Aim to kill, p.4
Aim to Kill, page 4
“Nothing—I work for the government. There’s a strict line I do not cross.”
“Yet you were at this press conference.”
“During my lunch hour. I don’t work on the campaign because I don’t want there to be any perception of impropriety. I was here to support my boss, and be available to him if he needed any information that related to business before the state of California. You can ask anyone. I never cross the line.”
“What about your boss? Did he ever cross any lines?”
Jim watched Huang’s reaction carefully. He seemed perplexed. “Mr. Hart has been a terrific boss. I don’t know what you mean about crossing lines. Mr. Hart is the utmost professional.”
###
Travis Hart had no privacy until he returned to his capitol office hours after the shooting. He sent his staff home early. The CHP put an officer at the main door, so Travis closed himself in his office to ensure that no one could overhear his phone call.
This whole situation was fucked.
He pulled out one of three phones from his jacket—he had one for the campaign, one for state business, and one personal phone.
He had five missed calls on his personal phone, all from the same number.
He returned that call first.
“I’ve been busy,” he said immediately. “I can’t pick up the phone whenever you call. Why was that woman at the hotel? How did she know?”
“She didn’t. It was a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Travis said.
“I have already spoken to a trusted contact who assures me that Ms. Morgan was at the hotel for a job interview.”
“She’s a cop, what would she be doing there for an interview?”
“She was a cop. We have already verified the information—she didn’t even schedule the interview, the hotel staff did. She was simply at the wrong place, wrong time.”
“I don’t like it.” Travis had lived his life planning everything perfectly, and he didn’t like any deviation from the plan.
“She’s not a problem. She’s been discredited with the police department, no one would believe her even if she suspected something was afoot, but if you act irresponsibly, you’ll draw attention to yourself.”
“I’m fine,” he snapped. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t supposed to happen. His plan had been perfect, on so many levels. How could he have anticipated that Alexandra Morgan—or any cop—would be in the hotel at the exact moment as the shooter? It had been timed down to the minute.
“However, you now have a problem.”
“No, you have the problem.” Travis wasn’t going to take shit from this bastard, as if he worked for them. They had a business arrangement, as Travis liked to think of it. “You take care of it.”
Silence. But Travis was not going to be bullied.
“I will remind you, Mr. Hart, that you chose this method. You thought it would give you a what, a rise in the polls? I told you that it was too complex, too many things could go wrong, that simple is always better.”
“Don’t lecture me.”
“I will also remind you that you’re the one with the most to lose. I believe you have become paranoid, and we need to let things settle down before we pursue another method. Next time, however, I will not be taking your advice.”
“Once this is done, there won’t be a next time.”
“I certainly hope your house is clean. Because if it’s not, next time it may be you who are in the wrong place at that wrong time.”
Hart fumed. “And I will remind you that we have a mutually beneficial arrangement. But if anything happens to me, the same will happen to you.”
“Do not threaten me.”
“It’s not a threat. You forget who I am.”
Silence. Again.
“I will never forget who you are, Mr. Hart. And I shouldn’t have to remind you that what I know about you will destroy you. If you live that long.”
Chapter Four
Alex had been sitting on a gurney in the emergency room for over an hour when she decided that going to the pharmacy and buying the biggest Band-Aid they had, then hitting the liquor store for her favorite tequila, would be just as effective as stitches. She would kill someone if she had to wait for a doctor any longer. There were people far sicker than her, people with heart attacks and strokes and broken bones. She was fine.
She stood up and pushed open the drape that separated her from the rest of the emergency area and almost walked into Doctor Gabriel Storm.
“Oh, God, not you.”
He smiled. “I’m not God, but thank you.”
She rolled her eyes and sat back down. She knew better than to argue with Gabriel. He’d been her surgeon last summer when she’d been shot, but she’d known him longer, ever since her best friend, Detective Selena Black, moved in with him a year ago. She and Selena had gone through the police academy together and worked in the same division until Alex was transferred to North Command.
“I hate hospitals,” she said.
“I know.”
When she first arrived, they’d made her take off her shirt and gave her a gown, but she’d long since taken it off. She wore a sports bra which could hardly be called sexy. She’d been raised in a house of men, had been a cop for twelve years, and while she didn’t walk around naked, she had no false modesty.
Gabriel took off the bandage and inspected her wound. “The X-rays were clear—no bullet fragments. But this is a nasty hole. You lost a lot of blood, the paramedics said.”
“No more than I would have donated at the blood bank,” she said.
He smiled. He had that way about him—annoying, sexy, calming. She could see why Selena was in love with him.
A nurse came in with a tray. “You can leave it,” he told her.
“Don’t you want me to suture the wound, doctor?”
“I’ll do it.”
That surprised the nurse, but she put the tray down and left.
“If you have something to do, go do it. I’m fine.”
“There’s no place I’d rather be.”
She have him a wrinkled-nose smile. “You’re going to hurt me with that needle.”
He had a two needles, in fact. “This is an antibiotic.” Then he injected it into her arm.
“That wasn’t too bad.”
“This is a local anesthetic.” He injected it close to the gunshot wound and she jumped.
“Fuck!” she exclaimed. Every nerve ending in her arm—on her entire right side—burned.
“You’re a baby,” he said.
“Just get it over with,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
Every push and pull of the needle brought tears to her eyes, but she refused to cry.
“I banned the press,” Gabriel said, “but you might want to be careful when you leave.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You saved a man’s life. It’s news.”
“It’s news because he’s a politician.”
“That to.”
“And they’re not interested in any of that. They’re interested in what happened last summer.”
Gabriel tensed.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“I know. I’m your doctor, remember?”
When she’d come in with a bullet in her back, Gabriel had been on duty. She didn’t know he’d saved her life until after the surgery. She’d always liked him—even though he could be very intense—but saving her life had bonded her to him like a brother.
“Don’t worry about me, Gabriel,” she said.
He clipped the stitches and put a loose bandage over the skin. “You should wear a sling, but I know you won’t so I won’t even give you one.”
“You’re a peach.”
He pulled over a stool and sat down. Gabriel had a way of looking at you as if you were the only person in the world. Hospitals were loud, crowded, and bustling, but all that fell away. “You didn’t call your father.”
“Oh, shit.” She should have called her dad. He would have wanted to hear that she was okay from her. Would it have killed her to give him two minutes? “Did you call him?”
Gabriel shook his head. “He heard it along with most everyone else—through the media.”
“I’m the world’s worst daughter. You told him I was okay, right?”
“Of course. He’s waiting in my office. I just wanted to make sure you were cleaned up and didn’t look like death warmed over when he walked in.”
“He’s here? I need a shirt,” Alex said. She rubbed her temples. Her head was aching. “And do you have some aspirin around here?”
“You can’t mix your meds,” Gabriel said.
She stared at him. “I’m not taking pain meds. What about Tylenol? Advil? Something over-the-counter-ish?”
“I’ll find you a shirt,” he said.
Gabriel walked out and Alex braced herself for her father.
Judge Andrew Morgan walked in a few minutes later. Worry etched his face, disappearing when he saw that she was okay.
“I’m so sorry dad.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. He rested his chin on her head a moment, then stepped back. “My clerk told me that you had been shot saving the life of Travis Hart. I didn’t know anything else.”
“I have no excuse for not calling you. I’m fine, just a couple of stitches.”
“Gabriel told me.”
She felt like shit. “I’m really, really sorry.” Her eyes burned with unshed tears. The last thing she wanted to do was worry her dad.
He sat down on the stool that Gabriel had vacated. “What happened?”
She told him everything, starting with walking out on the interview and ending with pursuing the suspect. He didn’t say anything for a long minute.
“Jim caught the case.”
Her dad seemed surprised. “Jim Perry.”
“Yeah, my ex. I know you liked him, sorry it didn’t work out for you.”
She was really bitchy right now.
“Alexandra, I liked Jim. But I love you.”
She always put her foot in it.
“He’s a good cop,” she said. “He didn’t like my analysis, but he’ll figure it out on his own.”
“What analysis?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
Because she was stuck here until Gabriel came back with a shirt, she said, “From the shooter’s angle, I don’t think Hart was the target. But it doesn’t make any sense—why take out a staffer?”
“And Jim doesn’t concur?”
“There was a huge towering plant thing that blocked Hart from the shooter. But he if was good, he could have shot through it. Though good snipers aren’t going to put an obstacle between them and their target. Maybe he didn’t expect the plant to be there, but that means no recon. Since when does a sniper not case out his roost? But Jim’s theory also made sense.”
“Which was?”
“The shooter wanted to cause a scene, scare Hart, scare the press, whatever. That he didn’t intend to kill anyone, or didn’t care who he shot.”
“He shot you.”
“I wasn’t the target.”
“Maybe not.”
“Maybe?”
“I mean, Jim’s theory is sound, but so is yours. Maybe Hart was the target. Or his staff. Let Jim do his job.”
And that was it. It was Jim’s job to investigate the assassination attempt, not hers. End of story.
Gabriel Storm came in with a sweatshirt. “It’s clean,” he said.
She pulled it on, wincing when her arm pulled.
“And, because I know you won’t take the pain meds even if I ordered you, here are two prescription strength Tylenol. Trust me—you’ll want them. Just to take the edge off.” He handed her a cup with the two pills big enough to choke a horse, and a bottle of water.
“Thanks for not making a huge production, Gabriel,” she said after swallowing the pills.
“You’ll want to bypass the reporters on your way out—there’s only a few, but all it takes is one jerk to ruin your day.” He handed her dad his hospital ID. “Drive your car into the physician’s lot. There’s a separate entrance on the opposite side of the public garage. I’ll take Alex to meet you. That way you’ll slip away undetected.”
The judge shook Gabriel’s hand. “Thank you. Again. You’ve taken good care of my daughter.”
“It’s my job, Judge.”
Alex’s dad left to retrieve his car, and Alex said to Gabriel as they walked, “I’ll make you cookies.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Those peanut butter cookies you made for Christmas?”
“If you liked them.”
“They were amazing. Selena and I arm-wrestled for the last one.”
“Who won?”
“I did. But I split it with her.”
“True love,” she teased. She kissed Gabriel on the cheek and said, “Pass it on to Selena.”
A young man in a suit, carrying a huge bouquet of flowers in a vase, briskly approached Alex. “The nurse said you were Alexandra Morgan?”
Gabriel tensed beside her, shifting his body so that he was partly in front of her.
“You’re not authorized to be here,” Gabriel said firmly. “I will have security remove you.”
The guy looked almost green from surprise. And it was clear from Gabriel’s posture that he was perfectly willing—and capable—of removing anyone from the hospital by whatever means necessary.
“I-I-my name is Robbie. I-I work for Travis Hart’s campaign. He-he-he asked me to deliver Ms. Morgan flowers t-t-to thank her.”
Gabriel stepped forward and took the vase from Robbie. “Tell Mr. Hart thank you. You may go back the way you came.”
Robbie nodded. “Thank you. Thank you.” He practically ran back down the hall.
“Who’d have thought doctors were so intimidating,” Alex said.
Gabriel wasn’t smiling when he handed her the vase. “Whoever let that kid in violated my direct orders.”
“Your military service is showing,” Alex said. Gabriel had spent several years as a medic in the Army. She didn’t know much about his service record, only what Selena had told her in passing. Gabriel didn’t like to talk about it.
“Perhaps.” He opened the door into the staff garage. “Don’t be a stranger, Alex. Selena said you cancelled twice on her for a girls night out.”
Alex didn’t know what to say, so she shrugged.
Gabriel tapped her chin. “Hey, we care about you. The last few months have been especially difficult, I get that, but you have friends.”
“I know. I guess – well, I just need to get my life back together. I’m unemployed. Unemployable. I want my old life back and I can’t have it.” She sighed. “I’m just feeling sorry for myself. It’s been one of those days.”
“Pull yourself up, Alex. You’re strong enough. And the next time Selena calls you to meet, be there.”
“I promise.”
Sometimes, it was easy to forget that she did have friends. Self-pity. That’s all it was. And she had to find a way to move on or she’d never feel good about herself again.
Chapter Five
It didn’t take much persuading for Alex to agree to spend the night at her dad’s house. She really didn’t want to go back to the sparsely furnished apartment she’d moved into after she left Jim. She hated the place, but she’d signed a year’s lease, and she really couldn’t afford much else. It wasn’t that it was a dump—it was anything but a dump. The building had been recently renovated, the old business converted into chic lofts. She thought she’d like living downtown—but she didn’t. She missed having a yard, missed having space, and despised having neighbors so close to her. She’d planned to move out on June 1st, when her lease was up, when she got a job and could afford a small rental house.
Of course, she didn’t have a job, her severance package was almost gone, and if she didn’t find something soon she’d have to move in with her dad permanently.
She was thirty-four years old. She couldn’t live with her father.
Still, she loved the house she grew up in. The judge had bought the modest yet stately house in the “Fabulous Forties” neighborhood of Sacramento shortly after her younger brother, A.J., was born. She’d grown up here since she was three—she didn’t even remember the house she’d been born in. Birthday parties and hide and seek and swimming in the summer ... a lot of joy was in this house. And a lot of sorrow. Her mother grew ill—cancer—and died in this house. But it was home, and the judge said he’d never move.
She liked having a home base. But she didn’t want to move back.
She was exhausted, even though it was a short drive from the hospital to her dad’s house. But she wouldn’t admit it to anyone, especially her father. Instead, she said, “I’m hungry.”
“Good. Your grandmother is preparing your favorite.”
Now her stomach growled. “Spaghetti and meatballs?”
“Of course.”
Already, she felt better.
Then she saw the car in front of the house. Not just any car, but a three-year-old black Nissan Altima with a small American flag in one corner and a small U.S. Navy seal in the other rear corner.
She knew exactly who owned that car.
“What’s going on?” she asked her dad.
“Alexandra, just talk to him.”
“Dad—” She wasn’t in the mood for an argument. She was too tired, too frustrated, too ... hell, she didn’t know. She just wanted to eat some spaghetti and go to bed. Was that too much to ask?
“Apparently, you’re in the middle of something big.”
“No, I am not,” she said carefully.
“Hear him out.”
“You set me up.”
He turned off the ignition and used the remote to close the garage door behind them. She made no move to get out of the car.
She couldn’t begin to explain how angry she was at her father. Her father and the owner of that Nissan.
The District Attorney himself, Matt Elliott. The man to blame for the fact that she had no job and was considered a disgrace within the Sacramento Police Department. A man she’d trusted, and not just because he was a friend of her father’s. Not just because he was the District Attorney, or a veteran, or a good guy. But because she’d been in court with him, she’d testified for him, she’d seen how much he cared about law, order, justice, victims. She admired that. Hell, she’d half fallen in love with him. That was probably her biggest regret. She cared about him, trusted him, and got screwed.
