“I’m going to look for the shooter.” Declan strode to the door.

  Before she could say anything, he disappeared. Portia glanced at the cop like they’d planned this whole thing and not like Declan was going off half-cocked again. “Call if you need anything. You have people going after the shooter?”

  The cop nodded. “Don’t get in their way.”

  Before they could get in a turf war, Portia headed out after Declan. She wasn’t about to waste time explaining the fact this was definitely her case. The police were only there to assist in tracking down the shooter.

  It was up to her to make sure the killer didn’t get anywhere near Declan.

  * * *

  He heard her follow, and it didn’t surprise him. Portia wasn’t the kind of woman who hung back when there was a gunman to find.

  Declan passed the handful of cop cars and stepped into the street first. Portia caught up, and they raced together to the other side. Cops peppered the sidewalks to the north and south of the street and had congregated around the entrance of an apartment building across from Frank Parsons’s place.

  Declan flashed his badge. “In there?”

  The cop started, mouth open. He’d never seen a fed before? That wasn’t possible. Still the man’s face remained blank, like he had no idea what to say about the fact there was a Secret Service agent in the mix of things.

  “He’s with me, Sergeant.”

  The man nodded. “Agent Finch.” He held the door open. “Lieutenant Milton is upstairs.”

  Portia nudged Declan’s back. He took that as his cue to head inside and stepped aside for her to go first.

  Big mistake.

  She swept past him, thunder in her eyes. The cops standing around the entrance reacted, but it was subtle. The curling up of a lip. A cough. Nervous shifting of a stance. Declan glanced at the sergeant.

  The man said, “Happy hunting.”

  Declan followed Portia, wondering if the man was talking about the search for the gunman, or something to do with Portia. Working in this area, even as a federal agent, she would have a professional relationship with police. She clearly knew that sergeant. They were in Tacoma, not Seattle, and not close to the navy base, but he figured she was a memorable woman. And evidently these guys thought she was a force to be reckoned with.

  “What was that?”

  He was so in his own thoughts he nearly ran into her. Declan sputtered for a second, then said, “Me being a gentleman?”

  “That’s what you call it?”

  “Maybe it’s in short supply these days.” But he proved it wasn’t gone from the world because he pulled the door to the stairwell open for her. “That doesn’t mean I can’t break the mold.”

  She eyed him, then walked through the door. Up the stairs.

  At the access door to the roof she turned back to him. “Break the mold?” It was like she didn’t know whether to laugh or get mad. Probably because she thought he was ridiculous.

  Declan grinned and lifted his chin. “I try.” Then he said, “Ready to go see where this guy shot from?”

  She nodded and stepped out onto the building’s roof. Slightly more upscale than the residences across the street, but that wasn’t saying much. Portia introduced him around to the cops on-scene, and they walked the space.

  The shooter was long gone, the place now crawling with police. Declan figured he was right to have assumed the gunman heard the sirens and decided it was safer to cut and run. Live to fight another day.

  Portia stood at the edge of the roof, her attention on Frank Parsons’s apartment. Declan surveyed the rooftop, leaving her to her thoughts. She would tell him when she was ready. Or not. He was learning that this woman was independent and capable. When she needed something, would she ask? If she turned out to be just as stubborn as he was—which he considered highly likely at this point—they might end up butting heads at every step of this case.

  “What are you thinking?”

  He smiled at her question.

  “Maybe I don’t want to know.”

  Declan laughed. “Nothing special.” At least, nothing he was willing to admit to at this stage of whatever they were having. Certainly not a relationship. That wasn’t part of his future—not when he’d have to keep the truth about his family history from the person he was having a relationship with. “I’m glad the technician is going to be okay, and that no one else got hurt.”

  “Me too.” But her humor from a second ago had dissipated now. Her gaze flicked back to the apartment they’d been in when the shooting started. “I don’t like being in someone’s crosshairs.”

  He saw the shiver that moved through her. Declan wanted to put his hand on her shoulder. Would she accept that? Portia seemed determined to be alone—in everything. Even with the obvious connection she had with her team she remained slightly removed.

  “We’ll find him.”

  “Before or after he kills you?”

  “I don’t need protecting, Portia.”

  This might be the first time the threat directed at him was personal—or so their theory went. But he was trained. He didn’t need a protective detail. Declan was the protective detail.

  “At the White House you have infrastructure in place for security, right?”

  Declan nodded.

  “Is that same infrastructure in place in your hotel room? Or here on this rooftop?”

  “I don’t need a team of local LEOs thinking they’re helping by sitting in a black-and-white outside wherever I’m at.”

  “The cops—”

  He shook his head. “Don’t compare them to the president’s protective detail, because I’m not going to buy it.”

  “He shot at me and the tech. You weren’t even in the room.” She pinned him with a look. “Are you willing to put someone else’s death on your conscience? It went okay for the tech today, but we might not get away with only minor injuries next time.”

  Declan didn’t want the guilt of a death on his conscience. That wasn’t what he figured he’d leave this investigation with. They needed to find the man who’d shot Frank Parsons. Then Declan could go back to DC with only the fond memory of Portia Finch. That spark, the connection he was feeling between them right now.

  He watched her nose wrinkle slightly. She said, “What—”

  “Special Agent Finch.”

  They both looked over. The police lieutenant said, “We have something.”

  No recrimination on his face. It was like the man didn’t even know something had been happening between them just now.

  Declan shook his head and followed Portia over to where the officer stood. Another cop was crouched, taking pictures. She deposited whatever they’d found in an evidence bag and held it up.

  Portia took the bag, holding it close enough they could both see the shell casing.

  “He didn’t have time to police his brass,” Declan said aloud even as he realized it.

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  Shell casings could be traced. The bullets were across the street in the apartment where the technician had been shot. Over here, the shooter evidently hadn’t had time to do more than grab his weapon and run. Certainly not enough time to pick up the evidence he’d left behind.

  “So either he was in a hurry and got sloppy—”

  Portia said, “And how likely is that?”

  “—or the shooter knew the casings couldn’t be traced back to incriminate him.”

  “He didn’t hit either of us. He missed.”

  “And the technician got winged. So you’re going to vote for him being sloppy?”

  She motioned to the evidence bag. “It’s a theory. I just don’t get why he shot at us in the woods and then followed you—both of which involved the tan truck—and now he’s a sniper?”

  “The change of MO.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. Snipers are good...or at least usually better than this.”

  Declan didn’t like that thought. “So he missed on purpose? He isn’t trying to kill me?”

  “Or this was a different shooter,” she said. “Someone trying to warn us things are getting dangerous. That we’re getting close.”

  He wasn’t sure if she thought that was a good or bad thing. Maybe both.

  Declan was nervous either way. But he wasn’t going to let Portia in on that fact. Her phone rang. She answered it and started to turn away. Then spun back, her gaze on him again.

  “We’ll be right there.”

  SIX

  The elevator doors swung open and Portia strode out, glad to escape the confines of that metal box she normally considered a source of quiet space. Having Declan in there made the thing feel so much smaller.

  He was just so...compelling probably wasn’t the right word, but it fit. First he’d been a stranger. Now having him with her had begun to feel almost normal. Almost. At this rate she was going to get used to him. Then he’d be gone, and it would be just her again.

  Alone.

  That way was better. She knew how to be alone. She understood how it worked when she could go where she wanted and do what she wanted whenever. She didn’t have to answer to anyone. And yes, she knew marriage wasn’t this trap where she’d have to tell the other person everything she was doing like she needed their permission. But Portia had been single for a long time, and she liked it. Changing would require giving up some of the freedom she’d been enjoying.

  Portia pressed the button and heard the buzzer ring in the forensics lab. A few seconds later Squire came into view. Barely twenty years old, he wore a white lab coat, underneath which were a comic book T-shirt, skinny jeans and Converse sneakers. His hair was bright red and stood up like he’d gotten an electric shock.

  “Whoa.” Declan coughed to cover his reaction.

  Portia grinned at Squire and held up the bag of sour candy she’d stopped at a gas station for. His eyes widened, and he opened the door.

  Portia said, “Only the best for you.”

  “Gimme gimme.”

  Before she could roll her eyes, Squire noticed Declan. “The brother?”

  Portia nodded, handing over the bagged candy.

  Squire said, “I’d shake your hand, but you’d be a biohazard for the next thirteen hours.”

  Declan cracked a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You too. At least until I tell you what I found, then your opinion might change.” Squire turned and swept into his lab. The white coat billowed behind him along with the sound of crackling candy bag. He tossed a handful in his mouth and grabbed the levers on the sides of his desk to lift it to standing height.

  Portia typed fast, but when Squire’s fingers hit the keys he made her look like a finger pecker. Declan started to speak. Portia motioned to him, then pressed her index finger to her lips. They waited for Squire to be finished.

  The kid likely didn’t know they’d been shot at in Frank Parsons’s apartment. Not that he was oblivious to the real world; he simply preferred his lab. Things he could quantify—which didn’t include people, or their emotions. She appreciated that about him. Life was much simpler if it could be controlled. Even if the effort might be futile.

  “The bullet from the tree was a bust. Too squashed. The one pulled from Frank Parsons during autopsy, however, different story. I ran it through all our databases—and some I’m not supposed to have access to—and got a match.” He glanced at Declan. “Irregularities inside the gun barrel mean that when it’s fired, the bullet basically gets scratched. It creates striations on the bullet so we can match rounds that came from the same gun.”

  Portia figured Declan probably knew all that, but the kid was a good teacher in her opinion. And their Secret Service agent friend didn’t seem to mind the refresher course. He said, “And you found a match to the bullet that killed Frank Parsons?”

  “It’s a cold case from a few years ago.”

  Portia’s stomach sank as she realized that whatever Squire was about to tell her, she wasn’t going to like. That was why he’d started with the forensics lesson—not for Declan’s benefit.

  She said, “Squire, whose murder does the bullet match?”

  It was Declan who answered. “My father’s.”

  She turned to Declan and felt her eyes widen. “Your—”

  Squire said, “He’s right. The murder of Thomas Harris went unsolved.”

  Portia blew out a breath. “Until now.”

  Declan’s gaze settled on her. “Now?”

  “Our suspect. There’s no way he bought that gun from some stranger, and then just happened to murder a man with your brother’s ID.”

  Though Portia would guess, when they finally brought this guy in for questioning, that would be exactly what he said. Every suspect she’d ever sat across that interview table from started their explanation with trying to explain they were nowhere near the crime. And had nothing to do with it. Don’t even know any of the people involved.

  That was why their evidence had to be conclusive.

  Declan said, “So do you think it’s connected to Nicholas and me?”

  She nodded. “Coincidence can’t do that. This man targeted you. Whether or not he’s the one who pulled the trigger on your father, I’d guess he knows who did. And he evidently has a vested interest in you and your brother also being dead.”

  Declan glanced down and rubbed strong fingers along his jaw. Portia left him to his thoughts and turned to Squire. “Anything else pressing?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll email you the full report.”

  “Thank you.” She turned back to the Secret Service agent. “Declan?”

  They moved out of the lab, back to the elevator. When the doors slid shut she turned to him. There were only seconds before they reached the floor where her office was. Doing a quick assessment of his state of mind, she said, “Coffee?” With all that had happened at the apartment, they’d skipped lunch. But it was always time for caffeine.

  Relief washed over his face. “Coffee would be good.”

  If there was anything written on her face, he either didn’t mention it or was so far in his own head he didn’t notice. She couldn’t imagine what it would’ve been like to have a criminal for a father.

  Or to have a father who was murdered.

  She and her dad had clicked like two pieces of the same puzzle. Their lives had synchronized, probably in part because her dad had been a marine. But also because they’d both appreciated the simplicity of routine. They’d lived comfortably, sharing warmth in the silence while they ate or watched TV. Hiking on the weekend. Kayaking. Fishing on her dad’s boat.

  When he’d gotten sick, she’d wheeled him onto the boat and taken him out to sea so he could feel the ocean wind on his face.

  Tears gathered in her eyes, stinging hot. Portia glanced up at the ceiling of the elevator and blinked them away before the worst happened. When the doors slid open, she strode out like there was nothing wrong. No one needed to know what had happened. The way her father had chosen to end his life. She’d given the police everything they’d needed and had sat down with the director to explain.

  She bit her lip and headed for the break room. At the door she glanced back to check Declan was with her. He strode along behind, his attention on his phone. He frowned, then stowed the device in his pocket. Gave her a tiny smile.

  This wasn’t about her, or her unresolved emotions over her father’s end. Portia needed to put that aside. To keep pushing it aside until she was ready to have that conversation with herself.

  For now, all she needed to worry about was the fact that while Declan had mentioned his father’s death, she couldn’t help feeling like there might be more to the story. After all, when he’d first told her the story he’d neglected to tell her that his father had been murdered.

  Which just gave her more reason to keep things professional between them. She didn’t need to get in a relationship with someone who had as many father issues as she did. There was a mess waiting to happen.

  Maybe when she retired from NCIS she would find a nice, quiet man with no issues. There was probably one out there somewhere, right?

  She poured two mugs, doctored them with cream and motioned for Declan to sit. She did the same, took a sip and then said, “I think it’s time for you to tell me exactly how your father was murdered.”

  Declan left his mug untouched and shut his eyes. Too much was swimming around in his head. Memories. Emotions. He could hardly pin one down long enough to actually process it. Let alone work through everything in order to clear his head.

  He felt her hand touch his, her fingers warm from her own coffee mug. She didn’t say anything, just let him be. Let him talk when he was ready to. Even the counselor he’d seen for a long time asked questions. Pulled the information—and the feelings—out of him. Portia simply let him be who he was.

  “He didn’t show up to meet me because...” Declan opened his eyes and looked at her, unable to even say it. “The cops showed up a couple of days later to let us know he was gone.”

  Her face softened.

  “Shot. Dumped in the woods, found by a hiker. Sound familiar?” He’d read the file a few years ago and called the investigating detective. The man had retired since and didn’t have much to say. Especially to someone he called kid despite the fact Declan had been a grown man when they spoke.

  He said, “A dead criminal. No leads. Once he was buried, the investigation seemed to stall out. They probably had more important cases to take care of. My aunt, who we went to live with after he went to prison, told me back then that I should move on. Nicholas didn’t want to talk about it. It seemed better to let it all go. To forget.”

  Her fingers slipped from his, and she sat back. Took a sip of her coffee. Shut down. What was that about? He didn’t have time to ask before she said, “Tell me everything you know about his death.”