Page 43 of My Fallen Saint

“And the story’s only for the website?”

“Unless you can identify the mystery sniper, then you can have the cover.”

“Not likely.” I take a breath. “There really aren’t any leads on the shooter?”

“If there are, the LAPD isn’t releasing them. But they might at the press conference. That’s what I want you to cover. It’s at three today at the LAPD headquarters.”

“I should be able to get there in plenty of time.”

“I was hoping with your connections you might be able to arrange an interview with someone from the LAPD or the DA’s office. This won’t be a major piece for us—everyone’s covering it—but I do want some amount of unique content in the story before it posts.”

My connections. Roger seems to think all cops are best buds for life and that we all know each other. I don’t bother trying to explain my pitiful lack of connections now, though. Instead, I just say, “On it,” then end the call.

I call Lamar as I mentally reroute toward downtown. He answers on the first ring, and after I explain the situation, he promises to ask around for someone I can hit up to interview, but he doesn’t sound optimistic. Apparently the only two cops he’s close to in LA are on vacation, so I’m not holding my breath.

The odds of me knowing anyone are slim, but I keep my eyes open as I enter the LAPD’s newsroom, just in case I see someone my dad used to know or an old friend from Irvine who’s transferred to the big city.

But by the time the room is full and the Deputy Chief of Police steps up to the podium, I’ve seen zero familiar faces.

All that changes when someone drops into the empty seat next to me.

I turn, and my breath catches in my throat.

Devlin.

“What are you doing here?”

He puts a finger to his lips as Deputy Chief Rayborn begins talking, and I lean back in my seat in frustration. Rayborn reads from a prepared statement, outlining how, at approximately six-fifteen this morning, an assassin took out Terrance Myers with a single shot to the head as he prepared to board a private jet to Mexico.

“At this time, we’ve determined that the shot originated from the Hastings Bank Building, an eight-story building approximately one mile from where Myers was killed.”

“Wow,” I say, leaning over to Devlin. “That’s a seriously impressive shot.”

He raises a brow, then points at the podium, and I shut up, duly chastised. But as a girl whose dad took her to an indoor range practically from diapers, I truly am impressed. Of course, military marksmen have made much longer shots. But with all the factors that go into hitting a long-range target—wind, the curvature of the earth, and even the Coriolis effect—any successful shot from over a mile requires serious skill and training. Which makes me think the shooter was military. Or at least had paramilitary training.

“—no identification,” the Deputy Chief continues, as I realize I’d zoned out. “What we do know is that the shooter rappelled down the side of the building in a pair of window washer coveralls using his own line.”

A murmur rises from the audience. This son-of-a-bitch was not only a good shot, he was seriously ballsy. I can’t condone the murder, but I definitely admire the skill.

“It is believed he left the scene in a car driven by a co-conspirator. The actual window washing team wasn’t due on site for another hour.”

He gives a few more statistics on the caliber of the bullet and the ballistic team’s initial assessment as to the weapon used, then opens the floor for questions. As he does, Devlin leaves, and while I consider following, I stay behind, my hand raised to ask about how the perp got away and if the rappelling line was left behind.

“No,” the Deputy Chief says after I ask. “And to anticipate the follow-up, we believe he anchored the rope to the handle of a locked roof access door, then made the descent using a double-line method.”

I nod, picturing it in my mind. A ten-story building is about a hundred feet tall, so the bank would be about twenty feet less. A typical rappelling rope is two hundred feet. Thread that through the handle to use as an anchor, hold both sides, and go down. Once his feet were on the ground, he’d pull the rope through, gather it up, and take off.

Faster to leave it, but that potentially leaves evidence.

Of course, he still might have left evidence. Fibers from the rope, and my hand goes up again to ask if the forensic team has found such residue.

Ultimately, I don’t get my answer—the team is still working the area—but the Deputy Chief gives the usual song and dance about being on the case. I’ve seen enough press conferences like this to know that’s not true. They have nothing. And even with the fibers, they’ll have nothing. Likely the perp bought the rope at someplace like REI with hundreds of similar ropes sold every day, making it virtually untraceable.

There are a few more questions and then the press conference wraps. I stand and turn, then realize with a frown that I’m searching out Devlin. But I don’t see him anywhere.

Annoyed with myself, I pull my phone out of my satchel and check to see if Lamar has texted. He has, and he’d been right. No contacts for me. Which means that my article is going to be boring as shit, with exactly the same information as every other reporter sitting in this room today.

The reality galls me, and I head toward the exit hoping that inspiration will drop from the sky. Maybe Millie knows someone I could interview about sniper school…?