Page 51 of 3rd Tango
“Could be.” Taylor pulls her phone from her purse. “Matt said you saw a painting of a woman named Evelyn?”
Not knowing how much Matt shared about our B and E, I simply nod.
Taylor taps at her screen, then holds it so I can see a photo of a young woman with muddy brown hair. “Is this her?”
19
Charlie
My parents drive me to the office against their wishes.
Mom keeps insisting I go home with them so she could take care of me. Because of the stress of all of this, a lot of crazy emotions have surfaced. I teared up at the hospital when she made the offer, but then realized there was nothing she could do to help me feel better. The only thing that’s going to do that is if I catch the shooter.
And kick his ass.
Yolanda didn’t drop my phone in the waste bin, thank goodness, but she did keep it until the doctor was done with me. While I wiped it off with an alcohol pad as we pulled away from the hospital, I made sure Dad was ultra-aware of anyone who might follow or be waiting at their home. My gut says Mom’s not the target, but if whoever did this wants to get to me, my family is the way to do it.
During the drive, I call Justice Greystone and request security for my parents. He’s sending his bruiser of a former Secret Service agent, Tony, to keep an eye on them.
Meg and Matt are now with Taylor downtown, and Meg texted that they have news regarding Evelyn and her identity. She shared a few details, but I had to read it three times before any of it sank in. The point that stands out to me is Evelyn Jacoby could be our missing link to figuring this damn case out in more ways than one.
Haley channels my mother as soon as I step in the front door. She walks me to my office, offers to get me coffee. My stomach is a mess, so she brings me a cup of Meg’s chamomile tea instead. She asks what else she can do for me, and for a long moment, I’m at a loss for words.
Focus on the shooter. Means, motive, opportunity.
I thank Haley and send her back to her desk. Under my tough veneer, I secretly wonder why I didn’t fill the prescription the doctor offered. My cheek throbs and I gently probe the stitches. Damn, that hurts.
My attention is definitely wandering, the physical aches and pains from the crash creeping into every joint. A touch of whiplash is setting up in my neck, making it tight.
Unfortunately, pain medicine and I don’t get along. It would only make my head fuzzier, and right now, that’s the last thing I need.
As if she reads my mind, Haley appears with an ice pack from our modest kitchen cubby. “It was keeping my lunch chilled.”
“You’re a lifesaver. Give yourself a raise.”
Her smile does me good. “Putting it on my agenda right now.”
JJ texts to tell me he has the DNA analysis and is on his way to the hospital. I reply, rerouting him to SI, and a moment later he launches into a lecture about my health and being a workaholic. I hold the ice pack against the back of my neck and close my eyes. He’s right, but there’s too much swirling in my head to rest.
For several long moments, I focus only on breathing. It works for Meg when she has a panic attack. Unfortunately, my mind refuses to cooperate, and I know the only way to clear it is to write it all down. Standing, I snag the mug of tea, even though I hate the taste, and roll my shoulders before heading to the conference room.
On the way, I stick Haley’s ice pack in our freezer. I may need it for my cheek in a while.
My legs feel like Jell-O and my hands shake as I stand in front of the whiteboard. I can barely get the cap off one of the markers, and heated embarrassment—even though I’m alone—rushes into my face when I nearly topple over from the effort. I take more deep breaths and lean on the table, forcing my brain to slow and my body to ignore the lightheadedness coursing through it.
After thirty seconds or so, I get a second wind. I’m grateful when my legs hold steady and the dizziness doesn’t rush back as I step to the board.
Who is the shooter?I write it at the top left corner, draw a line under it, and start making notes in three columns.
Means. Motive. Opportunity. I separate each into its own section.
I start with the obvious: Alfonzo Baez – means (certainly knows how to handle a gun). Opportunity (dropped Mom off only minutes before, so he was in the area). Motive (figured out I’m investigating his time with the Bureau? Is that strong enough reason to shoot me?)
Gayle Morton – means (can he shoot a rifle and successfully hit a moving target?) Motive (from the break-in? Seems an extreme reaction unless he’s truly a criminal who’s realized we’re on to him). Opportunity (need to find out where he was at time of shooting).
I add the last one: Unknown Suspect tied to other case. I mentally review the different investigations I’m working, but don’t find any solid leads.
In fact, all of these suspects are weak, yet my fuzzy brain keeps niggling at me. I don’t believe for a moment the shooting is tied to one of my other cases—no one involved fits the profile of a killer. Maybe that’s wishful thinking, and the psychologist inside reminds me I haven’t dug deeply enough into the suspects in those embezzlement and fraudulent medical claims cases. Either could be more than they appear on paper.
