“You’ll be okay.” He gently tugged my arms back through my jacket sleeves. Or rather, Donna’s jacket sleeves. The intimacy in his helping me re-dress made my thighs tingle and my heart thump. I wasn’t feeling like his little sister any longer. The six-year age difference didn’t seem that much now. “We’ll just put this back on before you talk to the police,” he said.
“Police?” Randy took a step back. “I think I’ll—”
His voice squawked at the end when Aiden grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “You’ll give a report.”
A much gentler hand grasped my good arm and tugged me to my feet. The shield Aiden provided made me feel special in a way I wouldn’t want to describe, considering I needed to be a tough lawyer and not some fragile woman from the fifties.
Aiden nodded to a swiftly moving man emerging from the dusty door of the police station. “That’s Detective Pierce. He’s a total dick, but you need to make a statement too,Aingeal.”
Although the sweet nickname warmed me throughout, when I tried to settle my stance, I swayed. Shock, fear, I don’t know. I was such a wimp.
Aiden pushed me back down to sit on the stone ledge and gestured toward the detective. “Pierce can come to you, Anna.”
“How do you know his name?” I asked, the day taking on a surreal haze.
“Long story.”
Aiden seemed to have a few of those. The detective strode over, hawk-like gaze belying the casual gait. “I thought you were in jail.”
“I got out. That happens for the good guys, Detective Pierce. This is Anna Albertini and a witness, Mr. Taylor,” Aiden said.
Pierce was probably in his early forties with just a hint of gray at his otherwise dark blond temples. His eyes were a light green that all but sizzled with intelligence, and his lanky form nicely filled out a dark brown suit. He looked at me and then back at Aiden, and his jaw tightened hard enough that it had to hurt. “Who shot at you this time?” he snapped.
I blinked. He was talking to Aiden. “What’s going on?” I asked.
Aiden tilted his head to Randy. “Shooter aimed for him.”
“Randy. Randy Taylor,” Randy said, sniffing loudly. Uniformed cops spilled around, marking off spaces, and Randy seemed to wilt.
“What happened?” Pierce yanked out a battered notepad that looked like it had floated the river more than once and tapped a shiny Silverville Cross pen on the paper.
“There was a pattering sound from a car, and I was tackled,” I said, my voice trembling.
“What kind of car?” Pierce scribbled a couple of notes.
“It was brown.” My memory was blank. Completely. I drew the sides of my ruined jacket together with shaking hands.
Pierce lifted his head and turned toward Aiden; his gaze accusatory.
Aiden rested a heavy hand on my shoulder, and I realized I’d swayed forward. He tightened his hold. “Brown Range Rover, 2005 model, no plates. Two men inside. Driver about forty, pocked skin, faded black leather jacket. Shooter was thin, twenties, goatee and blond wearing a jean jacket and shooting an AK-47. Crappy shot.” He tilted his head toward Randy. “The possible target.”
Pierce scribbled some more, lifting his head to pin Randy with a hard gaze. “Who wants you dead, kid?”
“Nobody. I mean, nobody.” Randy’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as if it too, wanted to make a run for it. “This is just a possession charge. It was just some pot, man.” He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his white shirt. “I got the drugs from my Uncle Melvin. Melvin Whitaker.”
I gasped, my wide gaze slashing to Randy. MelvinWhitaker? The same neighbor the elderly ladies had tried to rob? Did the guy supply the whole town, or what? “Tell me more,” I said quietly.
Randy took a step back, obviously realizing he shouldn’t be confessing to us. “Uh, sorry. Oops.”
Pierce grinned, making him look more like an older male model than a cop. He glanced back at Randy. “How much pot?”
“Just a joint—one tiny little joint. Misdemeanor charge.” Randy sank down next to me, running a shaking hand through his hair. The kid smelled like smoke and had quite smartly forgotten to report that he’d hit a cop. I stayed quiet for now.
“Any chance Uncle Melvin is pissed you stole his pot?” Pierce asked.
“No.” Randy shook his head. “It was just a joint—the guy’s like a total nerd. He wouldn’t shoot at me.”
“Where does Uncle Melvin get his pot?” Pierce’s voice remained casual, but those eyes narrowed in like a coyote spotting dinner.
