Hard Evidence (13 page)

She didn't know what to think about that, but she liked it.

Tessa thanked Officer Petersen for the escort, then walked through the hallway back toward the range itself. She found Julian standing at the counter talking with the same man who'd checked them in yesterday. Dressed in low-slung jeans, a black cotton T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, his harness in place, he seemed to radiate raw masculinity.

If her mind didn't understand it, her body certainly did. Just seeing him left her insides feeling warm and liquid.

He glanced over his shoulder and turned to face her, his gaze sliding over her. Then he frowned. She realized he was looking at her clothes. She was still wearing her dress and heels—not very practical attire for a shooting range, she supposed.

"I didn't bring anything to change into," she said, feeling silly.

"That's fine. I just don't want you to twist an ankle. Did you bring extra rounds?"

"Yes." She wasn't stupid enough to make that mistake twice.

"Let's go." Julian turned and led her through the double doors.

She followed him to what should have been the center stall. But where there ought to have been dividers, there was now only a wide-open space. Two thick panels of vinyl hung from the ceiling, each about two feet wide. Downrange stood six targets, outlines in the shapes of men, each mounted on some kind of frame that seemed to rest on a spring or track.

"We're going to do something different today. Clearly you can hit a stationary target when you've got time to use that front sight and aim. But most of the time, bad guys don't stand still, and you don't want to be standing still, either. We're going to practice shooting at moving targets under conditions more similar to what you'd encounter in a real firelight."

"So it's a shoot-out at the O.K. Corral." Those few butterflies flapped their wings harder.

His blue eyes dark with an emotion she didn't understand, he looked down at her, brushed his thumb down her cheek. "I know all of this has been hard on you, Tessa. I'm going to do my best to catch these guys. But just in case I don't or they get me first, I'm going to teach you how to stay alive and how to kick ass."

Touched, Tessa reached up, took his hand, and, without thinking, kissed his palm, his skin soft and hot against her lips. "If anything happens to you, Darcangelo, I'll kick
your
ass."

He grinned, his smile making her breath catch. "I'd like to see you try."

First they reviewed what they'd done last time. Next, he told her what to do in case of a misfire or a "squib load."

"In a revolver, the cylinder will usually advance to the next round, and you'll be able to discard the misfired round when you reload. If it's a squib load, meaning that the charge wasn't strong enough to force the bullet out of the barrel, the cylinder might jam. You won't be able to fire again until the round is removed—something only a gunsmith can do. If the bullet lodges in the barrel and you fire again, the barrel is likely to explode. Squib loads are rare, but if they do happen, a revolver is useless."

"What do you do then? Drop the gun and run like hell?"

He chuckled. "No, you hold on to the gun and run like hell. They don't know the gun is useless. Point it at them, and they're likely to duck for cover. And if they catch you, you can always beat the crap out of them with it. Steel is steel."

Then he showed her what she'd be doing. The vinyl panels were intended to simulate cover of some kind—the edge of a wall, a tree, furniture. The targets were the other shooters. Scattered across the room, each would move in its turn and in random order. Her job was to remain safely behind cover while hitting each target in the chest region when it moved. The targets were positioned in such a way that she'd have to turn back and forth to fire, making use of both panels.

"Like this." Julian turned and waved to a man in a control booth Tessa hadn't noticed before. Then he stood with his back to one of the vinyl panels, pretending to hold a gun in his hands.

The first sprang up, lurching forward by about a foot.

Julian pivoted, pointed his fingers, and "fired" in one smooth motion. "Bam!" he said, reminding her of a little boy playing cops and robbers.

But this was anything but a game.

Then the second moved. Then the third. Then the fourth, fifth, and sixth.

"Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
Like that. Try to hit center mass."

It didn't look too hard.

Julian suppressed a grin as Tessa, revolver in hand and pointed at the floor, reached down and slipped off her heels then carried them to the nearby bench. She was being practical—a good thing. Why it should amuse him so damned much, he didn't know. Perhaps it was the sight of her, all feminine curls and curves, with heels in one hand and revolver in the other. He'd seen lots of women packing guns over the years—special agents, cops, killers—but none of them could match Tessa for sheer girliness.

Given what he'd told her this afternoon, she was doing remarkably well. He hadn't been sure what to expect, and he'd been prepared for the possibility that she'd be too overwhelmed and afraid to fire a single shot. But if she was afraid—and he was certain she must be—she wasn't showing it. He hoped her nerves would hold. She had a rough couple of days ahead of her, and that was if everything went according to plan.

He would tell her about that later. Right now he wanted her to concentrate.

Looking determined and focused, she took position as he'd shown her behind one of the panels, the pistol pointed at the ceiling, its barrel pointed a little too much toward her.

He walked over, adjusted the angle. "Forget what you've seen on TV shows. The only people who hold guns like that are people who want to shoot their own noses off."

"Oh." Pink spots appeared on her cheeks.

"Ready?"

She nodded.

He gave the signal.

The first target moved. She spun toward it, and he saw one of her eyes close as she fixed her gaze on the front sight and fired. By then the second target had already moved. Before she could turn to face it, the third had moved. Still, she took aim and shot at each one, hitting three of the six.

When she was done, she glanced at the targets, a look of satisfaction on her face. "Well, I hit half of them. Not bad for a first try."

Julian hated to burst her bubble. "If this were real life, that guy," he pointed to the second target, "would have shot you while you were distracted and aiming at the first guy. You were using your front sight. Remember, you can't do that. Just aim and fire. And keep under cover. It's more important
not
to get shot than it is to hit your target. Okay, reload."

The targets clicked back into place as she slipped six fresh rounds into the revolver and snapped the cylinder shut.

"Ready?"

She nodded. "Lock and load."

Julian gave the signal.

Pop!
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

This time none of the rounds she fired hit anything.

She frowned. "I think those ended up in Kansas."

"That's okay. You're not supposed to know how to do this. That's why we're here."

For the next hour he repeated the drill, giving her pointers, correcting her, until her cheeks were pink from the exertion and frustration. They'd gone through more than a hundred rounds, and she'd hit her target only eleven times—fairly typical for a new shooter.

"Damn it!" She looked adorably pissed off. "This is impossible! I keep getting shot, and I can't hit the target if I can't use the sight!"

Julian crossed his arms over his chest, fought back the smile that kept creeping onto his face. "Sure you can. It just takes practice."

She glared up at him. "And I suppose you can hit them all."

He nodded. "Easily."

"Well, Mr. Armed and Dangerous, let's see it." She pressed her pistol into his chest.

He pushed her hand away, drew out his Sauer. "This is a three-fifty-seven SIG Sauer. It conceals easily, is fairly lightweight, and packs a mean punch. The magazine I carry holds twice as many rounds as your revolver, and I can reload quickly by popping in a new magazine. If it jams, I can have it operational again in seconds by tapping the butt against a hard surface to make sure the magazine is in place and then racking the slide."

He demonstrated as he spoke, releasing and reloading the magazine, tapping the butt and drawing back on the slide. Then he looked up to see a dejected expression on her pretty face.

"Your gun is better than mine."

He couldn't resist. "And bigger."

Her gaze collided with his, and she blushed. Then her eyes narrowed. "Shut up, and shoot."

"Yes, ma'am." Julian took position, shifted his mind from Tessa to the task at hand, nodded to Hal in the control booth.

As soon as the first target moved, his response became automatic. He registered only sound, motion, and the hard kick of the Sauer in his hands. He fired the sixth round, replaced the half-full magazine with a full one, and slipped the Sauer into its holster.

When he looked up, she was glaring at him.

"Show-off."

He allowed himself one smirk, more to irritate her than because he truly felt smug about his target shooting. "You shouldn't compare yourself to me, Tessa. I was trained by the best and have been practicing almost daily for fifteen years. You've done this once."

"That won't matter next time that guy comes around and decides to blow my head off." Her gaze dropped to the floor, the fear he'd known she must be feeling finally coming to the surface.

He closed the space between them, tucked a finger beneath her chin, and lifted her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. "I'm going to do everything I can to make sure there isn't a next time."

"Why didn't he kill me, Julian?"

"Let's talk about it over dinner."

Chapter 13

Julian followed Tessa home, hanging far enough behind her to keep an eye out for Wyatt. There was no sign of the bastard. Perhaps the police escort she'd had to the shooting range had scared him off for the moment. Or perhaps Burien had already rearranged his anatomy for last night's screwup— if what he'd done last night had, indeed, been a screwup.

Julian watched from a half block away as she turned into her parking lot and parked in her assigned place. He spotted the unmarked police car in a visitor's space nearby, where plainclothes officers had been keeping her building under surveillance all afternoon. The night shift would be relieving them soon—two undercover vice cops handpicked by Julian and strapped to play rough.

If Wyatt came skulking around tonight, he was going to find himself facing more than a soft, terrified woman.

Julian had asked Tessa to let him sleep on her couch tonight. She'd seemed relieved to know he'd be there, but she'd made him promise not to knock her out again. "No more Molotov cocktails, or whatever that was," she'd said. "I don't even remember getting into bed."

Julian had thought it best not to tell her that he'd carried her. Instead, he'd gone over the procedure with her.

As planned, Tessa walked into the building first, the plain-clothes unit keeping a careful eye on her as she strolled up the walk, let herself in through the newly repaired door, and checked her mailbox. Julian waited until she'd been inside for several minutes, then followed her, using the duplicate he'd made of her key to get inside the lobby.

Ten minutes later he stood in her kitchen trying his best to answer questions.

"The truth is," he said, uncorking a bottle of red wine, "I don't know."

He poured the burgundy liquid into a crystal glass, set it down before her, then put the bottle aside. He didn't drink unless his cover demanded it.

She sat at the table, looking up at him, hands clasped nervously in her lap. She'd changed into jeans and a blue V-neck shirt that drew his gaze to her breasts despite his best intentions. He forced himself to look at her face, forbidding his eyeballs from seeking anything farther south than her chin.

You're a pig, Darcangelo.

She looked at the wine without really seeming to see it, then picked up the glass and took a sip. "Maybe my scream scared him away."

Julian had tried to logic his way through this all afternoon. There were two possibilities: either Wyatt had been acting on Burien's orders when he'd assaulted Tessa, or he hadn't. Because Julian couldn't fathom what Burien stood to gain by having one of his thugs manhandle her, Julian was inclined to believe it was the latter. Perhaps Wyatt hadn't yet been ordered to make the hit and had gotten carried away while watching her. Or perhaps he'd been ordered to kill her and had lost his nerve. If it were the latter, he'd be dead in no time.

"I doubt it," Julian said at last. "These guys are ruthless. They enjoy hearing women scream. I'm guessing he did something he wasn't supposed to do and lit out of here before you could see him. Either that or he was supposed to kill you and couldn't do it."

Tessa studied him, and he could almost hear the wheels in her sharp mind turning. "You know who he is."

Julian had been trying to decide all afternoon what he should tell her. Her life was in danger in ways she couldn't possibly imagine, and letting her in on the truth, or part of it, might make a difference. But she was also a reporter, and there was no way to know for certain that she wouldn't print everything he told her. And although she hadn't yet printed anything she knew about him—his name, for example—he wasn't sure she'd be able to resist writing an article about Burien if Julian gave her the big picture. Besides, he hadn't been authorized to tell her anything. She shouldn't even know who he was.

"This is strictly on a need-to-know basis and off the record, got it? If you print anything I tell you, you'll be aiding and abetting murderers."

"Got it." She set the wineglass back on the table. "Off the record."

"His name is John Richard Wyatt, age twenty-two." Julian took Wyatt's mug shot out of his pocket, put it on the table. "He's got a long list of priors, and it's getting longer. He was involved with the shooting you witnessed, probably as an accomplice.

"The man I believe pulled the trigger is already dead, face blown off point-blank with a forty-four Magnum, no doubt as punishment for leaving witnesses. We found his body last weekend, together with a set of rims, and linked the body through prints to the basement apartment. He was still wearing that leather jacket."

He saw her eyes widen—a reaction she quickly suppressed—and he wondered if he should tone it down. He didn't suppose journalists talked about crime in the same casual, gory detail that law enforcement professionals did. Or did they?

Her gaze dropped to the mug shot. Her arms crossed over her chest as if she were hugging herself—an unconscious, defensive gesture that wrenched something in his chest.

"He looks like a kid."

"The 'kid' is a sociopath."

She pushed the mug shot away as if she suddenly couldn't stand to look at it. "Any chance you're going to tell me exactly what this is all about? What was going on in that apartment? Why did they—whoever 'they' are—murder her?"

Julian picked up the mug shot, tucked it out of sight. "Isn't what I've told you enough, Tessa? Do you need to hear more to understand that your life is in grave danger?"

"Can't you even tell me her name?" A sheen of tears glittered in her eyes.

He knelt face-to-face beside her, caught a tear with his thumb. "You're trying to make sense out of something senseless, Tessa. Knowing her name won't make this any easier. Take my word for it."

"I-I watched her die, Julian. I can't explain…" She squeezed her eyes shut, as if to force back her tears, turned her face away from him.

"Maria Conchita Ruiz. She was sixteen."

Maria Conchita Ruiz.

Tessa ran the girl's name through her mind again and again, her brain screaming that sixteen was far too young to die. And she realized Julian was right. Knowing the girl's name only sharpened the edge of her regret.

"¡Porfavor, senor, ayudeme! jAyudeme! ¡Me van a matar!"

Someone knocked on Tessa's door, making her gasp, sending her to her feet. "That can't be the pizza. I would have to buzz them in."

"Easy, Tessa." Julian ran a hand down the length of her arm, pulled his gun from his shoulder harness. "Someone was probably coming in at the same time and let them in. People in Denver are naive and sloppy about security. I'll get it. You stay out of sight."

Heart thudding, she grabbed her purse, fished out her .22, and backed deeper into the kitchen, watching as Julian looked out the peephole.

She told herself she was safe and remembered how quickly and smoothly he had taken out the targets at the shooting range. She'd never seen anyone move that fast or with such precision. If Wyatt came around tonight it would be he, not Tessa, who was in danger. She forced her fear aside, but couldn't stop her relieved sigh when Julian holstered his gun, shot her a grin, and opened the door.

"It's twenty-fifty-three," a young man's voice said. "We take checks with ID."

She saw Julian pull his wallet from his back jeans pocket and pull out a few bills.

"Thanks," the kid said. "Dude, is that, like, a real gun?"

Julian answered, his deep voice tinged with humor. "Yeah, dude, it is."

They ate their pizza at the table, Tessa insisting on using real dishes, even if they were eating fast food. Julian seemed to be trying to keep the conversation light, asking her questions about her job, about other investigations she'd worked on, about Tom.

"From what I could tell this morning, the guy is a jerk," he said, refilling her wineglass.

'Tom, a jerk?" Tessa, feeling more relaxed, couldn't help but laugh. "He just takes the responsibility of journalism very seriously—but, yes, he is a
total
jerk."

By the time their plates were in the sink and they'd moved to the living room, Tessa was feeling more peaceful than she had in days. The wine had spread like a summer sunset through her veins, leaving her feeling tranquil and lazy.

"Why'd you decide to go into journalism?" Julian asked her. He'd removed his harness, draped it over a nearby chair, and sat on the floor beside the couch, his weight resting on one arm, one knee bent, his black T-shirt stretching distractingly across his chest. His dark blue eyes watched her, his gaze warming her as much as the wine.

She stretched her legs, reclining against a pile of pillows on the couch. "No more questions about me. You know everything about me. You know things about me no one else knows, stuff I wish you didn't know. You can probably answer that question yourself."

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were measuring her. "I'd say it has to do with a need to fight for the underdog, to stand up for people who can't stand up for themselves. With your background you naturally identify with the underdog. And I think you need the acknowledgment, the public recognition. It proves to you that you escaped, that you're no longer Tessa Bates."

Tessa felt her face flush. "I do not need—!"

He raised a dark eyebrow. "Did I cut too close to the bone?"

In fact, he had. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that. "Enough about me. You've asked your twenty questions. Now it's my turn."

"Fair enough."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-two."

"Are you married, divorced, sing—?"

"Never married. Never will be."

"Aha." His answer didn't surprise her, but for some reason it did take her mood down a notch. "Kids?"

"Not as far as I know."

"What is 'Darcangelo'?"

"My last name." He was biting back a grin.

"No! I mean what ethnicity." She grabbed a pillow off the couch, hit him with it.

He fended off her attack with his forearm. "I'm half Italian."

"Which half?" The words were out before Tessa could stop them.

Was she flirting with him? She
never
flirted with men.

His lips curved in a slow, sexy smile that made her heart trip. "From the waist down."

She felt her breath catch, felt her face burn, found herself chasing her own scattered thoughts. "Why did you become a cop?"

He reached up, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, the split second of contact like a static burst against her skin. "I like busting bad guys."

Coming from anyone else, this might have seemed a wisecrack. But Tessa could tell he meant it. "That's what matters to you—patrolling Gotham and getting bad guys off the streets?"

"Something like that."

He was too close, his body seeming to radiate heat. He hadn't really touched her, but she was already at the melting point, her body thrumming with blatant, undeniable longing. She'd never felt this way, not even when Scott, spouting poetry he hadn't really meant, had peeled off her clothes and taken her virginity in his dorm room.

Tessa picked up her wineglass, took a sip, tried to remember what they were talking about. His job. "That sounds dangerous to me—and lonely."

"Speaking of lonely, why isn't there a man in your life? A beautiful, smart woman like you with a successful career—I would have imagined you'd be married by now."

She almost choked, suddenly wishing they were talking about the weather. But then, why not come right out with it? He already knew so much about her.

She set her wine aside. "The women in my family don't have much luck with men. My grandma married my grandpa— really bad luck for her. My mom… Well, you know about my mother."

"She had a baby at fourteen. Yeah, I know. It must have been tough for both of you."

Tessa had been trying not to think about it, but their conversation made that impossible. "She called today. Bless her heart! I haven't spoken with her since I left, and then she calls out of the blue, tells me she's working at the Denny's in Aurora."

"Are you going to get together with her?"

Tessa shook her head, shrugged. "I don't know. It's complicated."

He gave a slight frown. "She's your mother."

"That's the problem." Tessa's words sounded cold, even to her own ears. "Do you stay in touch with your mother?"

"I never knew my mother." His voice and his face were expressionless.

She stared at him, astonished. "You never knew your mother? Did she give you up for adoption or die when you were born?"

"No."

For a moment they sat in silence.

"I'm sorry," she said at last. 'That was rude of me."

He acted like he hadn't heard her. "So your mother made a mistake, and you're ashamed of her. What does that have to do with your reason for avoiding men?"

"Now who's being rude?" Tessa glared at him. "I don't
avoid
men. I'm just careful. The last thing I want is to end up like her or like my grandmother—alone with a baby or married to an abusive drunk. Besides, the
idea
of having sex with a man is
loads
better than the reality."