Dangerous Testimony

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ONE (#u506f236f-e42f-5331-ba20-9ece899d158b)

A loud pop.

The flash of the gun.

A man’s body crumpling to the unforgiving cement. Not a man, a boy, barely old enough to shave, by the looks of him. A boy, somebody’s son, gone in the split second it took to pull the trigger. He’d had brown eyes and full cheeks, maybe the kind that dimpled when he smiled, like her daughter Tracy’s. But he would never smile again.

Candace Gallagher Andrews blinked the memory away for the thousandth time. “It’s over,” she told herself fiercely. “He’s dead and they arrested the shooter four months ago, so let it go and do your job, you ninny.”

The incident had left her with a lingering echo of fear, a feeling she detested. After a few slow breaths, she stowed her iPad in her bag, locked the car and straightened her suit jacket. She’d found a parking place three blocks from the college. Though it was broad daylight in a very public place, she hurried anyway, eager to be enveloped by the safety of others. “Maybe you should have let Marco come,” she muttered under her breath. He had all but insisted in that pushy way of his.

Typical Marco. The former navy SEAL and longtime family friend sorted everything and everyone into precisely two camps: friendlies and enemies. She’d made enemies when she agreed to testify against Kevin Tooley, a member of the Wolf Pack, the murderer who’d gunned his rival down right in front of her. But she’d had no choice. If she let the shooter go unpunished, what kind of person was she? What kind of mother? Backing down would not show the honor and courage her husband, Rick, would have modeled for their daughter before his death.

“It’s a presentation at a community college,” she’d proclaimed with some bravado. “I’ll be perfectly safe, and besides, you scare people.”

Marco continued to be a rock in so many ways as things had gone from bad to worse for the Gallaghers. Their father’s death was just the beginning of the family trials as the Gallagher sisters encountered one frightening scenario after another, until the most recent, when Candace had witnessed the shooting outside a gas station. At least her seven-year-old daughter had not been with her. God had spared them that. Tracy’s life had been impacted enough by violence already. Half a world away, in Afghanistan, it had robbed Tracy of her father, and Candace of the only man she’d ever loved—goofy, patient, faithful Rick.

Candace walked the last two blocks, the Southern California sun flushing her cheeks, even in the month of October. Dumb idea to wear a suit jacket in Long Beach, but the tan color complemented her brown eyes and made her feel professional, in the same way mashing her curly hair into a chic twist had done. Teaching a session on investigation techniques to eager criminal justice majors was just the thing to promote the company and keep her mind off the upcoming trial preparations.

It was late morning, and she was surprised to see very few people ambling along. A car crept slowly by, and she froze for moment, clutching her bag, recoiling in spite of herself. Would the tinted glass roll down in a thunderous explosion of bullets? Her heart hammered against her ribs as the window slowly lowered.

“Do you know where the post office is?” the elderly driver asked.

Candace pushed the words through her dry mouth. “Another block down, make a left. You can’t miss it.”

The car drove away, and Candace stood there, breathing hard, feeling ridiculous beyond words. Was this fear ever going to go away? Probably not until the trial was over. She’d just have to do her best to keep it in check. Her sister Angela, who was dealing with PTSD from her service as a navy chaplain in Afghanistan, told her it would take time to heal.

Time Candace would rather spend taking care of Tracy and working as a private investigator.

Nearing the school boosted her confidence. She straightened her shoulders and held her head high. As she crossed the narrow alley, tires squealed and her attention was drawn to a car slamming to a halt, someone flinging the passenger door open. This time it was not her imagination. She vaguely recognized the face, the driver of the car who had stopped just long enough at the gas station to allow his passenger to kill a young boy. He had managed to elude the police.

It was him, all right, and his intent was clear.

Run, her mind screamed. Run or die.

* * *

Marco ground his teeth in frustration. Traffic resulted in such a delay that he’d not been able to insert himself into Candace’s outing to Long Beach.

He shot a glance at the big dog sprawled in the passenger seat, happily oblivious to traffic or anything else. Bear was happily oblivious to most everything, unless he was taking direction from Marco. Then it was another matter entirely for the black-and-tan Malinois. Marco had worked with a fellow SEAL one time who was just like that. Most relaxed guy you’d ever see...unless he was on a mission. Then he was a force to be reckoned with...and surrendered to.

Marco was hungry, and annoyed that Candace had not listened to him. What was it about women that made them constantly disregard his advice? He’d served in eight SEAL Platoons, was platoon chief in five, and awarded the Navy and Marine Corps Medal for Heroism, but could he get any woman anywhere to listen?

And the Gallagher sisters, Sarah, Angela, Donna and now Candace, were trouble magnets. After Sarah’s recent kidnapping and Angela’s life-and-death struggle in Cobalt Cove, he felt like snapping GPS trackers around the Gallagher sisters’ wrists whether they liked it or not. At least Donna had the Coastie keeping an eye on her when he wasn’t on duty, and Sarah had Dominic Jett, a kid with guts enough to be an explosive ordinance technician before he’d gotten injured. And Angela was planning to marry the doctor. Marco huffed. Dr. Dan was okay for a civilian, he had to admit, but still. Wasn’t like the guy had ever handled a grenade launcher or an assault rifle or anything.

Part of him had to smile at the way the Gallaghers bested him on a regular basis. Though he’d never admit it to any of them, he admired their spirit, even though they drove him to distraction.

Creeping along, he finally found street parking opposite the campus and dialed Candace’s cell phone. She didn’t answer.

He sent her a text, big fingers fumbling over the tiny buttons. Here.

No reply, so he reached for the door, hand freezing in place as he caught sight of Candace fleeing down the alley and a dude in baggy pants with a backward baseball cap running after her.

“Bear,” he said, as he leaped from the driver’s seat.

The dog sat up, ears swiveling.

“Time to go to work.”

* * *

Candace sprinted down the alley, which led to a small parking lot behind the school. There had to be a back door where she could get into the building, or a late arriving student whose attention she could attract. Breath coming in pants, she dodged behind a parked compact car and tried to calm her thudding heart so she could listen.

She tried desperately to focus. Had she heard the sound of running feet? She slid a hand in her bag to rummage for her phone, but the cell had slipped to the bottom and she couldn’t lay her fingers on it. Oh, why hadn’t she cleaned out her bag like she’d been meaning to? Should she run to the building or wait for help? Neither option was attractive.

Come on, come on, she pleaded silently. Somebody come along. It’s a public building. Where’s the public? The squeak of sneakers made her skin erupt in goose bumps. Peering under the car, she couldn’t see the location of her pursuer.

A smattering of litter had collected along the periphery of the lot, and a brown rat was padding its way through the mess. In the far corner of the parking lot she heard the familiar beep of a car lock being activated.

Hope rising, she peeked up over the hood to see a tall, lanky young man in a sweat jacket striding toward the building. She ached to call to him, but again the fear left her mute. Stay hidden or get help? Which one, Detective Candace? Seconds ticked by until she let her instincts take over. Darting from behind the car, she ran toward him. “Help,” she yelled. “Help me.”

He did not turn.

“Help!” she cried, throwing aside all attempt at caution, waving her arms and hollering. “Please.”