“There’s time for that later.” She ran her fingers through his short, dark hair and got off the couch, settling back in her easy chair, her feet curled underneath herself.

“Sounds like a good plan,” Jake said, looking at his watch. “But right now, I have to give the other love of my life a rubdown. She gets lonely without me.”

Annie laughed. She didn’t mind playing second fiddle to a car. After all, it was a 1986 Pontiac Firebird, and even though she wasn’t much for cars, she was first to admit, it was a beautiful machine.

Jake stood. “I’ll give it a quick polishing and be back soon. It got spotted from the rain this afternoon. Should’ve parked it in the garage.”

“Bring back some oil with you.”

“Oil?”

She pointed a thumb toward the office. “My chair squeaks.”

He nodded and Annie watched him leave. She went to the kitchen, fixed herself a cup of hot chocolate, and carried it to the living room. She settled back into her chair, sipped the drink, and picked up her book. It was nice to have some peace and quiet for a change, just her and her family.

She grimaced when she heard a roar from the adjoining garage. Jake was warming up the Firebird. There goes the quiet, but at least it was still peaceful.

And peace was what she needed. The previous week had been a hectic nightmare, its frightening events still fresh in her mind, and she looked forward to a week without vicious killers, violent criminals, and treacherous thieves.

Chapter 3

Monday, 8:19 p.m.

FOR THE FIRST time in weeks, Detective Hank Corning had been able to skip off work a few minutes early. The small Canadian city was growing, and his post as head of Richmond Hill’s robbery/homicide division kept him busy as crime grew along with the city.

Hank had used the opportunity to take his ever-patient girlfriend, Amelia, out to an early dinner at Tommy Tomatto’s, a little Italian buffet, and one of their favorite places to dine. They had just returned to her house and snuggled up in front of the television when his cell phone rang.

Hank’s deep-brown eyes narrowed at the news. There was a homicide, their tranquil evening interrupted.

He sighed and stood up, brushed a hand through his short-cropped hair, and called his sometimes partner, Detective Simon King, arranging to meet him at the scene. Though Hank preferred to work alone, his growing workload required him to depend more and more on King. The unkempt cop wouldn’t have been Hank’s first choice for a partner, but the captain had insisted.

The scene was a hub of activity as Hank approached. First responders had immediately cordoned off the street in front of a pair of shops. Three cruisers, their lights flashing, parked outside the yellow tape, the forensic van close by. Other cars were stopped at haphazard angles. Orange cones, wooden barriers, and a cop at each end of the area, detoured the sparse traffic to other avenues.

An officer waved Hank through. He parked beside a cruiser and glanced across the street. King was already there, sitting in his vehicle. As Hank crossed over, the greasy-haired cop stepped out and shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn-out jeans. “What took you so long?”

Hank disregarded the question and turned toward the crime scene. A 2010 Corolla sat in the center of the taped-off area, parked awkwardly in the middle of the street, its passenger side door hanging open. The interior light of the vehicle still shone, and its headlights cast streaks of white light down the asphalt. The engine was still running.

The empty vehicle stood in front of Master Footwear, a shoe store boasting half-price sales year round. Beside it, Nortown Bakery sat with a darkened interior, its backlit overhead sign glowing.

A narrow alleyway between the two shops was the center of attention. Remote area lighting was set up, bringing the brightness of daylight to the entire sealed off area as well as the alley and the rear of the buildings.

Investigators processed the scene, a painstaking job and a massive undertaking considering the extent of the area.

It was going to be a long night for CSI.

The detectives approached lead crime scene investigator, Rod Jameson. “Evening, Rod,” Hank said, and King grunted.

At six foot two, the investigator looked down a couple of inches at Hank and pointed toward the deserted car in the center of the street. A deep, hollow voice came out of his thin frame. “It looks like the action started over there.” He swung around and pointed to the alleyway. “And ended over there. The body’s in that alley.” He consulted a clipboard. “Victim has been ID’ed as Werner Shaft and this vehicle is registered in his name.”

They followed him to the idling car. Hank circled around, taking note of the bullet hole in the driver side window, the broken taillight, and the open passenger side door.

King crouched down and examined the street. “Looky here, Hank.”

Hank glanced to where the detective pointed.

King continued, “Those skid marks look fresh. It appears there might’ve been a second vehicle that made a quick stop, heading south.” He pointed to the car. “And those skid marks indicate this one was heading south as well, then the driver hit the brakes and spun around.”

“And the shooter was in the unknown vehicle,” Hank said. “Makes sense.”

“You can see by the skid marks, the vehicles were in adjoining lanes, probably side by side when the shot through the driver side window occurred.”

“Then the victim stopped quick and spun around,” Hank said. “He then exited through the passenger door in an attempt to get away, leaving the vehicle running.”

“And the assailant stopped a few feet later.”

Hank brought King’s attention to the broken taillight. “It looks like a shoot-out ensued, then the victim ran across the street and down the alley.”

“He didn’t get far,” Rod said. “There were three shots to the victim before he was brought down. There’s no way to tell how many might’ve missed their target.”

“We’d better go take a look,” Hank said.

The medical examiner, Nancy Pietek, had finished her preliminary examination when Hank and King approached the body of the victim.

Nancy turned her always cheerful, round face upwards. “It’s another lovely evening, Hank.”

“Wonderful,” Hank said, and looked down at the body. It lay face up, a gaping wound in the middle of the forehead. Blood pooled under the abdomen and soaked into the gravel below. A semi-automatic pistol lay near his right hand.

“What can you tell me, Nancy?”

Nancy stood up, straightening her short, pleasantly rounded frame, and craned her neck up at Hank. “It appears the cause of death was a GSW to the head by a small caliber weapon. Gunshot residue on the victim indicates it was fired from a distance of eighteen to twenty-four inches. No more than that.”

“So the killer was face to face with the victim when he fired the final shot,” Hank said.

“It appears so,” Nancy said, turning her eyes back to the body. “There are also two more gunshot wounds, one to the left shoulder, entering the deltoid muscle from the rear at approximately a forty-five degree angle. Exited at the front. Not fatal. No residue.”

“And the other?” Hank asked.

Nancy crouched again and rolled the body halfway over. She pointed to a large blood-covered area at the back of the victim’s shirt. “GSW here, almost dead center of the back, through the spinal cord. There’s no exit wound, so the bullet’s probably lodged somewhere inside the body, possible in the lung or heart area.”

Hank crouched down beside Nancy. “Gunshot residue?”

“No. No residue, but given the area and severity of the wound, a shot like that would’ve brought him down.”