Bear Claw Lawman

On one level it was a relief to have Gigi—and her probing questions—headed somewhere else. On another, though, her departure sucked the life out of the room, letting the smell crowd closer, until the atmosphere felt thick and cloying, like it was sticking to Jenn’s skin.

“Get a grip,” she muttered. “You wanted to be back working in a crime lab, and you got what you wanted. Now deal with it and do your job.”

It took her nearly an hour to process the main sitting area, where Dennison’s murder had taken place. With the knives, tools and tablecloth all documented, labeled and packed away, she moved into the victim’s bedroom.

This particular crime scene was unusual in that the victim was also on the P.D.’s most wanted list, which meant she wasn’t just looking for evidence that would help them identify his killer, but also anything that might lead them to the other fugitive militiamen…or their leader.

It was a complicated case, both challenging and frustrating.

The cops had already searched the other rooms, but she was seeking less obvious clues. And although the aha moment of an analyst finding exactly the right strand of hair sitting alone on an otherwise pristine carpet was pure Hollywood fiction—the reality was more along the lines of dust bunnies and dead ends—there were occasional aha moments in real life, too.

Her instincts quivered over some papers wadded in a wastebasket next to the bed, and again over a pair of boots lying near the closet as if they’d just been kicked off. They had dirt embedded in the treads…and that was her kind of evidence. Figuring out where the victim had been prior to his death could be very, very useful, and that was just the sort of thing she could do using the soil.

Maybe. Hopefully.

Whistling softly under her breath, she headed out into the main room and crouched down to rummage at the bottom of her kit for a larger evidence bag. The creak of the hallway door behind her shot adrenaline into her system and had her heart bumping, but logically she knew who it had to be.

“Gigi told you to come up here, didn’t she?” Straightening, she turned toward the door. “Well, I’m not ready—”

A man rushed her and slammed a fist into her face.

Pain exploded alongside shock and Jenn reeled back with a scream. Her foot snagged on her evidence kit and she fell. Her heart hammered as she grabbed the kit, tried to roll away, tried to get away, crying, “No! Help! Somebody help me!”

He followed her, wrenched the evidence case from her fingers and then grabbed her by the hair with brutal force. She caught a glimpse of lethal gray eyes and a thin-lipped mouth before he slammed her head into the floor. And the lights went out.

Chapter Three

Nick paused on the landing and stuck his head through the stairwell door for a quick survey of the fourth floor, one level below the victim’s apartment. A couple of doors down, a uniformed officer paused midknock, then relaxed. “Oh. Hey, Nick.”

“Hey, Doanes. Give me some good news.”

But, like his buddies door-to-dooring it on the second and third floors, the cop shook his head. “Sorry, man. I got nothing. Lots of empty apartments, and the few people who’ve answered didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything, and mostly don’t even know the people on their own floor, never mind one up. Merry said she was going to track down the super, though. Maybe she’s got something better.”

“I already talked to her. The super didn’t recognize the vic’s picture, said the apartment belongs to a woman, gave up her name and contact info. Merry got the renter on her cell phone—she was evasive, but eventually fessed up that she’s out of the city on a training assignment, and advertised online for a sublet to offset the bills. Dennison said he’d only be here for a couple of weeks, but he paid her for a whole month. In cash.”

“He was moving around, keeping a low profile like the others,” Doanes observed.

“Seems like it.” Question was, why? And why had he stayed in Bear Claw? What were the Investor and the other remaining members of the militia looking for? And why was the head honcho suddenly taking out his own people? What was going on here?

It felt as if they were chasing their own tails like a bunch of bomb dogs with C-4 strapped to their butts. Shaking his head, Nick continued, “Anyway, looks like the lady who rents the place is a dead end. She dealt with Dennison on the phone, never met him in person, didn’t care what he was doing in town as long as he paid in full.” He paused. “Are the CSIs still up there?”

Doanes shook his head. “I think they’re done. I saw Gigi leaving a little while ago.”

“Thanks.” Nick waved him off. “Catch you later.”

It shouldn’t have mattered to him whether or not the analysts had finished up their preliminary run, just like it shouldn’t have mattered that Jenn had been assigned to the scene. They had crossed paths plenty since the breakup, and had kept it friendly and polite. There shouldn’t be any problem there. Hell, there wasn’t any problem there.

Still, he breathed a little easier as he headed up the next flight of stairs, knowing he’d have the quiet solitude he needed to put himself into the head of Chuckie Dennison—a victim who had also been a killer in his own right. Nick wouldn’t ever know the dead man personally, but for a few minutes—or longer, if necessary—he would do his damnedest to become him, standing in his space, seeing the things he’d thought were important, the things he hadn’t.

Dennison had been a fugitive from both the law and his former boss…but he’d stayed in the city. What was keeping him here? And then the torture. What had the Investor wanted from his former lieutenant? Information, obviously, but what kind? What was the endgame here?

Nick probably wouldn’t get the answers today, of course, but he would absorb everything he could of Dennison’s space, his life, his death. And maybe—if he was damn lucky—get a flash of the kind that sometimes hit him, the sort of lightbulb gotcha that sent him in a new direction, or back down an old one, until he hit pay dirt. All because he’d stood there for ten minutes or an hour, absorbing every detail of a stranger’s life and trying to figure out what made him tick.

The members of his sprawling, affectionate and high-drama family called it method acting and were as proud of his skills as they were baffled by his choices. His bosses were just glad he could do it, and used him as often as they could. And he was okay with that. More than okay with it. He came, he saw, he blended, he helped catch the bad guy and then he moved on again. That was his life, his skill set, and if it meant he’d put some other things on hold, better that than repeating past mistakes.

Now, as he pushed through the door to the fifth floor, he did his damnedest to put himself into the mind of a former member of the Ghost Militia, an ex-con who’d done a stint for aggravated assault and attempted murder, and who had been on the run, aware that the Investor was tracking down his former lieutenants and tearing them open to see what secrets he could find.

The hallway was identical to those on the other floors, with white walls, a red carpet that was starting to go threadbare pink along the traffic pattern and numbered doors leading off on either side. The one difference was that the door on the far end was marked as a crime scene.

Already deep in Dennison’s head—I’m here, nobody followed me, gotta check the apartment first before I can relax, make sure I haven’t been made yet—Nick headed up the hall, senses attuned for the slightest warning of danger to his fugitive self.

Thud. The noise from behind the far door brought him up short and set off all sorts of warning bells—someone was in the apartment!

Where Dennison would’ve done a one-eighty and taken off, though, Nick powered straight ahead with his weapon appearing in his hand without him consciously reaching for it. It was probably one of the cops, he knew, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Especially not when the others were supposed to be canvassing.

He went quiet as he got close to the door, moving almost silently on his lug-soled boots and letting out a breath as there was another thudda-thudda-thud, then a scuffle.

Instincts on overdrive, he twisted the knob, booted open the door and flattened himself against the outside wall for a second. When there was no response, he went in low, leading with his gun. “Freeze! Police!”

In the next moment, two impressions seared his retinas and competed for priority in his head: Jenn lay on the floor, motionless beside a battered chair, near a dark pool of blood he hoped to hell wasn’t hers. And heavy footsteps coming from the back room said she wasn’t alone.

Jenn! The word shouted in his head but didn’t leave his lips. He reached her in two strides, went down on his knees before he knew it, and then had his hands on her for the first time in a month. Her pulse was fast, her breathing shallow, her eyes were closed, the side of her face already reddened and starting to swell. He didn’t see any fresh blood, and the spatter nearby was old and set, but that didn’t change the basic fact: someone had gone after her. And that someone was getting away.

He lunged to his feet, bellowing, “Stop! Police!”

Not that the guy stopped—they never did, and this one was already out the window. Nick knew it even as he cleared the door into the bedroom and heard the traffic, then the feet pounding down the fire escape. “Damn it!”

He stuck his head out, and just barely saw the guy from the back as he bolted around the corner onto the main road. But that was enough to relay the bad news—the guy had a pair of plastic boxes under one arm. He’d taken the evidence kits.

Cursing viciously, Nick holstered his weapon, went for his phone and called it in. But even with “white guy, six-something, dark pants and a suit jacket, carrying a couple of evidence kits” as a description, he didn’t hold out much hope.

Given the head start, though, there was no point in Nick giving chase. Especially not when there was a vic who need medical attention.

Not a vic. Jenn. He had to think of her that way, though. It was the only way he could keep himself steady as he returned to Dennison’s living room, went down beside her once more. He didn’t move her, didn’t dare do anything more than take her hand in his.

She was still unconscious, which wasn’t good. And her left eye was nearly swollen shut, red and puffy. She’d taken a hell of a hit. Maybe more than one.

Anger was a sharp, ugly beast inside him, hammering against his ribs and snarling to be let free. He kept his control, though—that was what made him one of the best at what he did. But he sure as hell didn’t feel like one of the best as he leaned over her. He felt damned helpless, and that was a new feeling.

“There’s an ambulance on the way,” he said, forcing his voice level. “They’ll take care of you, get you back on your feet.”

She would hate this, he knew. She would hate knowing that she’d been out of it, that she’d been the focus of an “officer down” call, taking attention away from the manhunt that even now was forming up down below. And most of all, she would hate knowing he’d been the one to wait with her.

Despite her professionalism, he knew the sharp edges were there, knew she couldn’t possibly be as cool toward him as she came across. There had to be some heat beneath that mask, some anger over the way he’d ended things so abruptly when there’d been the potential for them to keep seeing each other, keep going with the crazy heat they’d made together.

Or maybe that was just him. Maybe she really was that cool, and he was the only one who still took a second some mornings to realize that she wasn’t beside him, wouldn’t ever be there again. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, reaching for his phone. “Where the hell—”

Boot steps thudded in the hallway and Tucker straight-armed the door, face thunderous. “What the hell happened?” He missed a step at the sight of Jenn, down and out of it. He grabbed his radio and snapped, “Where the hell is that ambulance?”