A car rolled past, and she caught the glint of metal as light swept across the building face and shrubbery.
In that second, she saw movement, something glinting. Instinctively she crouched. Her attacker appeared on the far side of the hedgerow.
On a bike.
She raced forward, but it wheeled away, furious pedaling giving way to the smooth hum of an engine as the attacker engaged the electric bike, sped up, and disappeared around a corner. “Damn.” She ran back to her car, hopped in, and took off after him. Visibility was inhibited by her ruined windshield, but she drove fast, into the street and down the alley into which he’d disappeared. At the far end, past the dumpsters and parked cars, she came to a cross street. One way. Not that her attacker would have cared.
But she saw no hint of the bike in either direction.
She drove carefully along the street, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. No one riding a motorized bike through the historic district, no bike left unattended.
What she did see, as she passed by a glass storefront that reflected weakly from a streetlamp, was an ugly message gouged into her passenger door in huge letters:
COP KILLER
Her heart froze.
Guilt cut through her soul.
The letters were jagged and uneven.
But the meaning was clear.
This wasn’t a random act of violence.
Whoever had done this was targeting her.
Just as was done in the parking lot.
For Sylvie Morrisette’s death.
“Got it,” she said under her breath as she turned a corner and drove home.
Once home, she showed Pierce the damage, and he swore under his breath. “It’s Toby.”
“Toby Yelkis?” A hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach as they stood in the garage beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. The gouged paint looked far worse here than it had when she’d caught just a glimpse of it in the reflection of the storefront.
“Who else?”
“I don’t know, but there are tons of other people,” she argued. “Anyone in the department, for starters.” She didn’t want to believe that Sylvie Morrisette’s son was behind the damage, that he was so broken, so angry that he would take a knife or key or screwdriver to her car. Her heart ached for the kid, and she argued in his defense, even though, deep down, she conceded Pierce was probably correct.
“Doesn’t look like the kind of thing someone I work with would do.” He looked at her with a “Come-on, Nikki, get real” expression.
“Well then, how about friends of Morrisette or other family members?”
“Priscilla? She’s in college. Lives downtown.”
“No, no, not her daughter,” she said, knowing he was baiting her. “But—think about this—what about her sister? You said she had a sister.”
“And two brothers, all who live far away.” His troubled gaze held hers. “They wouldn’t.”
“Well, then maybe one of her ex-husbands? How about Bart, the father of her kids? She thought he was the worst.”
“Too juvenile, even for him. For any of them. And they all are in Texas, just like that song. Except for Bart. But why would Bart take the risk?”
“Because he’s unhinged,” she argued, though it was a losing battle. She was arguing against herself.
Pierce shook his head, his dark hair glinting in the overhead lights. “Believe me, there was no love lost between Sylvie and her ex. They fought all the time. He wanted custody, and now he has it. Along with the death benefits. When she died in the line of duty, he lost a thorn in his side, gained his kids, and made out like a bandit.Win. Win. Win. Nope, not Bart. You and I both know it has to be Toby.”