Love at First Sight - By B. J. Daniels Page 0,61
gunshot wound. But an ambulance had been called. Had anyone seen the shooter?
Jack looked up and saw a car pull out on the other side of the river. It was a large, dark-colored, American-made car and its driver seemed to be in a hurry.
He started the Jeep and, without siren and lights, took off after it. The car was so plain. So nondescript. Just like detectives used for undercover work.
He raced across the bridge and down a side street, hoping to cut off the vehicle, but it had disappeared as if into thin air. Jack suspected the car and driver were sitting in a dark garage somewhere. Safe.
JACK DROVE TO the hospital, wanting to talk to Denny about the car he’d seen, the suspicions he couldn’t keep to himself any longer. He couldn’t be sure it was a cop car. Couldn’t be sure of anything, including that the driver had fired the shot. Nor could he not listen to his instincts. But he needed Denny to bounce them off. He and Denny often did that at the bar after work. Right now, Jack needed his friend to tell him he wasn’t crazy.
But when Jack reached the hospital, the nurse informed him that Denny Kirkpatrick had checked himself out without telling anyone.
“Was he well enough to do that?” Jack asked, surprised.
“No,” the nurse said. “I hope he isn’t driving. That could be very dangerous with his injury. But maybe his female visitor drove him.”
“Female visitor?” Big surprise. Even laid up in bed close to death Denny could attract women. “Do you happen to know who the woman was?”
The nurse smiled. “As a matter of fact, I recognized her from the photo in the newspaper.” She saw that Jack didn’t know what she was talking about. “The one from Saturday’s feature page. About a sweet-sixteen birthday party at the carousel.”
Sweet sixteen. The same age as Denny’s daughter. “The woman was in the photograph?”
The nurse nodded. “With her daughter.”
“Do you still have that newspaper around?” Jack asked.
She reached behind the desk and pulled out a battered copy of the Missoulian.
Jack quickly thumbed through it, stopping abruptly at the smiling faces of mother and daughter on brightly painted wooden carousel horses.
“Annette Westbrook?” Jack asked, his blood ringing in his ears. Baxter’s sister. He’d met her once at some party when Baxter had first taken over as captain.
His instincts had been right! All his suspicions confirmed. Baxter!
But what made Jack’s heart threaten to bust out of his chest was the girl with Annette in the photograph. Danielle Westbrook, sixteen, was the spitting image of Liz Jones except for her hair and her eyes. Both were dark—just like Denny’s.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jack found Detective Captain Brad Baxter at his home on North Street near the University of Montana. Baxter seemed surprised to see Jack. Or maybe it was the weapon Jack held. A police special. Denny’s.
“You can’t threaten me. I know my rights,” Baxter said.
Jack laughed as he shoved the pistol into Baxter’s face and backed him into the living room. “Did you think I was here to arrest you? Have you forgotten? I’m not a cop. You suspended me. Threatened to have me thrown in jail. I’m just here as an interested citizen who’s going to kick your hide if I don’t get some answers.”
Baxter glanced toward the phone.
“Want to call the cops? Go ahead. But it really isn’t necessary. They’re already on their way.”
He seemed to hesitate, probably thinking Jack was bluffing. “What makes you think I’ll tell you anything?”
It was all Jack could do not to grab the man by his collar and slam him against the wall. But he wanted answers more than he wanted vengeance. Although that could change, if he found out Baxter had been the one who’d tried to kill Karen.
“Because,” Jack said between gritted teeth. “I think you’re a lot of things, Baxter, but not stupid.”
His look of apprehension gave Jack guilty pleasure as Jack motioned for him to take a seat. He saw Baxter glance toward the coffee table, but head for a chair away from it.
The gesture made Jack suspicious, which was his nature, God knew.
Jack stepped closer, his pulse a hammer. On the coffee table was a county map. A red line on the map had been drawn from Missoula to Jack’s ski lodge. Directly to Karen.
He looked up at Baxter, fighting an urge to harm the man. But no matter what Baxter had said or done, Jack was a cop and he didn’t believe in taking