Murder Mix-Up. Lisa Phillips
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cut him off. “Don’t. You made your play and now we have to live with it. So let me get on with this case, and then you can be on your way.”
Yep, she didn’t feel the attraction. If she did, there was no way she’d dismiss him like this. Not that he wanted warm and fuzzy between them. Declan was interested in one thing—finding out what this murder had to do with his brother. Anything that could’ve been between him and Portia, he didn’t want it clogging up getting to the bottom of this mystery anyway. The fact she felt nothing for him was a bonus.
“If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s liars.”
Declan bristled. “When did I—”
“You said you were going to check into your hotel. Not that you were going to come straight here. I’m surprised you didn’t get a speeding ticket for how fast you had to be driving to get here ahead of me and get in a meeting with the director. All just so you could weasel your way into my case.”
“I checked in online.”
“While you were driving?”
“Quick rest-stop break,” he said. “You didn’t need to stop?”
“It’s a two-hour drive. I’m not five years old.”
Ouch. “Look, I’m sorry—”
“No, you’re not. And don’t patronize me by pretending to be. You wanted in, so you got yourself in.” The elevator doors slid open.
“I was going to say sorry about going behind your back, but my way was faster.” He was results oriented. It was the way he was trained. After all, if he misstepped by taking too long to make a decision, it could cost the president his life.
“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
She knocked twice on the door. A buzzer sounded, and Portia let herself into the morgue. Alejandro looked up, saw Declan behind her. His perfect eyebrows rose. Even with some kind of goopy mess on his gloves, the man didn’t have a hair out of place. He switched the gloves out for clean ones, and Declan got his first look at the beginning of an autopsy.
“Company?”
Portia said, “He’s shadowing the case.”
Alejandro eyed Declan, then said, “Two gunshot wounds, one through and through and one in the sternum.”
She folded her arms. “We already knew that.”
Alejandro glanced at Portia.
“Sorry.”
He shook his head, all forgiven. Then said to Declan, “I can get you a mask if the smell...”
It wasn’t bad, per se. The room was ventilated. Still, the smell was interesting. Declan saw the curl in the corner of Portia’s lips.
This was why she’d jumped at the chance to bring him down here. She thought she could get him in front of a dead body and he’d lose his lunch? He nearly smiled at the realization. The NCIS agent was testing his mettle. Forcing him to walk in her shoes and deal with what she saw every day.
He probably should have been insulted by that. But meeting a woman who held her own, who expected a man to not cower but meet the challenge? There was nothing more attractive than strength like that. A woman who knew what she wanted and didn’t settle for anything less.
Declan had to push aside the rush of thought. He wanted to go over all that, to process this revelation and set it aside so he could focus, but there wasn’t even time to do that. They were waiting.
He lifted his chin instead, and turned to the medical examiner. “So the victim probably knew the shooter?”
Alejandro said, “From the velocity of impact, and the damage it did—which I’ll have to confirm after I’m done with the full autopsy—I’d say at this point that it was three feet, maximum.”
Portia said, “Only someone you know, and trust, or someone you’re doing a deal with, gets that close. Unless the shooter was fast enough to pull off two shots.” She shrugged. “But if the shots were straight on then they were facing each other.”
She backed up three feet and held her arms up in front, making a gun with her fingers and holding it in her other palm.
“So they were talking, and the shooter pulled out a gun,” Declan said. “Fast enough the man didn’t turn away to run.”
She nodded.
Alejandro said, “I’ll let you know if I learn more.”
Portia thanked the medical examiner, and they headed for the hallway.
In the elevator, Declan said, “I can’t imagine not reacting at all if someone pulled a gun on me.”
“They were probably talking,” Portia said. “One second, conversation. The next he’s got his gun up and he’s firing two shots. Caught the guy off guard, close enough to make sure he absolutely got the job done. And then he stuck around to shoot at you hours later.”
She squared her shoulders in a way that didn’t bode well. “Want to tell me now who has it in for you and your brother badly enough to go to all this trouble?”
“You’re assuming the killer is the same person who shot at us.” He paused. “We don’t know that.”
“You’d rather there were two gunmen?”
The doors slid open and Declan exited the elevator. Maybe if there were, she could find her suspect.
And he’d never have to tell her the truth about his.
Portia sat at her desk while Declan hovered at the big TV screen, staring at the open tabs of all the information they’d collected so far. What was he hiding? And why couldn’t he just tell her? Whatever it was, she figured it was wrapped up in the reason his brother had been a target.
Assuming that was what had happened.
The fact their dead guy had been using Nicholas Stringer’s ID might simply be a coincidence. Then again, considering Declan was acting this way at all, likely not. There was a reason they were seemingly targets of a murderer. And he knew what that reason was.
She let him have his silence while she answered a few emails. Distracting herself from all the questions. When she was done, she moved to stand by him. “Well?”
“I should speak with my brother first.”
Portia saw the flinch in the skin around Declan’s eyes. He’d hidden his discomfort well, and she was getting the idea he would endure a lot before he broke that professional demeanor. Yes, bringing him down to autopsy had been a test. But if the guy was going to insinuate himself into her murder investigation then he was going to have to be all in with every part. It was what he’d asked for.
“I’ll contact your brother’s Captain and get him online for a chat with you.”
Nicholas Stringer—the real one, not the man their victim had pretended to be. Declan’s brother’s Marine unit was based out of Camp Pendleton in California—not here in Washington State where the ID had indicated. Which made her wonder why that was what had come up when they entered his name into their system. This was a more elaborate identity theft than she was used to seeing.
She said, “The system says your brother is deployed right now. He’s been in J-bad for nine months.”
Declan frowned. “J-bad?”
“Jalalabad, Afghanistan. There’s a forward operating base there.” She saw the look on Declan’s face. “You didn’t know he was deployed.”
He shrugged. “We