table. Maybe she could clarify matters by talking to Billy’s mother. She’d been wanting to offer her condolences, and this was as good a time as any.

Fifteen minutes later she arrived at Mavis Hartwell’s home, an older two-story badly in need of paint. The yard, however, had been nicely maintained. Impatiens lined both sides of the walk that led from the sidewalk to the porch. Two huge rhododendrons flanked the front steps, and buds were already opening to reveal deep red blossoms. A small boy who’d been sitting on the top step jumped up and ran into the house.

Mavis Hartwell came to the door, eyeing Angel warily.

“Mrs. Hartwell, I’m Angel Delaney.”

“I know who you are.” She glared at Angel. “I’d like you to leave.”

“Please, ma’am, I’d like to talk with you. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Billy.”

“A little late for that, isn’t it?”

“Mavis?” a gravelly voice called from inside. “Where are your manners, girl? Invite the woman in.”

Mavis stepped back, her chest rose and fell in resignation. “Come on in, then.” She opened the door. “I’m sorry for being rude. Isn’t the least bit Christian, is it?”

Angel stepped inside. The living room was neat and tidy despite the shabby furniture. An older woman, most likely the owner of the voice she’d heard earlier, sat in a rocker, a shawl over her shoulders and a crochet hook and yarn in her arthritic hands. The woman’s handiwork was evident in the many afghans and doilies lying about the room.

“That’s my mother, Emmie Broadman. Mama, this is the woman who shot Billy.” Mavis said it like she was introducing the Avon lady.

Angel’s mouth opened. She wanted to refute the statement, but it didn’t seem right. Even though her shot wasn’t the one that killed him, she was in part responsible for his death. If she hadn’t fired the first time, maybe he’d have gotten away.

“I’m going to fix me a cup of coffee.” Mavis nodded toward the older woman. “You want something?”

“Tea.” Emmie went back to whatever she was working on. “Some of that passion fruit stuff you brought home the other day.”

“How about you?” Mavis fixed her dark gaze on Angel.

“Coffee would be fine, thanks.”

“If you’re fixing to stay a while, you might as well have a seat,” Mavis called out as she walked into the kitchen.

Angel settled on the end cushion of the sofa. The original green fabric showed definite signs of wear, but it had been covered with a pale pink chenille bedspread. The little boy she’d seen on the porch peeked out from behind his grandmother’s chair. His dark eyes seemed to take up a quarter of his face. Angel offered a tentative smile, but he ducked out of sight.

“Angel.” Emmie sucked in her lower lip and released it several times. She had a round face that was drawn in at the mouth. “That’s a good name.”

“Thank you.” Angel glanced toward the kitchen and could see Mavis pulling down three cups. She wondered at the wisdom of coming here.

“Your mama have a reason for calling you Angel?” Emmie asked.

Angel snapped her head in the woman’s direction, caught off guard by the question. “I... I was born on Christmas Eve, and my mother heard the carolers singing ‘Angels We Have Heard on High.’”

Emmie chuckled. “Good a reason as any. You a Christian then?”

“I was raised a Christian.” Angel rubbed the thumb of her right hand.

“Now, that isn’t exactly what I asked you, is it?” Emmie lowered her crocheting and leveled a long, hard look at Angel.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Oh, I think you do. You got a lost look about you. I’ve seen it too many times. You’ve lost your way, honey. But don’t you worry. The Lord’ll bring you back to the fold.”

Mavis came back into the living room with a tray. “Mama, are you preaching again?”

“Just making an observation.”

After handing Angel a cup, Mavis set the tray down on an end table beside her mother.

“She’s come to say she’s sorry,” Emmie said.

“I heard.” Mavis peered over at Angel and set her cup on the scarred coffee table atop a crocheted coaster. “I know the right thing would be to forgive you, but I’m not ready to do that just now.”

“I don’t expect you to.” Angel bit her lip. “I’m not going to make excuses, but I’d like you to know what happened. I... I thought he was one of the gang members who broke into Bergman’s Pharmacy. He’d been in trouble before. I thought your son had a real gun.”

“He wasn’t a gang member,” Mavis insisted loudly, then fell silent for a moment. “I guess I can understand how you might have thought that, though. Billy was heading down the wrong road for a while. But lately he’d been doing real good. Partly because of that police officer who’s been working with some of the neighborhood boys. Bo Williams, I think Billy said his name was.”

“Bo was working with Billy?”

Mavis nodded and took a sip of her coffee. “Truth be told, I blame myself for that morning more than I blame you. I never should have sent him out alone.”

Emmie set her handiwork aside and began stirring sugar into her tea.

“It doesn’t help to blame yourself,” Angel said. “You couldn’t have known about the robbery. If what you say is true, then Billy was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”