The Cop. Cara Summers
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his gun.
No one. The space was small and lined with cupboards. Shots had been fired all right. A mirror had been splintered and so had a doorjamb. The body at his feet was lying in a pool of blood. Keeping his gun aimed at the open door leading to the altar, he squatted down and checked for a pulse. None. The dead man was large, with the kind of build that required regular maintenance and custom-made suits. His tie was silk, his shoes expensive-looking. He was also holding a Glock in his right hand. Bodyguard or hired gun?
This wasn’t going to be the only body. Nik was certain of that. Sirens sounded in the distance as he rose and moved into the doorway that opened onto the altar. Once more he fanned his gun, taking in the choir loft that ran along both the sides and the back of the church.
Nothing. Then he moved toward the body of the priest that lay behind the altar. This time he found a pulse—weak but steady. From what he could see, the blood was coming from a shoulder wound. Pulling off his shirt, he ripped it in half, then fashioned a pressure bandage. He’d just satisfied himself that he’d slowed the bleeding when the priest’s hand closed over his wrist.
“Pro…tect.”
Nik leaned closer. “Don’t try to talk, Father. An ambulance is on the way.”
“Protect…them.”
The words carried only a thread of sound. “Protect who?”
“Bride,” the priest breathed, tightening his grip on Nik’s wrist. “Ju…liana Ol…iver.”
The pricking sensation in Nik’s thumbs grew very sharp. “And the groom?”
“Paulo…” the priest gasped. “Carlucci. Grave danger.”
Dread formed a cold hard ball in Nik’s gut. He recognized the names—and if there was ever a pair of star-crossed lovers, Juliana Oliver and Paulo Carlucci had to be it. If his memory served him correctly, Juliana was young, still in her teens, and Paulo couldn’t be much more than that. Nik couldn’t imagine how they’d even met. The Oliver and Carlucci families had a bitter rivalry that went back over fifty years, to a time when both families had ties to organized crime. Since then, both the Olivers and the Carluccis had become rich and influential by running legitimate businesses, but the rivalry was just as bitter as it had been three generations back. They refused to even appear in public together.
Of course, San Francisco was reaping great benefits. If the Carluccis donated a pediatric wing to a hospital, the Olivers, not to be outdone, would build a new aquarium. Recently, the feud had been freshly stoked by a lucrative land deal—a still pristine stretch of beach along the California coastline that both families had bid on. For the past week, the papers had been hinting that the Olivers had clinched the deal.
“Help…them.” The priest’s eyes drifted shut. “Choir…loft.”
“Hang on, Father,” Nik murmured.
A sudden noise from the sacristy behind him had him raising his gun and whirling. The uniform in the doorway had his gun raised, too. He was young, a rookie, Nik surmised. They’d each lowered their weapons by the time the young man’s partner appeared in the doorway.
Nik spoke to the young officer. “I want you to stand in the walkway and keep everyone but EMTs out.”
“There’s another squad car—they’re coming in through the front of the church,” the older officer said.
Nik gave him a nod. “Come here. I need you to put pressure on the wound until the EMTs arrive.” Once he had the officer in position, Nik rose and started off the altar. He paused when he spotted a cell phone lying on the marble floor a few feet away. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, “When the crime-scene guys arrive, tell them to bag this cell phone.” Then he hurried down the aisle. Two more uniforms waited for him in the vestibule. One was kneeling over a man’s body. Nik tried to ignore the sensation in his thumbs as he noted the gun in the man’s hand and the twisted position of the body. Moving quickly, he squatted down and confirmed what he already knew. The man lying to the side of the circular staircase was Roman Oliver.
“Alive or dead?” Even as he asked the question, he rested his fingers lightly against Roman’s throat. Relief shot through him when he detected the pulse.
“He’s breathing, but unconscious,” one uniform replied. “No bullet wound. But his gun’s been fired. Looks like he took a bad tumble down the stairs.”
“Either that or he fell over the railing,” the other cop said.
Even as his mind raced, Nik managed a nod. Roman Oliver was the bride’s older brother and even though he usually kept his temper under control, Nik had seen it flare on occasion. The dread in his gut grew colder. Not only had Roman been Kit’s best friend since college, but he’d helped Theo out when he’d first opened his own law office. And six years ago, Roman had saved his sister Philly’s life. She’d wanted to take Nik’s sailboat out by herself. Roman, who’d been with them at the cabin that weekend, had been the only one to object, and he’d insisted on going with her. When the sudden squall had come up and the boat had capsized, Roman had gotten her to shore.
All the Angelises figured they owed him for that.
Pushing that thought aside, Nik forced himself to think like a cop. As the next in line to take over the Oliver business interests, he figured that Roman wouldn’t have been happy about his sister’s wedding. In fact, he might have done anything to prevent it.
Still crouched down, he glanced around the area. The space beneath and behind the circular staircase was shrouded in shadows, and it wasn’t until his gaze swept the area a second time that he spotted the purse lying beneath the first step. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out plastic gloves and slipped them on. Then he lifted the purse and dumped the contents out. Neat was his first thought. In his experience most women carried an enormous amount of junk around in their purses. This one contained only a cell phone, a wallet, a day planner, a lipstick and a pen. When he flipped open the wallet, he found the driver’s license in a clear plastic frame. His stomach clenched. Sadie Oliver, Roman’s other sister.
Searching his memory, Nik pulled up details. If he remembered correctly, Sadie was about four years Roman’s junior. He’d never met her, but there’d been a shot of all three of the Oliver siblings in the paper recently. Like her brother and sister, Sadie was tall, and she had long dark hair. She’d graduated from Harvard Law School recently and come home to work at Oliver Enterprises. So Sadie, Roman and Juliana had all been here in the church when the shooting had started. That wasn’t good.
After slipping the items back into the purse, Nik rose, and drew out his gun again. He had a very bad feeling about what he was going to find in the choir loft. Signaling to one cop to follow him, he spoke to the other officer. “Don’t let anyone else in except the EMTs. There’s a dead man in the sacristy and the priest’s been shot. Call the crime lab and tell them to get a team here ASAP.”
“Yes, sir,” the uniform said as he pulled out his cell.
At the top of the stairs, Nik stopped. The choir loft was empty but there was a closed door ten feet from where he was standing. He motioned the uniformed officer to one side and he took the other. As soon as they were both in position, he threw open the door and went in low, while his companion went in high.
The room was small, ten by ten, and it was empty. Except for the wedding bouquet—and the bloodstains on two walls.
J.C. WASN’T SURE how much longer she could stay hidden in the depths of the closet. Even as a child, she’d hated to wait for anything. Plus, she was absolutely starving. She always got ravenously hungry whenever she was nervous or scared. Surely the police should have arrived by now.
She thought she’d heard a siren, but that had been a while ago. And it could have been wishful thinking. She wasn’t even sure how long she’d been hiding. She’d tried to say a rosary—something she hadn’t done in years. How long had that taken? Five minutes? Ten? She wanted to check on Father Mike but she wouldn’t do him much good if Snake