The Last Execution (30 page)

****

Tuesday, May 11, 9:30 a.m.

Leigh sat at her desk trying to concentrate on the notes from today’s briefing. She glanced across the FBI bullpen. J.T. stood outside Casey’s office. His white shirt reminded her of the snowy sheets on his bed. Heat rushed to her face. She turned her chair around and tried to concentrate on reading.

Ellen, the ER nurse at Fairmont, had provided a list of doctors and nurses who’d been on duty when Juanita Ortega had been treated. Romeo had produced backgrounds, addresses, and phone numbers. Leigh and J.T. were leaving soon to interview the doctor who’d suggested Mrs. Ortega file charges on her husband for spousal abuse.

This morning Leigh had left J.T.’s apartment in a dead run. She’d barely managed to get home, shower and change clothes before reporting to work. Since arriving, she’d not had a moment alone with him.

A lot had happened last night between them. She’d said things to him she’d never spoken to another human being, including her parents. Since the attack, she’d cut herself off from friends. Her instincts as a cop and mother made her cautious, and her need to protect Ethan made her leery of outsiders. J.T. inspired her to trust, to open herself for possible rejection. She’d looked into his eyes and found no condemnation or blame. His understanding meant more than she had words to describe.

Should she mention her conversation with Doyle? The mother side of her knew Ethan would be safer with Jason dead. Turning the other way would make her as guilty as the killer.

Stop. It probably meant nothing.

J.T settled down in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The cup in his hand carried the scent of fresh coffee. Sultry, emerald eyes studied her.

Preferring to believe his sexy gaze stemmed from affection, her heart did its silly cartwheel spin. Had she fallen in love with him, or were her hormones totally out of control?

“What’s funny?” His eyebrows rose.

“You are. Stop undressing me with your eyes.”

“I don’t think so. Your blush is sexy.”

“Don’t start with the three and four word sentences.” She dropped her voice where only he heard. “You didn’t have trouble talking in grownup terms last night.”

He choked on a sip of coffee. When he stopped sputtering, both sides of his mouth lifted. “You do bring out the poet in me.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” She loved it when he dropped his guard and allowed her inside.

He opened a desk drawer and tossed a long neck chain to her. “Here, hang your badge on this.”

“Wow. A gift. I’m touched.”

He stood, rubbing his lower back, and then stretched his arms over his head. A soft groan drifted from him.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, his voice low. “Sex with you is hard on an old man.”

She clamped her hand over her mouth, but not in time to cover the burst of laughter, which drew attention from half the agents in the office. J.T. had walked away and left her sitting at her desk alone. She slid the chain over her head, resisted the urge to smooth down the hair she knew had escaped, and hurried to catch up with him.

He waited by the elevator doors, holding them open with his foot. His dimple still dipped into his cheek. Reality slammed into her. He’d stopped being self-conscious about his scar.

“Very funny. You caught me off guard.” She backed against the wooden handrail as the elevator started its descent.

“I like hearing you laugh, and you haven’t done enough of it lately.”

“You’re right about that,” she admitted.

“Now who’s talking in short sentences?” He moved closer and ran the back of his hand across her cheek. “Are you up to this?”

“I have to be able to do my job. It’s important to me. Part of who I am.” Of all people, he’d understand. “Besides, when you’re with me, I’m up for anything.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Tuesday, May 11, 10:45 a.m.

Because Dr. Eric Marsh didn’t recall treating Juanita Ortega, Leigh reconstructed the night using details she and J.T. had obtained from the widow. Finally, Dr. Marsh raised his hand.

“I can’t discuss her case. You’ve obviously already spoken to the patient.” Young with steady brown eyes, the doctor folded his arms across his chest.

Leigh appreciated his discretion. “We don’t want to talk about her medical condition. However, we understand you encouraged her to file charges against her husband. Is this correct?”

“I didn’t suggest she go to the police or file charges. I talked to her about her personal safety. In fact, I gave her the name of a shelter for battered women.” Dr. Marsh leaned forward in his chair, his brows dipped. “Has something happened to her?”

J.T. shifted in his chair, moving slightly closer to the doctor. “Are you aware her husband was murdered?”

Leigh studied the doctor as different emotions played out on his face. She believed Dr. Marsh hadn’t known about the murder before J.T. spoke.

“I had no idea.” His gaze shifted to Leigh. “Why are you questioning me?”

“Who else heard your conversation with Mrs. Ortega?” J.T. asked.

“I don’t know. Any number of people. Privacy curtains separate patients in the examination rooms. They’re protected from prying eyes, not eavesdroppers.”

“Anything you remember could be important.” Leigh pressed.

“You think one of the hospital staff killed Mr. Ortega?” His face and neck paled as if all his blood drained south. Leigh felt his surprise was genuine. “And you’re looking at me?”

“We’re asking questions. No one’s accusing you.” J.T. stood, dug out a card, and dropped it on the coffee table. “We’d appreciate a call if you think of anything.”

The doctor walked them to the door. “You said Ortega was murdered. How’d he die?”

“Sniper’s bullet,” J.T. said over his shoulder. Then he stopped and turned around. “Almost took his head off.”

Dr. Marsh recoiled. “I never connected the name with the news story. It didn’t click.”

Leigh walked to the car, fully understanding why J.T. had been blunt. She buckled up and waited until they were on the freeway to comment. “You’re satisfied he’s not involved. Right?”

“Yep. He’s not our killer.”

“You still think the sniper’s an ex-cop or a member of law enforcement?”

“I do. The way he selects his vantage point, his weapon of choice, that kind of knowledge comes from training.”

“You sound experienced.” J.T. had mentioned his stint in the military, but never talked about a tour of duty. “What did you do in the Marines?”

He made a combination laugh and scoff sound. “I followed orders.”

“That narrows it down.”

He’d questioned her, so she considered asking about his career fair game, even if sharing personal information was hard for him.

“I was part of a special unit skilled in various weapons and hand-to-hand combat.”

“Did you want to be an FBI agent when you were a kid?”

“No. The military helped me decide. I liked defending people. When the FBI recruited me, the choice was easy.”

“You made the right decision.”

“I think so. Are we done with the Q&A?”

“One more.” She chuckled when he shot her a frosty look. “You described in great detail the rifle you’d use to take out Romeo if you were the sniper. The Marines teach you that, too?”

“You paid attention.”

“To everything you said or did.”

“I’m flattered you noticed me.” He glanced at her with a devilish gleam in his eyes.

“No way not to. I thought you were pissed at the world in general.” She cleared her throat. “And hot, hot, hot.”

“Hot is a stretch, but pissed is a fair description.”

“But why? Being mad all the time can’t be much fun.”

“There’s not much in the world to be pleased about. If we don’t have a son of a bitch trying to bomb us to oblivion, we’ve got a lunatic perched on top of a building killing people. I get tired of being patient with the bastards.”

“I get it. I do. I have a hard time feeling sorry for the men the sniper has killed.” Leigh confided, glad no one else heard their conversation.

“That’s because you don’t know who the hell to feel sorry for. The wife who got the shit beat out of her, the kid who saw it all go down, or the dead man. Hell, everybody is a victim, and I hate that. There’s a right and a wrong. I don’t like it when the lines blur.”

She didn’t have an argument. He cared about people. A fact he’d deny if she called it to his attention. She hoped his rigid belief in black and white didn’t hurt him someday.

“Olivia’s report this morning was good news.” Leigh attempted to bring the subject back down a notch. “The hospitals didn’t report a single spousal abuse case.”

“Doesn’t mean there weren’t any. The sniper’s due to kill tonight if he stays on pattern. If he doesn’t, we may have caught a break.”

Leigh called her attorney’s office for an update. Disappointment washed over her when she failed to reach her. Disconnecting the call, Leigh leaned her head back on the seat.

“Something is on your mind. Would I be prying if I ask what’s wrong?” J.T. rested his hand on her knee.

“No. You’ve learned all my secrets.” For all his hard edges, J.T.’s gentle touch stirred Leigh’s blood. She twined her fingers through his and shifted where he was in her line of vision better. “I wanted to know if my attorney had been successful getting the subpoena set aside, but she hasn’t returned to her office.”

“She’s probably working on other clients’ cases.”

“That’s what her admin said.” She’d trusted him last night, cried in his arms, and not once had he pried or passed judgment. Funny, sharing the anger and pain with J.T. helped wash away her self-recriminations. She’d always be grateful for his understanding and compassion.

****

Tuesday, May 11, 2:00 p.m.

Doyle sat in front of his home computer and researched Leigh McBride. Old newspaper articles were available for a price. He wasn’t paying for the privilege of looking in the archives. Undaunted, he’d kept digging, turning up plenty without leaving a trail.

She’d been on the police force since graduating college, and her name came up in reference to a few cases she’d worked in the past. Determined, he kept digging until he hit the jackpot...a case where she’d been the victim. That set him back in the chair. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and his skin tingled. Had he found her tormentor? Detective McBride had testified against a man who’d attacked and raped her. He leaned closer to the computer screen and jotted down information while he read.

Apparently, the Carrington family had tons of money, but the name wasn’t familiar to Doyle. Not surprising, because he didn’t pay much attention to news about the rich and famous. The story had splashed big in the headlines seven years ago. After the jury found her attacker guilty, the sensationalism died down and interest in the case came in small blurbs. He scratched his chin. Rack one up for the system, a powerful family with tons of money hadn’t kept sonny boy’s ass out of jail. The guy had to be a fool for terrorizing Leigh and her family.

He changed his search to Jason Carrington and found his answers. Thanks to his famous last name, the guy’s past was an open book. Carrington liked to beat up his women. He’d roughed up two girlfriends before being sent to prison for attacking Leigh McBride. “You did the same to her. She stood up to you. Good for her.” The local gossip tabloid had run stories and brief interviews with the victims. He guessed large amounts of money had silenced one woman because she hadn’t pressed charges. The second victim earned Jason probation. Doyle’s heart raced, and his mind whirred with excitement. He’d found his next target.

****

Tuesday, May 11, 7:30 p.m.

J.T. wasn’t prepared for the scene in his Nana’s backyard. The frail figure kneeling down pulling weeds wasn’t his grandmother. His mother’s long, frizzy blonde hair was now a short brown bob. He recognized the old, gray warm-ups as a pair Nana wore when digging in the garden. They hung on his mother’s thin frame. The tug at his heart pissed him off. Too many times he’d fallen for her promises only to wake up the next morning and find her gone, leaving his grandmother to try and make excuses.

“Are you gonna stay in the car?” his grandmother asked.

“Shit.” He swung his head around to the driver’s side window. “You’ll give me a heart attack sneaking up on me.”

“Teddy,” she admonished. She stepped back, allowing him to get out and kiss her cheek. “You’re not in the locker room.”

“Sorry.” He ignored her use of his nickname. “How is she?”

“She’s well. And she has a name. I expect you to use it when you say hello.” She added, “Nicely.”

Nana’s last word resonated like the sound of a slamming door. The subject was closed. J.T. tucked her hand in his elbow and turned to face his mother.

A small smile lifted the sides of her mouth. “Hello, son.”

“Mother.” He waved her off when she stood. “Don’t stop on my account.” His muscles tensed at the pinch to the inside of his arm.

“It’ll be dark soon. Time I stopped.”

Her words were spoken softly, making him strain to hear them. She stood, slid off the cotton gloves, and took a tentative step toward him. Her hands trembled slightly. She was either nervous or still going through the tremors that came with sobering up. The pain in his arm increased as his grandmother delivered another warning.