Pamela Clare - Striking Distance

“Sorry to interrupt.” Alex stood. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hall and on your left.” Laura returned to Sophie’s question. “I’m fine, I guess. I was pretty shaken up when I heard. I’m just glad Javier was able to defend himself. If he hadn’t been armed . . .”

She didn’t want to think about that.

“Do they have any idea why this guy tried to shoot him?” Matt asked. “It must be related to the attacks on you, right?”

And Laura remembered that her friends were reporters.

She answered carefully. “We assume so, but we don’t know anything for sure.”

Holly leaned forward, looking gorgeous in a blue and white Prada print suit. “So have you and your sexy SEAL reconnected?”

“Holly!” Sophie rolled her eyes.

Kat looked up from her lunch. “That’s your business, Laura, not ours. Please don’t feel you need to answer.”

Then Laura heard Javier’s voice.

“Hey, get the hell out of here. Are you wearing a wire, man?”

She set her plate on the coffee table and hurried down the hallway to find Javier standing face-to-face with Alex in the doorway to her office, his fists clenched.

“What’s going on?”

“I was sitting at your computer, and he walks in, starts asking questions about the shooting, pretending to give a shit. I look up to find him looking over my shoulder at the files on your desk, and I start asking myself whether he’s just talking to me because he’s your friend or whether he’s trying to grab a quote.”

Laura took one look at Alex, and she knew that was exactly what he’d been doing. She touched a hand to Javier’s arm. “Javier can’t give interviews. You know that. Give me the recorder. Give it to me!”

Javier moved closer, crowding Alex. “You’d better do what the lady asks.”

Alex drew a digital recorder out of his pocket and handed it over. “This is bullshit, Laura. I’m just doing my job.”

It was one thing to wear a digital recorder in an interview. It was another to wear it into someone’s home when no interview was taking place in hopes of stealing a quote or two in the guise of casual conversation.

She scrolled back, deleted the file, then handed it back to him. “I thought you were a friend coming into my home, Alex, not a journalist working a story. I guess I was wrong. You need to leave. Now.”

Alex walked off, muttering profanity.

Laura turned to find the others standing down at the end of the hallway, watching, looks of astonishment on their faces.

“I guess it’s time for us to go,” Alex said.

Sophie glared at him, crossed her arms over her chest. “No, just you.”

Joaquin glared at him. “What the hell were you thinking, man?”

And Laura felt a rush of relief to know that the rest of her friends from the paper hadn’t been a part of Alex’s scheme.

JAVIER AND LAURA had a quiet dinner, did the dishes together, then settled on the couch, Laura’s head resting on Javier’s lap.

“I’m sorry Alex was such a jerk today. In the I-Team meeting this morning he implied that I was keeping information from him—which I suppose I am. I didn’t think he’d join us for lunch only as a pretext to snoop in my office or to try to steal a quote from you. That’s low.”

Javier stroked her hair, the feel of it like silk, being close to her making it impossible for him to feel angry. “The stupid cabrón is lucky I didn’t give him another black eye to match the one he already has.”

“Can you imagine what might have happened if you hadn’t been in my office? He would have been free to look around and read everything. He might have found the FBI file. What would I tell Zach then?”

“Why aren’t you like that? I always say that I can’t stand the media. You’re part of the media, but you’re not like him or that pendejo Gary Chapin.”

“Gary and to some degree Alex live to break a story. It’s not the content of the story that matters to them. It’s the thrill of being first, of winning that race to make news. For me, journalism is about people. It’s about the human element.”

“I guess that’s what sets you apart, why you’re so good at what you do.”

“When I was a new reporter straight out of college, I was sent with a cameraman to a house where a father had just run over and killed his own eighteen-month-old daughter. He’d been pulling out of the driveway on his way to work and didn’t know that she’d gotten outside. She died before they reached the hospital. My job was to stake out the house and try to get an interview with him or the child’s mother.

“When I got there, the place was already surrounded by reporters and photographers. They stood in the driveway, on the sidewalk in front of the house, and spilled into the street. After a few hours, the parents returned from the hospital to find that they couldn’t even get into their own driveway. They ended up having to park down the street and walk through a media gauntlet to their own front door.

“The mother was so grief-stricken she could barely walk. And the reporters—they didn’t seem to care. They kept shouting questions. ‘When did you realize you’d run over your daughter?’ ‘Where were you in the house when you heard that your husband had run over your daughter?’ ‘Did your little girl scream or cry out?’ ‘Was she alive when you discovered her under your vehicle?’

“I was so sick to my stomach, so disgusted, that I didn’t ask a single question. I got back to the station with nothing. I almost got fired that day, but I didn’t care. I made up my mind that night never to accept an assignment that I felt compromised my integrity.”

He ran his knuckles over her cheek, wondering what he’d done to deserve this time with her. “I’ve never known anyone like you, bella.”

His cell phone buzzed.

“Hey, McBride, what’s up?”

“Tower has regained consciousness. You said you wanted to be there when we questioned him. I can have Childers there in ten to watch over Laura if you want to come along.”

“I’ll be ready.”

LIGHT, PAIN, AND noise seemed to crash in on Derek all at once—a steady beep, a mechanical sound like breathing, and voices.

A sea of women’s faces. Were they nurses?

“Is your pain under control?”

“This IV has started to infiltrate. We’re going to insert a new one in your other arm, okay? You’ll feel a little prick.”

“If you don’t stop thrashing, we’re going to have to sedate you!”

He was in the hospital, but he had no idea why. He couldn’t speak, could barely open his eyes. He drifted in and out, lost somewhere between oblivion and a world of clashing sounds and bright, blazing lights.

And then there were other voices, men’s voices.

“I’m Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Zach MacBride, and I need to ask you a few questions about the shooting that put you in this bed. Can you understand me?”

So Derek had been shot. That explained a few things. It must have been bad for him to be in this kind of shape.

He nodded.

“Can you write your name for us?”

He felt a pencil in his hand. He spelled it out—D-E-R-E-K.

He opened his eyes, men’s faces swimming in and out of focus. He thought he recognized them, but he couldn’t remember.

“Can you remember who shot you?”

So he had been shot. Yes, he’d been shot. They’d just told him that.

What was the last thing he remembered before this place?

He’d been waiting. Yes, he’d been waiting in his car. He’d been waiting for someone . . . He’d waited for a long time. He’d had to get there early because he’d wanted to be in position in case anyone showed up.

“Mr. Tower, can you remember who shot you? It’s very important that you try.”

Images slid through his mind. A parking garage. The sky. A building down below. The weapon in his hand.

“Why were you at the parking garage, Mr. Tower?”

A parking garage. Yes, he’d been at a parking garage. He’d been waiting.

“He’s completely out of it. We’re not going to get a damned thing from him.”

“We’ve got to try. In a few minutes, they’re going to send us away. Try to remember, Tower. Remember who shot you, and spell his name.”

Spell his name?

D-E-R-E-K.

“Hey, Tower.” This one sounded angry. “Who tried to kill Laura Nilsson?”

Laura Nilsson.

He felt a spark of adrenaline, his eyes coming open.

The little bitch had refused to meet with him. He’d needed to speak with her about her abduction, to find out whom she’d had contact with in the weeks prior. But she’d gotten a restraining order. She’d thought he was trying to kill her, but it wasn’t him. He needed her. He needed her alive, and so he’d gone to the parking garage.

One second it seemed to make sense, and the next . . .

A man with short, dark hair and angry brown eyes was leaning over him, his hand giving Derek’s an impatient squeeze. “Who tried to kill Laura Nilsson? Spell his name. That same person shot you, man.”

But Derek didn’t know the shooter’s name. He couldn’t even remember his face. So he spelled the first thing that came into his mind.

F-U-C-K Y-O-U.

LAURA KNEW THINGS hadn’t gone well with Derek the moment she saw Javier’s face. “He wouldn’t tell you anything.”

Javier shook his head. “Either he’s still too out of it, or he doesn’t want to cooperate. He managed to write his own name twice and then spelled fuck you.”

The little bubble of hope that Laura had carried inside her since Zach’s call popped. She wanted so much for this to be over. By answering their questions, Tower could have made that happen. “Maybe he’ll be more alert tomorrow.”