Perfect Victim, The (11 page)

Studying him across the bar
,
Addison realized he looked like a different man than the scoundrel she'd met that day in his office. Gone was the heavy five o'clock shadow, the
bloodshot eyes, and the nasty disposition. The transformation was complete and not at all unpleasant. There was still an inherent ruggedness about him, but the harshness and the vague sense of violence she'd sensed before had vanished.

He was taller than she remembered, well over six feet. He looked fit and relaxed in well-worn jeans, hiking boots, and a blue parka. His eyes were dark brown and a little too intense for comfort. He was a stickler for eye contact, she noticed, and at times she found his gaze unsettling.

She was about to offer him a refill in a "to go" cup when the bell on the alley door jingled. Her gaze snapped to the door leading to the back room. Mild puzzlement skittered through her. She and Gretchen were the only people who used the alley door. Besides, she'd locked it. Hadn't she?

She looked at Randall only to find his eyes already on her. "Expecting company?" he asked quietly.

"Not through the back door."

"You keep it locked?" he asked.

"Always." Slipping her apron over her head, she started for the back room. "I'll be right back."

Reaching over the bar, Randall stopped her with a light touch on her arm. "Let me check it out. You stay put."

Something in his eyes kept her from arguing. Closing the cash drawer, Addison placed the money bag on the shelf beneath the register, out of sight.

"Give me that," he said.

She hesitated an instant before passing the bag to him over the counter. The thought hit her that she didn't know him from Adam, but she quickly reminded herself that he was a licensed private investigator.

"Where's your phone?" he asked.

"I left it in the back room."

Another muffled sound emerged. The alley door closing, she thought, and felt the first real jab of alarm. Soundlessly, she came around the bar and approached Randall.

"Go stand at the end of the bar,
"
he said and started for the back.

In the two years she
'
d owned the shop, Addison had never been afraid. Not of her customers or the hours she kept
.
She'd never considered the possibility of a robbery. Yet tonight, as she listened to an intruder slink through the rear door, an uncomfortable laye
r
of fear settled over her like cold fog.

The knob squeaked
.
Randall stopped
,
took a step back
.
An instant
l
ater the door swung open and slammed against the wall
.
Shock crashed through Addison when a man stepped into the doorway. In an instant
,
she took in the full-length coat
,
black leather gloves, and knit ski mask. A tiny chrome pistol glinted like a cheap trinket in his hand.

In her peripheral vision she saw Randall scramble back. The intruder glanced toward the front door. Addison stood frozen at the end of the bar
:
Her heart rocked hard against her ribs when he raised the gun and leveled it at her
.

Then she was be
i
ng shoved violently to the floor. A gunshot snapped through the air. She fell flat on her back hard enough to take he
r
breath. Randall came down on top of her. Before she could move
,
he sprang to a crouch, cursing as he worked an ugly pistol from beneath his parka. To her utter amazement, he took aim and fired
.

The blast deafened her. She sat up, pressing her hands to her ears. Her bra
i
n screamed for her to run
.
Before she could move
,
Randall gripped her arm. "Stay down!
"

Addison watched helplessly as he tossed the bank bag toward the rear door
.
"What are you doing?
"
she cried
.

"Saving your life. Stay the hell down!
"

As if in slow motion, the man in black loomed into view from behind the end of the bar
.
Legs apart
,
he aimed the pistol at Addison.

She screamed. A bullet pinged against the bar stool next to her
.
Randall fired four shots in quick succession
.
The intruder
'
s pistol flashed in respon
s
e. Addison ducked
.
Bullets zinged past her
.
Bits of wood and plastic pelted her
.

Then, as suddenly as the chaos began, an eerie silence fell over the shop. Traffic hissed beyond the shattered front door. Cold air streamed in, enveloping her with icy hands.

Vaguely, she was aware of Randall rising. Broken glass crunched beneath his boots as he jogged to the rear door. She wanted to rise, ordered herself to move, but she was trembling so badly, she didn't trust her legs to support her.

For a full minute, she crouched next to the bullet-damaged stool, grappling for control, trying in vain to stop shaking. She didn't hear the footsteps behind her. She cried out when a pair of strong hands closed around her shoulders.

"Easy." Randall's voice broke through the haze of shock. "He's gone. It's only me."

Addison's ears tang from the gun blasts. She shivered, feeling disoriented and dazed. Thoughts rushed at her in senseless order.

"Oh, my god," she heard herself say. Gripping the bar, she somehow managed to get her legs under her.

Randall looked at her through narrowed eyes, then cast a glance toward the back room. "Stay here. I'm going to call the cops."

She stared blankly after him as he strode to the back room. She listened, stunned, as he dialed then relayed to the police what had happened. It hit her with sudden incredulity that he was talking about her shop. Her shop. Her refuge. Outrage jolted through her at the thought of such a violation.

A moment later, Randall reappeared. Setting the phone on the bar, he strode toward her, assessing her the way an emergency room doctor might assess a trauma patient. “Are you hurt?"

Despite the fact that her senses were still reeling, Addison shook her head. "No. I'm not hurt." She thought about it a moment. "I'm scared. And I'm really pissed off."

"That's good, Ace. I'll take pissed off over hysterical any day."

She blinked at him, the sudden realization of what had
almost happened slamming into her like a lead weight
.
"Jesus, he was going to kill us."

"Yeah
.
" Randall raked an unsteady hand through his hair and blew out a curse
.

Blood glistened on his cheek. Vaguely, she remembered the flying shards of plastic and glass
,
and realized he'd been cut
.
He looked dangerous standing there, a wicked-looking pistol in his hand, a streak of blood sliding down the side of his face.

"You
'
re bleeding." Surprising herself, she pulled a napkin from the counter and pressed it against his cheek.

"Piece of
-
glass caught me."

Because of his height
,
Addison had to step close to see the cut
.
"
Hurt?" she asked
.

"Not much."

She forced a laugh
.
It was either that or cry. "You'd say that if you were gushing buckets, wouldn't you?"

"No, I hate pain
.
I'm a weenie from the word go." Clasping her wrist
,
he lowered her hand from his cheek
.
"You're shaking
.
"

"Call me weird, but flying bullets and masked gunmen scare die hell out of me."

He regarded her through shuttered eyes
. "
You
'
re pale, too. Maybe you ought to sit down."

"No
.
I'm okay
.
I want to stand
.
Jesus, I'm alive. I'm pretty happy about that."

"Just don
'
t faint, all right?" He didn't look pleased by the possibility.

"I don't plan to
.
" She struggled to absorb the full impact
'
of what had happened
,
realizing be
l
atedly that she probably
did
need to sit down. "If you hadn't been here, I'd be dead right now."

"And to think you wanted to throw me out
.
"

"You saved my life
.
"

"Just doing what any self-respecting P
.
I
.
would do
.
"

Addis on stared at him
.
He stared back, his face as inscrutable as stone. There were a hundred things that needed to
be said, but at the moment she didn't trust her voice to say any of them, let alone to this man whose actions had just turned her opinion of him on its ear.

The police arrived ten minutes later. Addison stood next to the bar, watching helplessly as a swarm of cops in blue uniforms tramped over what was left of her coffee shop. She felt as if she'd stepped onto the set of a horror movie. A set complete with a down-and-out private detective and a villain in black that had nearly sent her to an early grave.

"Ma'am?"

Addison started at the sound of the voice and turned to face the man who'd approached her. He wore a nicely-cut suit, and she knew immediately he was a police detective. She guessed him-to be in his mid-forties. He had the beginnings of a paunch and short brown hair that was thinning at the top, graying on the sides. His hands were small and pudgy, fast-moving because he was excited. Bright blue eyes were red-rimmed as if he were prone to allergies. He was staring at her, his expression an odd combination of type-A impatience and shabbily concealed male appreciation.

"I'm Detective Adam Van-Dyne." He offered a handshake.