Killing Time Read online

  She had studied maps of the town and surrounding areas until she had every street memorized, but she kept a map handy as she carefully negotiated the traffic signals and stop signs. Locating the house she wanted wasn’t difficult at all, and she was proud of herself. So far, so good.

  The house was actually just outside the city limits, where the residences were farther apart and fields were beginning to appear. She parked in front and sat for a moment, studying the scene. Pretty. Nice tall trees and mature landscaping, lush green grass, and a house that looked affluent without being ostentatious. White, with dark blue shutters, and a nice deep porch that wrapped around the right side of the house. Four steps led up to the porch and directly to the front door.

  Dark green bushes, covered with a multitude of pink flowers, hugged the foundation and hid the brickwork. Nikita wasn’t much on horticulture, but she thought the bushes might be azaleas. Maybe. The bushes were neatly trimmed, the grass recently cut. Two giant oak trees—she did know oaks, at least—threw shade across the entire front yard and part of the house. Yellow crime-scene tape was strung between the two trees, blocking the driveway, and extended around the house in a garish perimeter.

  Slinging her bag onto her shoulder, she got out of the car, camera in hand, and took several quick photographs to have something to back up her memory when she was writing reports, or working theories. Ducking under the yellow tape, she walked up the paved driveway, snapping photographs as she went. She didn’t expect to see anything that would point the way to the killer, something that another experienced agent had missed, but she was fixing distances and measurements in her mind. Slowly she circled the house, noting every window and door, the state of the shrubbery under the windows, the distance to the ground from each window. Such knowledge might come in handy, might not. She already knew how; she just didn’t know who. Or where the who was.

  In back there was a small door in the foundation that gave access to the crawl space beneath the house. She studied the ground to make certain there weren’t any footprints in front of the door, then crouched down in front of it; there was a handle, but she didn’t want to touch it and disturb any of the local cops’ evidence. Instead she worked her fingers into the seam until she could pull the thin slab of plywood outward, noting as she did so how the front corner dragged in the dirt. Taking a penlight from her shoulder bag, she directed the light on the ground directly inside the access door. It looked undisturbed, no scrape marks or hand imprints in the dirt.

  The lack of marks reassured her that she was on the right track. Returning the penlight to her bag, she shoved the door back into place.

  “What the hell are you doing in my crime scene?”

  The deep voice, coming from directly behind and above her, shot through her nervous system like a bolt. She jumped, but managed to stifle the shriek that rose in her throat. “Good thing I don’t have a tricky heart,” she said as she stood and turned to face the owner of the voice.

  “Answer the question,” he said, expression hard and blue eyes cold.

  He was broad-shouldered and tall, a good six or seven inches taller than she, and she was five seven. He wore jeans, scuffed boots, and a blue jacket over a white polo shirt. His brown hair was a little on the shaggy side, not quite regulation. Maybe he just hadn’t had time to get a haircut, but maybe he had a little bit of rebel in him.

  At her hesitation he put his left hand on his hip, a deliberate move that opened his jacket and exposed the badge clipped to his belt, as well as the big weapon tucked into his shoulder harness. “If you’re a reporter,” he said, evidently having noticed her camera, “your ass is in big trouble.”

  Just as deliberately, Nikita opened her own jacket, showing him her weapon; then she lifted the flap of her shoulder bag and flashed her badge at him. “Nikita Stover, FBI,” she said, and held out her hand to him.

  His eyebrows lifted, and if anything, he looked even more displeased. “Last time I checked, murder wasn’t a federal charge. What are you doing here?”

  She shrugged and let her hand drop. Things would go better if he was friendly, since he was evidently in charge of the investigation; he’d called this “his” crime scene. This was the tricky part; she just hoped her documentation was good enough that he wouldn’t investigate her. “Following a trail,” she said, and sighed. “There has been a string of attacks targeting attorneys and judges, and we think it’s the same person doing all of them. A federal judge was killed in Wichita last year, remember that? We’re following up on every crime that could be remotely connected, looking for a break, because so far we aren’t having much luck.” She glanced at the house. “Mr. Allen was an attorney, so here I am. I’m not looking to take over your investigation; I was hoping you could help me.”

  The set of those broad shoulders relaxed somewhat, but his eyes remained cold. “So why didn’t you contact me?”

  “You were my next stop. I just wanted to see the house first. I didn’t intend to go inside, and I was careful not to mess up any evidence.” Mentally she took a deep breath, then gave him a little smile and held out her hand. “Let’s try this again. I’m Nikita Stover, FBI.”

  This time he took her hand. His palm was slightly rough, and very warm. “Knox Davis, county chief investigator.”

  A sharp crack split the morning air, and splinters exploded from the wall almost directly behind her. The backyard provided no good shelter and they moved simultaneously, both of them sprinting for the far side of the house. He shoved her ahead of him, sending her stumbling. When she recovered her balance, she flattened herself against the wall, weapon in her hand, though she had no recollection of drawing it.

  He too had his big automatic drawn, pointing upward as he took quick peeks around the corner. “Don’t see a thing,” he said, and grinned as he glanced at her. His blue eyes danced. “Welcome to Peke County.”

  “You think this is funny?” she barked.

  “It’s sure as hell interesting.” His voice held a lazy drawl, as if he couldn’t get too excited about something as mundane as being shot at. “Somebody evidently doesn’t want you here, which makes me wonder how he knew you’d be here at this particular time.” While he talked, he kept taking those quick peeks, and he pulled a radio from his belt. After keying it, he said, “Code 28, 10-00, 2490 West Brockton.” He glanced at her. “The cavalry will be here in a minute.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “Who knew you’d be here?”

  “No one. Not at this location, and not at this time.” A chill went down her spine, because the ramifications of this were about as bad as she could imagine.

  “Someone did. That bullet was aimed at you.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. Considering the angle, either she’d been the target or the shooter had bad aim. Discounting the bad-aim angle, she was forced to confront an ugly conclusion: one of her own was trying to kill her.

  5

  Investigator Davis remained plastered against the side of the house, looking for all the world as if he intended to stay right there until the cavalry, as he termed it, arrived. “Aren’t we going after him?” Nikita asked in frustration, crowding her shoulder against him to nudge him along. She needed to know who had shot at her, and if this mission had perhaps been compromised from the beginning. Was this why McElroy had failed, and Houseman died?

  “I must have forgot to put on my white hat today,” he replied, not looking at her.

  “So you don’t have a hat,” she said, driven almost to snapping because he was making inane remarks instead of doing something. “It isn’t raining.”

  He glanced over at her, an incredulous, slightly baffled expression flitting across his face. “I mean, I’m not wearing my hero hat today. You know, the good guy always wears the white hat? The cowboy?”

  “Got it.” Uh-oh. She should have made the connection, especially since she’d been thinking in cowboy idioms just a short while ago. She cringed inside at the unaccustomed mistake, and her cheeks be