Running for Cover Read Free

a quick wave that seemed to reassure the elderly woman.
    The door opened, and she hovered in the threshold, white hair puffed around a powder-pink face that nearly matched the color of her flowered bathrobe. “Morgan?”
    “I’m afraid so,” Morgan said, her voice shaky.
    “Come on. Inside.” Jackson kept his hold on her waist and urged her into the house, not waiting for further introductions or an invitation.
    “What in the world happened to you?” Mrs. Richardson put a hand on Morgan’s arm, her gaze darting to Jackson and to the gun he held, her eyes widening with fear.
    “Some men came into the gallery right before I closed. They—”
    “I’m going to look for them,” Jackson cut in. “Close and lock the door when I leave. Don’t let anyone but the police inside.” There were two armed men on the loose and no time for chitchat.
    “You can’t. They could kill you.” Morgan grabbed his arm,her grip surprisingly strong. Her bruises looked darker in the stark fluorescent light, her eyes pale silvery-blue, the pupils dilated. Trembling with fear or with shock, she didn’t look capable of staying on her feet, let alone arguing with Jackson. Somehow, though, she was managing it.
    “The police should be here soon.” Jackson pulled off his jacket, draping it around her shoulders, hoping to warm her.
    “But—”
    He didn’t let her finish, just walked outside, pulling the door closed, his gun still firmly in hand. The sense of danger and urgency he’d felt while waiting for Mrs. Richardson to open her door had dissipated, and Jackson jogged back to the gallery, knowing the men were already gone, the opportunity to bring them into custody gone with them.
    Except for his car, the parking lot was empty, light from the upstairs windows spilling onto the pavement. The gallery’s double doors yawned open, inviting Jackson to explore the darkened area beyond. If he hadn’t spent nine years as a police officer, he might have, but he knew that contaminating the evidence would make prosecuting a lot more difficult.
    He turned away from the building, searching the area for any signs of the men who’d been there. There was nothing. No bullets. No casings. No tread marks, cigarette butts or trash. Everything clean and tidy and free of clues.
    Jackson had just completed a circuit of the area when a squad car raced into the parking lot, lights and sirens off. An officer jumped out, her frantic energy freezing Jackson in place. No way did he want to get shot by a police officer, and the way the cop pulled her gun and pointed it in his direction, getting shot looked like a distinct possibility.
    “Drop the weapon, sir, and step away from it,” she ordered.
    Now wasn’t the time to explain things, so Jackson did as she asked.
    She eased forward, lifting the gun, her gaze never wavering. “Facedown on the ground, sir. Hands where I can see them.”
    Jackson knew the drill. He’d issued the same command enough times in his years on the New York City police force. He dropped to the ground, waiting impatiently as the officer checked the safety on his gun, frisked him for weapons and pulled the wallet from his pocket.
    “I guess you have a permit for your gun?” Judging from the way she asked the question, Jackson figured she didn’t guess any such thing.
    “I do. I’m a private investigator. My ID and permit are in my wallet.”
    The deputy opened the wallet and took her time looking through it. Finally, she seemed satisfied with what she’d found. “You can get up, Mr. Sharo. Did you fire your weapon tonight?”
    “One shot.”
    “Did you hit your target?”
    “Unfortunately, no,” he said as he accepted the wallet she held out to him.
    “I’m not sure the law would agree with that.”
    “I was firing in self-defense, Officer…?”
    “Deputy Lowry. Want to tell me what happened here?”
    “I saw a light on in the gallery and thought it might be open for business. When I rang the doorbell a woman