Deadly Force. Beverly Long

men. While they were together, Sam had spent more than one sleepless night worrying about that. He’d always figured he’d been lucky to catch her.

      Tessa had been…uncomplicated. He’d spent five minutes with Claire and somehow knew there was nothing simple or easy about her.

      The radio crackled, blessedly interrupting his thoughts. “All units. District 23. We’ve got shots fired at 810 Maple.”

      Cruz grabbed the wheel with both hands. “We’re four blocks from there. Want to go?”

      Detectives, unlike uniforms, weren’t required to respond to the all-unit calls. But neither Cruz nor Sam liked stuff happening in Area 5 that they didn’t know about. “Sure. Let’s roll.”

      Cruz whipped the car into traffic. “What was that address again?”

      “810 Maple.” As soon as he said it, Sam knew. He’d seen that address just the night before. “Drive faster,” he said, as he pulled the envelope out of the inner pocket of his suit coat.

      Apartment 3C. As Cruz weaved in and out of traffic, Sam tried to focus. Just because it was Claire’s address, it didn’t mean she was in trouble. There were probably lots of apartments in the building. But he couldn’t shake the sick feeling that was in his gut.

      By the time Cruz pulled up, police cars were stacked three deep. Sam grabbed his vest from the backseat and worked his way to the front. He slid in next to Bobby Horowitz, who crouched behind his vehicle, a phone to one ear, scribbling with a pen on paper that was balanced on his knee.

      “What’s going on?” Sam whispered.

      Bobby held up a finger and Sam waited, sweat trickling down his back. Finally, Bobby hung up.

      “Talk to me, Bobby.”

      “We got a report of shots fired. Neighbor across the hall called it in.”

      “What apartment?”

      “3C.” Bobby pointed toward the building. “It’s that sliding door, third one from the left.”

      Sam leaned his head against the warm metal of the police car. He swallowed hard. “Any known injuries?”

      Bobby shook his head. “Our guys got as far as the apartment door. They knocked and somebody started shooting. They grabbed the woman from across the hall and beat feet back down to the second floor. Ain’t been a sound out of the apartment since then. Unfortunately, the neighbor hasn’t shut up. She’d been going on and on about how the apartment was burglarized a couple weeks ago.”

      “What?”

      “I don’t know anything else. She didn’t have many details. Hopefully, HBT will get here soon and we can put this one to bed.”

      Sam’s stomach turned. Hostage Barricade Team. The last hostage rescue operation he’d worked, the hostage had ended up with a bullet in his neck. No doubt Bobby remembered it, too. He’d been standing next to Sam, looking like he wanted to rip somebody’s head off.

      Sam studied the building. It would be a long shot, but he thought he could do it. “Look, Bobby. From the balcony of the apartment next door, I can get over to that sliding door. The blinds are closed. They aren’t going to be able to see me from inside.”

      “So, then what?”

      “It’s been warm this week. I’m betting they open that sliding door. Because they’re on the third floor, they probably keep it unlocked.”

      “I don’t know. You fall three stories and it’s my job.”

      “I get them out of there and it’s the mayor calling you up, inviting you over for drinks.”

      Bobby’s green eyes took on a familiar glow. “Yeah, I’d like that. Maybe the guys from HBT could drive me there.” He looked at his watch. “Get going. Super said every apartment is laid out the same. Railcar-style. That sliding door is to a bedroom, which connects to another bedroom, then there’s the living room, kitchen and finally the bath.”

      “Make sure our guys on the second floor know I’m coming in,” Sam said, moving fast. He slipped inside the building, his gun drawn. When he got to the third floor, he stopped, listened and then moved toward the door he needed. He unlocked it and went inside. He listened again but didn’t hear anything from Claire’s apartment.

      That didn’t necessarily mean good news.

      He walked out onto the balcony, staying close to the building. After attaching the radio to his belt, he slipped his gun into his shoulder holster and inspected the bricks. He pushed his fingers in between them, hoping to get some kind of hold. It wasn’t much but it did provide some balance. He stepped up onto the wrought-iron railing, first one foot and then the other.

      Then he made the mistake of looking down.

      His heart thumped. One good jump, he reminded himself.

      Right. If the first one wasn’t good, he wouldn’t need to worry about a second try.

      Sam took a breath and closed his eyes. From inside the building, from Claire’s apartment, he heard a scream and then a gunshot.

      Sam opened his eyes, bunched up his leg muscles and leaped. He hit the deck with a soft thud, his knees absorbing the shock. He yanked on the door handle and started to breathe again when it slid open. Easing his hand inside, he caught the edge of the heavy curtain and pulled.

      He poked his head and gun through the opening. Empty. It was a mess, with clothes and shoes everywhere. He moved quickly, his shoes making no sound on the carpet. Through the door, into the interior bedroom

      It smelled like Claire Fontaine. Fresh with a hint of something exotic. Everything in its place. The bed covers were thrown back, as if someone had been sleeping.

      He poked his head out the door and scanned the living room. His stomach cramped up tight.

      A woman, half her head blown off, lay sprawled on the couch. Blood and tissue splattered the wall behind her. She was blond and many pounds overweight—not that she was going to need to worry about that anymore. A cigarette, still smoldering, rested in a butt-filled glass dish on the end table.

      Across from her, a young woman, red hair, very pale skin, wearing standard-issue green scrubs, sat on a love seat. A revolver rested in the palm of her hand. She had her eyes closed but he didn’t think she was hurt. He could see the rise and fall of her chest, in even breaths.

      Where was Claire?

      Sam focused on the woman in scrubs because the woman on the couch wouldn’t ever be moving again. He slipped behind her. “I’m a police officer,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Put your gun on the floor.”

      She strained her neck to see him. Her eyes were open, her stare blank. She looked first at the gun he pointed at her, and then back at her own gun. Without a word, she bent over and gently placed it on the floor, next to her bare feet. Sam walked around the end of the couch, squatted, picked up the gun with his fingertips and dropped it in the pocket of his suit coat.

      “Where’s Claire?” he asked.

      “I’m here.”

      Sam whirled around. Claire was at the far end of the apartment, leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, so pale that he wondered how she could stand. She had a hand towel up to her mouth.

      “Anybody else here?” he asked, trying to stay focused. He could see streaks of tears on her cheeks.

      She shook her head and made the mistake of looking at the dead woman. She swayed, her shoulder knocking into the wall.

      He moved quickly to her side and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in close. Her whole body was trembling. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

      She shook her head.

      “You’re sure?”

      He got a nod. Okay. Sam pulled