Moving Target by Stephanie Newton

Author:Stephanie Newton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Steeple Hill
Published: 2009-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

Gabe sprawled across the gleaming black countertop in the kitchen at Sip This. Sailor had wanted to work, bury herself in what she knew. He didn’t argue, just stayed two steps behind her all morning as the customers poured in, business as usual.

This “unsub,” as they called the unknown subject, tended to like a little distance, like the e-mail and the long-range gun. Even the bomb wasn’t an up-close-and-personal-type kill. Gabe knew she’d be safer if he buried her in an unknown location, but cops would be in and out all day and he’d asked for extra eyes on the coffee shop and surrounding property.

He’d gotten a total of two hours of rest, and after the conversation in the car felt a little soul-battered. Sailor had whipped her black apron around her and never hesitated, her hands flying as she mixed ingredients.

“Blueberries.”

“What?”

“I need blueberries from the walk-in. Can you get them?” She waggled fingers coated with dough for scones. “I’m a little sticky here.”

He peeled himself from the stool. “Did Charlie ever mention spending time in Jamaica?”

“No. I knew he did some time charter fishing on some big boats in the Caribbean—it’s where he learned, but he didn’t tell stories about those times, not ever.”

Gabe’s BlackBerry beeped at him. He pulled it out, checked the message, the cooler blowing cold dry air in his face. “If the contacts in Jamaica come through, we could find a starting place for tracing his life before he was a barista in Sea Breeze, Florida.”

“Why didn’t you just Google him?”

“I did. So did an investigator I contacted. He just e-mailed.” Gabe turned the BlackBerry around so she could read the screen. “We’ve checked every database we could think of. Your friend didn’t exist before 1985.”

“What?” She grabbed Gabe’s shoulder with a doughy hand.

Charlie—her friend, her father figure, the one person she’d thought she could count on—had lied. About everything.

Gabe slid the berries across the counter. “We dug up a Charles Banks born in Chicago in 1949. He died in 1954. Taking the name and stats of a deceased person is the most common way of assuming a false identity. I’m sorry, Sailor.”

She stood in front of him, her very presence reminding him how far she’d come, how much she’d overcome. She deserved an answer, before she broke.

The back door slammed open and Gabe’s partner strode through it. In blue jeans, a brown leather bomber jacket, Joe’s mirrored sunglasses were in place, even at ten in the morning.

“Hi, Joe. What can I get for you?” Sailor slid the pan of scones into the oven and wiped her hands on her apron.

“Loads of caffeine, loads of sugar.”

“Coming right up.” Sailor’s soft laugh, despite the pain he knew she felt, sent a spear of pain through Gabe’s chest. She was so outrageously brave.

He’d like to avoid the questions and save her more grief, but she needed to know. They both needed to know what her boss had been up to. Every scrap of information led them closer to an answer to who was after Sailor and why.

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