Page 5 of Disarming Caine

“I just distracted her.” I withdrew a hand from my pocket to point where a hole had been bored out of the wall. Noting the shake in my hand, I stuffed it away again. “The first bullet impacted here.”

Nearby, a pair of Tyvek-suited officers discussed a grouping of five holes, all within six inches of each other. One held the cutting tool they’d use to remove a segment of the wall around each bullet.

“Given how tightly grouped the other bullets were, I expect the glass deflected the first one,” I said. The first bullet went straight throughNumber Vee. Rhonda had been closer to the tight grouping than the painting. If that first bullet had been with the others, one of us likely would have been hit. “It cracked the window, then the second bullet blew it out. After that, they kept firing as they continued along the street. Couldn’t have been more than ten miles an hour, but still impressive aim considering the brick framing between the two panes.”

One of the forensics officers gave me a once over, taking in my long dress jacket, tall boots, and tied-back hair. She pulled her mask and goggles out of the way. “Sorry, Detective. I didn’t know you were here.”

“These two are from the forensics lab in Lansing, so they don’t know our personnel,” Jimmy said to me before turning to them. “This is one of our witnesses.”

“And the insurance adjuster who’ll take the damaged painting when you’re done with it.” I stepped closer to the hole and stared at Cam-ron’s name plate whereNumber Veehad hung.

The officer with the cutting tool removed his goggles. “Wait a minute. You’re that insurance adjuster from the Scott murder case, aren’t you?”

Before I could respond, Jimmy chimed in. “That she is.”

The female officer’s demeanor changed, her lips tightening. She wasn’t the first to react to me that way. I could almost hear the professional challenge: How dare an insurance adjuster think she could do a police officer’s job? How dare I prove an open-and-shut house fire investigation was the work of an arsonist covering up conspiracy to commit murder and fraud? And how dare I prove it all just so I could deny a claim for a million dollar painting, which was actually a forgery?

But this was work, not a popularity contest. I brushed it all aside. “What’s the timeline for bullet analysis these days?”

She pulled her protection in place. “One day if we’re lucky, more likely two or three. We’ll need to get these wall fragments to the lab and free the bullets before we can send them off to NIBIN for ballistics imaging and cross-reference against other crimes.”

“Thanks.” I nodded, motioning to Jimmy I was done.

“I’ll give ya a call when the painting’s ready to go.” Jimmy held the door open for me, eyes crinkled at their corners. “I’m just happy you’re okay, Sammy. Things like this shouldn’t be happening here.”

I nodded, giving him the most reassuring smile I could. But the words stuck in my throat. What could I say? Rhonda was right—Brenton was a quiet town on the outskirts of Lansing, Michigan. Not even two hours away from Detroit, it was close enough to the big cities to have everything we needed but it never had the everyone-knows-everything vibe. It was small enough that people were safe, neighbors were trustworthy.

Then again, Bobby and Olivia Scott had lived in Brenton. And she’d had him killed.

I nodded at Jimmy and ducked out into the wind. As cold as it had grown inside the gallery without the front windows, it had at least provided some protection from the gusts.

Before I was at the small crowd gathered on the sidewalk, my phone rang. Antonio again. I declined the call, not prepared to talk to him. Every fiber of my body wanted to sink into his arms, but he was five thousand miles away. If I started talking with him about what happened, he’d know I was about to start shaking and crying and wouldn’t be able to stop. All it would take would be one sweet, kind word from him, thinking he was making it better, and instead it would all spill over.

Not in public.

He called right back. Maybe I shouldn’t have programmed his number to bypass my Do Not Disturb. I declined and he called again. He wasn’t taking no for an answer.

I sucked in a deep breath as I reached the crowd, coughing some of the frigid air out. An officer I didn’t know pulled up the police tape for me to leave, and I scooted sideways to get between people, nudging them out of my way. Where had they all come from?

I clenched my jaw and held the phone to my ear. I wouldnottell him what happened yet. “What’s up?”

Antonio spoke quickly. “You said you’d call me when you were done.”

“I…” The two hours before my upcoming site visit had turned into twenty minutes. I had to get going. A work distraction was what I needed. “I lost track of time. I’m busy.”

“Busy.” His tone was flat. Irritated or disappointed, I couldn’t tell. “When will you finish? I need to speak with you.”

Something was off. He was normally charming and oozing with compliments. His speech was relaxed, languid, the thick Italian accent dancing through my brain like the drag of his fingers over my skin. By this time, he should have called me beautiful or wonderful and told me he loved me or missed me. At least twice. This urgency was unlike him.

“Antonio, I have another appointment, so I need to wrap this one up and get over there. My day’s fully booked, right up to dinner at my sister’s. That’s why we had a chat this morning.”

“But this is Saturday!”

“So?” The pricking started behind my eyes as I pushed through the last of the crowd, and I ducked my head down to focus on the sidewalk. “You know I work odd hours. What’s so important?”

He huffed loudly, likely running fingers through his hair. “I need to see your face. I have news.”

“That you can’t tell me by voice?”

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