Page 77 of Fish in a Barrel

The closest building that would work trajectory-wise was almost half a mile away—an empty medical office that stood four stories and could have provided the height needed to make such a shot possible.

Henry blew out a breath. “That’s impressive,” he murmured. “Providing that’s where the shot was from. Because the bullet would have needed to be a small-caliber sniper round if it wasn’t going to just pulverize a human, and small-caliber rounds aren’t always as accurate from a distance. Too much can affect their course. Did you say it hit center mass?”

Jackson shook his head, remembering the photo. “Shoulder. He bled out very quickly.”

“Okay. So not expert. Good, but if you’re trained, you avoid arms and shoulders. Center mass is a sure kill, and of course the head shot’s golden.”

Jackson suppressed a shudder. “Of course.”

Henry shrugged. “Killing’s an art, like anything else. I was never Picasso.”

“You know, I’m sort of glad you’re on my side.”

Henry grinned. “Me too. Lucky, right? So what do we do?”

“Okay, let’s check out the medical building and poke around. If our killer got up there, we can too. Sean and Billy should have information to us at any time, and I need to see if Fetzer and Hardison got that warrant. Let me do phone and people, and then we can do B and E.”

“Sure, boss. I’m pretty sure the B and E is more to my liking than the P and P. I’m just saying.”

“I’m not arguing,” Jackson returned mildly. “But you gotta do a little of both in this business. You could still go to law school, you know. Galen would spring.”

Henry snorted—really snorted. While Jackson was looking up Fetzer’s number on his phone, Henry was digging tissues out of the console to clean up the resulting mess, and Jackson figured Henry Worrall, Esquire, was a thing that was not destined to ever be in this world.

At that moment his phone connected, and Adele Fetzer did not disappoint him.

“Fetzer. What do you want, Jackson? It’s not mine and Jimmy’s fault you were rousted this morning, by the way.”

“I know it.”

“That was all Cartman. Would you like to hear all the ways he’s fucking up Charlie Boehner’s investigation, by the way? ’Cause I’ll be a rat to take that guy down. I spend volunteer hours with the homeless population, and that fucker’s shipping my friends off to Redding in the winter? I’ve got a cousin owns a deep freezer. I say we dunk the guy in the river and throw him in there until his weenie comes off. You want in?”

“I’d rather just arrest him. You want some of that?”

She caught her breath. “Oh, you sweet, sweet summer child. You know that’s for people who make more money than I do, don’t you?”

Jackson chuckled, low and dirty. “What if I told you that a woman who lives about three blocks from Charlie Boehner got rear-endedin her drivewayby a black Mercedes this morning. She’s calling her insurance agent right now with the license plate. Would you like to know who that car belongs to?”

She made a long, drawn-out sound. “How about you tell me the license plate and let me look that up myself.”

Jackson did, enjoying her snort of derisionverymuch.

“And this woman is filing with her insurance company?”

“As we speak.”

“Hit-and-run,” she said with satisfaction. “Can I have her number? I’m going to make filing that police report she needsreallyeasy.”

Jackson rattled it off—with Sandra’s approval, of course—and Adele said, “Wow, I didn’t get you a damned thing. Is there anything I can do for you?”

And Jackson took a chance. “Adele, what have you heard about Boehner’s murder?”

“Unforced entry, handgun to the chest. They’re looking at fingerprint evidence, from what I understand.”

“What if I told you K-Ski, Christie, and de Souza are looking for a sniper’s entry point?”

“I’m saying that’s not common information,” she replied promptly. “What do you suspect?”

“I don’t know, Adele. We’re going to run background on everybody involved in the Ezekiel Halliday case—”