The Perfect Victim Read online

  "Ma'am?"

  Addison started at the sound of the voice and turned to face the man who'd approached her. He wore a nicely-cut suit, and she knew immediately he was a police detective. She guessed him-to be in his mid-forties. He had the beginnings of a paunch and short brown hair that was thinning at the top, graying on the sides. His hands were small and pudgy, fast-moving because he was excited. Bright blue eyes were red-rimmed as if he were prone to allergies. He was staring at her, his expression an odd combination of type-A impatience and shabbily concealed male appreciation.

  "I'm Detective Adam Van-Dyne." He offered a handshake.

  Uttering her name, she raised her hand to his. "Are you in charge?" she asked.

  "I'm the primary." Grimacing, he looked toward the damaged bar. "You own this place?"

  ''What's left of it."

  "You look like you could use a chair and something to drink."

  She nodded and allowed him to guide her to a nearby bistro table. He pulled out a chair and she sank into it, aware that a bullet had taken a chunk of wood out of the backrest.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  Leaning forward, she closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. "Jesus, it doesn't seem real. It happened so fast."

  "That's the way it goes sometimes. Takes a while for something like this to sink in."

  Addison recounted the shooting in a low, raspy voice that didn't sound at all like her own. By the time she finished, her hands were shaking so badly she could barely grip the cup of water a uniformed policeman had brought her.

  Van-Dyne leaned back in his chair and flipped through the pad where he'd jotted notes. ''The convenience store two streets over got hit last week," he said. ''Thug got about a hundred bucks and change."

  "Was anyone hurt?" she asked.

  "No, but he shot up the place." The' detective looked around her shop. "Similar M.O."

  "You think it's the same guy?"

  "Probably." He toyed with the napkin holder on the table between them. "A witness reported seeing a chrome pistol. Suspect wore a black coat. Ski mask."

  ''That's him."

  "This guy's good at what he does. Doesn't leave anything behind."

  "You mean like fingerprints?"

  "Or anything else."

  "Hell of a way to make a living." Spotting the shattered Italian bowl at her feet, Addison leaned forward, picked up the biggest piece, and put it on the table between them. "You hear about crimes every day on TV, people being hurt, lives ruined, but it's different when it happens to you."

  The detective looked at the broken piece of ceramic "You're lucky, Miss Fox. This could have turned out much worse."

  "There was less than eight hundred dollars in that bank bag, Detective. I like to think my life is worth more than eight hundred dollars." She knew there had been more horrible crimes committed for less, but it frightened her to know how little value criminals placed on human life.

  "If it's any consolation, he didn't get the money," he said.

  Her gaze snapped to his. Something inside her stirred, a foreboding that had her gripping the mug with white-knuckled hands. She distinctly remembered Randall tossing the bag over the counter. "Are you sure?"

  "The money bag was on the floor in front of the bar." He shot an annoyed look over his shoulder where Randall sat at a bistro table talking to another detective. "Guess the lone ranger over there scared him off before he could take the bag."

  Van-Dyne pulled his business card out of his wallet and put it on the table between them. "If you think .of anything else, give me a call. If I'm not at the station, you can leave a voice message."

  After the detective left her, Addison sat alone at the table, watching the chaos, wishing she wasn't the one right in the center of it. A sick sense of dread twisted through her as she assessed the damage. Bullet holes peppered the front of the bar. A hole the size of a dime marred the facade of the antique cash register. Atop the counter, two glass canisters filled with some of the rarest coffees in the world had been shattered. Dark beans were spilled onto the floor like loose gravel.

  Suddenly tired, she lowered her face into her hands and closed her eyes. Her refuge had been invaded. A place where she'd always felt safe. A place she'd built with her own two hands. A place that defined who she was, and where she fit into an increasingly complex world.

  She struggled to put what was left of her control into play. The last thing she wanted to do was break down. She refused to play the role of helpless victim. It was her anger that saved her from it. A deep, burgeoning fury that kept her mind working when it wanted to shut down, her eyes dry when she wanted to cry.

  "Christ, it looks like Bonnie and Clyde happened by."

  She started at the sound of the newly familiar voice. Raising her head, she found Randall Talbot taking in the scene around him with the nonchalance of a cop. He looked right at home among the bedlam as if getting shot at was a routine part of his day. A fact that irked her despite the reality that he'd saved her life.

  "You okay?" he asked, taking the chair across from her.

  "No," she snarled. "Dammit, I'm not okay."

  "I guess I'm not the only one who takes it personally when people start shooting at me. At least you're not in shock. That's good."

  "I didn't mean to snap at you," she said. "I just feel so . . . violated. This is my shop. Mine." She rapped her fist against her chest. "I deserve to feel safe here. He had no right to take that away from me."

  "No, he didn't."

  "The worst part about this is that he'll probably get away with it."

  "Maybe, but he won't soon forget. He just about got his ass shot off."

  She tried to smile, failed miserably, and ended up staring at the tabletop between them. "You saved my life."

  "I saved my own ass. You just happened to be there."

  Her gaze flew to his. "No. I saw the way you put yourself between me and that gun. If you hadn't been here, he would have—"

  ''Take my advice and don't play the what-if game. It sucks, and you lose every time."

  "Maybe. But I just want you to know. What you did. It matters to me." A breath shuddered out of her when she realized she meant it.

  He didn't look happy at the prospect of her gratitude and cut her a hard look. "I'm no hero, Ace. You'd be wise to .remember that."

  Chapter 6

  Randall stood at the bar and watched Denver’s finest walk through the shattered front door, leaving Addison to worry about securing what was left of her shop. Just like a cop, he thought sourly. They see too much, too often, and they become immune.

  Just like you, a bitter voice added.

  He looked at the woman behind the bar and felt his chest tighten. She was clutching a yellow mug as if it were her last link to the world. Two hours had passed since the shooting, but her face was still the color of bleached flour. She looked shaky at best, close to shock if he wanted to be truthful about it. He figured the least he could do was patch the broken pane of glass in that front door before he left.

  “I've got some plywood and power tools in my truck," he said.

  Her eyes traveled to the door. Cold air and the sound of traffic crept in where the glass had been blasted out by gunfire. Broken glass sparkled like diamonds on the floor. “I don't remember the glass breaking."

  "Ricochet probably."

  She ran a trembling hand through hair that looked incredibly soft beneath the yellow light of the tulip lamp overhead. Annoyed that he'd noticed something so irrelevant, Randall strode to the door and went outside. Standing curbside, next to his Jeep, he wrapped his carpenter's belt around his hips and pulled a single sheet of plywood from the bed. Good thing for Addison he was still carrying around the materials he'd bought for Jack's ramp. In the back of his mind he wondered how long his brother's patience would hold.

  Something about the shooting nagged him as he contemplated how best to patch the large oval pane. There was a detail that unsettled him, but he wasn't
sure if he should share it with her. He didn't want to upset her any more than she already had been tonight, but the implications of not telling her seemed much more disturbing. Holding that thought, he lugged the plywood to the door.

  A few minutes later, Addison joined him.

  He stopped working. "Any idea who might have been shooting at you?" he asked. "Ex-boyfriend, overzealous customer, anything like that going on?"

  She looked appalled by the notion. "Van-Dyne seemed to think it was an attempted robbery. What makes you think it wasn't?"

  Her voice was shaking again, and he didn't like the way she was trembling beneath that coat. But knowing her safety was at stake, he tamped down on the urge to back off. "Don't you find it odd that this so-called robber didn't take the bank bag?" he asked.

  "You mean the one you just about hit him with? How ungrateful of him."

  Randall stared at her, unable to shake the feeling that there was more going on than either of them had considered. "Why did you need a private detective?"

  "I told you. I was searching for my birth parents."

  "You found them?"

  A minute jerk of her shoulders told him he'd hit a nerve. Her gaze dropped to the sidewalk. "My attorney, Jim Bernstein, located my birth mother in Ohio. A few days ago I flew up and ..." She crossed her arms protectively in front of her. "When 1 got there 1 found out she was dead. She'd been ... murdered."

  Uneasiness rippled through him. "Murdered," he repeated, trying in vain to ignore the nagging little internal voice chanting I told you so like a mantra. He was suspicious by nature and didn't care for coincidence any more than he cared for someone taking potshots at him.

  "How long ago was she murdered?" he asked.

  "A little over three weeks."

  He wondered what this rather benign woman had managed to get herself into. “Maybe you should start at the beginning and tell me everything."

  "You think what happened tonight is somehow related to—”

  "I don't think anything at this point. I just want to hear the story.”

  "Okay." She sucked in a deep, shaky breath and began to speak. Randall listened intently as she relayed to him the details of her search for her birth parents and her recent trip to Ohio.

  Using a circular saw, he cut the plywood in half, carried the larger piece to the Jeep, and shoved it into the rear bed. At the front door, he fitted the remaining piece over the broken pane and pulled a nail from his carpenter's belt.

  "Do you know of any reason why someone might want to hurt you? Any arguments over money? Angry boyfriends? A stalker?" Even as he said the words, he felt his protective instinct kicking in. Resisting it, he drove the nail through the plywood with three even strokes of the hammer.

  "You're purposefully trying to frighten me," she said.

  "I'm asking questions that need to be asked."

  "I lead a boring life, Talbot. I don't have any enemies. No deep, dark secrets. And I've never been part of the KGB or Colombian cartel, in case you're wondering. Satisfied?"

  "What about family? Work? The shop here? Anyone been hitting on you recently? You piss anyone off?"

  "Look, just because the robber didn't take the money doesn't mean I'm on some kind of a hit list. If you're that desperate for customers maybe you ought to put an ad in the Yellow Pages."

  He drove another nail through the wood. How the hell could he tell her, without scaring her half to death, that he believed someone had tried to kill her tonight? Hit her with 'the truth. he supposed. She was too damn stubborn to be affected by something watered down.

  Hooking the hammer over his belt, Randall turned to her and took a step closer. "The shooter was carrying a Walther TPH .22 pistol. Designed for close range, very expensive, and deadly as hell. The coat he was wearing cost more than you make in a month. He didn't so much as look at the cash register. He didn't ask for money. Not once did he point the pistol in my direction despite the fact that I was about to blow him to kingdom come." Frustrated by the whole damn scenario, Randall gave her a harsh look. "How do you explain that?"

  She paled all the way down to her lips. "Maybe he was high on drugs. Maybe he changed his mind at the last minute—”

  "Maybe he tried to blow your damn head off." With the plywood securely nailed to the door, he strode to his truck and tossed the carpenter's belt into the rear.

  She held her ground at the door.

  Her reluctance to listen to him was beginning to annoy him. No skin off his back. He didn't owe her a damn thing. If he was smart, he'd get in his truck, drive away, and never look back.

  "Do you have someone to look after you tonight?" he asked.

  She stared at him defiantly. "I don't need anyone—”

  "You wake up screaming and you're not going to want to be alone." He hadn't meant for the words to come out so harshly, but they had. He was irritated with himself, annoyed with her, and downright pissed off by the turn of events that had him in a position he didn't want to be in. Dammit, he didn't want to be responsible for her tonight.

  "I hate to ruin your image of me, tough guy, but I don't fall into the hysterical female category." She opened the door, casting him a frigid look over her shoulder. "Send me a bill for the door."

  Before she could close it, he planted his booted foot in the jamb. "We're not finished."

  "Yes, we are." She glared at him through the gap. An angry cat protecting her den from a prowling tom.

  He bit back a nasty comeback. He wasn't sure why, but he wanted inside. With her. Right now. "You shouldn't be alone tonight."

  "I do alone really well, Talbot. You should try it sometime. Builds character." She shoved at the door, squeezing his toes together uncomfortably. "You need it.”

  "Did you tell Van-Dyne about your birth mother's murder?" he growled.

  Uncertainty climbed into her eyes. "I didn't think it was pertinent." Her gaze narrowed. "What's your point? It's two o'clock in the morning. I'm cold and tired, and I want to go home."

  Randall studied her soft features and decided she really didn't have a choice but to listen to him. He wasn't leaving. For reasons beyond his good judgment, he was feeling protective of her, "You were going to hire me to find your birth mother, weren't you?"

  "Were being the operative word. You know, past tense. As in, it's not going to happen."

  "I'm a P.I. I could look into this for you."

  "You're a bully. I'll take my chances with the guy in the ski mask."

  He squashed down his temper. "You're not the only one who got shot at tonight, for chrissake."

  That stopped her. She relaxed her grip on the door."You're serious about this, aren't you?"

  "I'm not standing out here in the cold because I like your smart mouth. And if I merely wanted to jump your bones I'd find a different approach." He almost smiled when her cheeks colored. At least she wasn't pale anymore.

  "I'm glad you're at least smart enough to know that would be a waste of time for both of us." She moved away from the door, giving him room to pass. "You're wrong about this."

  "I hope so." He stepped inside, the victor in a tiny war, but one of great importance. "Lock up and I'll take. You home."

  * * *

  Addison held a match to the gas logs and watched the flame erupt. She was chilled, inside and out, and couldn't seem to warm herself despite the thick sweater she'd pulled over her shoulders.

  Randall Talbot sat at the dining room table, a large mass of male looking inordinately out of place in her tidy apartment. A lock of dark hair fell onto his forehead as he scrutinized one of the documents in the file she'd compiled during her, search for her birth parents.

  She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a man in her apartment. Perhaps her disastrous date with the stockbroker she'd met at her shop last year. He'd been old enough to be her father and possessed the I.Q. of a teenager and the manners of an oversexed gorilla in heat. A single, rather 'unforgettable date, and she'd sworn off men indefinitely. That had been over a yea
r ago, and she'd yet to miss them.

  Tossing the spent match into the fire, she turned and contemplated her guest. He was not handsome in the conventional sense. There was a roughness in his appearance, an uncouthness in his manner, a vague restlessness in the way he moved. He was baseline male with a mouth that was too harsh and a nose as crooked as his smile. But his eyes, she decided, took command of a face that was less than perfect. They were striking, expressive pools of onyx that saw too much and divulged too little. Dangerous eyes that could slash as effortlessly as they caressed.