Dead Shot

by Annie Solomon

Genres: Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Famous for her depictions of violence, photographer Gillian Gray is no stranger to controversy. When demonstrators protest the opening of an exhibit of her work, Detective Ray Pearce is hired as her bodyguard. Soon, murdered victims start to turn up--posed in scenes from Gillian's horrific photos. Original.

Release date: December 14, 2008

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

Acclaim for Annie Solomon’s Previous Novels

BLACKOUT

“FOUR STARS! Fantastic story! . . . Tough, suspenseful, and we have a heroine who is even tougher than the special-agent hero. Whew! Never a dull moment. Solomon has outdone herself this time, and that’s not easy to do.”

—RomanceReviewsMag.com

“Twisty and diverting, with well-written action sequences.”

—Publishers Weekly on Blackout

“Talk about edge-of-the seat! I have never read a book with such relentless suspense . . . . A superb example of showing over mere telling of a story. I highly recommend Blackout.”

—Romantic Reviews Today

BLIND CURVE

“FOUR STARS! Riveting and emotionally intense.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

“Aperfect ten . . . nail-biting, intense drama that will leave you breathless with anticipation.”

—MyShelf.com

more . . .

“Annie Solomon does such an outstanding job creating taut suspense. From the very first page . . . to the riveting climax, you can’t help but be glued to the story.”

—RoundTableReviews.com

“An action-packed novel . . . a feast for suspense fans, and the added mixture of romance . . . . another winner for an author who clearly has a gift and is on the rise.”

—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com

TELL ME NO LIES

“Infused with raw emotion and a thirst for vengeance. Excitement and tension galore!”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

“Full of simmering emotions that lovers of romantic suspense will devour.”

—Rendezvous

“Another success! Miss Solomon’s latest novel is a testament to her gift for crafting intelligent, sexy novels.”

—RomanceReadersConnection.com

DEAD RINGER

“Just the ticket for those looking for excitement and romance.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

“An entertaining . . . exceptional . . . emotionally taut tale . . . offers twists and turns that kept me enthralled to the last page.”

—Old Book Barn Gazette

“Thrilling and edgy . . . Dead Ringer delivers excitement, suspense, and sexual tension . . . Highly recommended.”

—RomRevToday.com

LIKE A KNIFE

“A nail-biter through and through. Absolutely riveting.”

—Iris Johansen

“Fast-paced . . . exciting romantic suspense that . . . the audience will relish.”

—Midwest Book Review

“A powerful character study . . . [Ms. Solomon] blends the elements of romance and suspense . . . with the skill of a veteran.”

—The WordonRomance.com

1

From the edge of the angry crowd, he watched the fat black limousine crawl to the entrance of the Gray Visual Arts Center. The place blazed, lights piercing the night like knife points. Flags celebrating the art museum’s first anniversary flapped against poles in the night breeze, snapping like skins.

Someone bellowed a chant. “De-cen-cy! De-cen-cy!” The crowd joined in, fisted arms raised in time to the beat. “De-cen-cy!”

A protester broke from the police lines and rushed the car, attacking the windshield with a homemade placard on a stick. The man couldn’t read what it said, but he could guess from the others around him: GO HOME, SICKO, NO TO DEATH ART, JESUS IS THE TRUE SACRIFICE. A phalanx of uniformed cops pried the scraggly man off the car and dragged him away.

Amid the swirl—the multitude of TV trucks with their satellite antennas, the angry crowd, the police trying to maintain a barricade—the man stood still, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. The eye of the hurricane.

He inhaled deeply, absorbed the chaos through his skin. It leached into his veins and up his bloodstream, pumped hard and fast through his heart. The noise, the excitement, the energy of the night juiced him with a seething envy he could hardly contain.

For her. All for her.

The crowd pushed against the police line as the limousine stopped at the foot of the museum steps. He stood in the back, and from that distance, the four passengers appeared like tiny dolls climbing the stairs. But he imagined them. Wrapped in silk and glitter, six-thousand- dollar tuxedos, three-thousand-dollar shoes.

And her pale, white body, such fragile beauty, soft and perfumed.

A swarm of reporters descended from all sides of the steps and overwhelmed the four passengers. The shape of the swarm bulged and contracted as people shoved each other for position.

Jealousy churned into white-hot resentment. It should be him up there. Him in the newspapers, him on television. It should be his name the crowd chanted.

She was a liar, and a cheat.

He was the real thing.

She only imitated death.

He created it.

2

Be careful what you wish for. As the limousine crept through the enraged protesters, that little piece of irony reverberated in Gillian Gray’s head.

Outside the car, the protesters formed pockets, dispersed, and re-formed again, like a giant snake undulating in fury. Gillian narrowed her eyes so the group’s edges blurred. She imagined a dragon. A monster. As if she’d summoned Godzilla from the depths.

Maddie leaned over and murmured, “Regrets?”

Gillian could smell the perfume on her. Something strong and spicy. Venom or Vengeance. She smiled. “Are you kidding?”

Maddie smiled back. “You are not a nice person.”

“Look who’s talking.”

It was Maddie who had convinced Gillian to come in the first place. Maddie, with her long, scary face and Morticia Addams hair, who, as Gillian’s assistant, had taken the message and passed it on to her. “It’s the museum’s first anniversary,” she’d said. “They want to bring in a local.”

Oh, Gillian was a local all right. Not born, and because of boarding school, not even bred. But branded just the same. The way the building they were creeping to was branded. Gray. Gillian Gray. Daughter of a murdered daughter. Photographer. Aristocrat. Demon. Artiste.

But not Maddie, lucky girl. She was from some other godforsaken place. Some other nightmare. One where food itself was scarce. Not rich, not famous. Just glad to go to school with them, be friends with them. How long had she known Maddie? Longer than she wanted to count.

Gillian watched her friend out of the corner of her eye. She was pouring a small snooker of liquid courage for les grandperes.

Helpful Maddie. Lean and spare and strong as a tree limb weathered by winds.

Of course, Gillian had initially refused the invitation. She’d shrugged and climbed the ten-foot ladder to the platform in her Brooklyn studio where a bulky eight-byten camera sat on a tripod overlooking a set of a kitchen. An ordinary, commonplace suburban kitchen. But nothing in this life was ordinary, a kitchen least of all.

“The museum has your name on it,” Maddie had said.

“My grandfather’s name,” Gillian had corrected.

“It would be a great tie-in. Good publicity.”

“I don’t need publicity.”

Too true. Her name and face had been famous since she was a child and, as an adult, her work had always been controversial. So, she couldn’t avoid publicity even if she wanted to. And she didn’t want to. Not really. How could he find her if he didn’t know where she was?

Maddie had held the pink message slip between two fingers. Waved it like the devil offering temptation to a sinner. “Yeah, but think how much you could rock their world.”

Gillian stared at her friend. Maddie’s lips had twitched, not a smile exactly, but the smug suggestion of one.

Gillian had snatched the message out of Maddie’s hand.

Rock their world.

It sure to hell was rocking now.

And this was only the VIP party; the show hadn’t even opened yet. What would happen on Friday?

A thud. Someone with a sign flung himself at the slow-moving vehicle. On the seat opposite, her grandmother, Genevra, gasped and clutched at her fur-encased throat. It was early April, but she still wore the silver mink, more out of status than a need for warmth, although she did always complain about the cold. Not enough fat on those patrician bones. Above the stole’s rim, Genevra’s throat rose tall and tapered, the cords stretched tight in her too-thin neck. She stared in horror at the half word “obsceni,” which hung on the window, then slipped out of sight as a cop dragged whoever it was away.

“It’s all right,” Gillian’s grandfather said grimly. He squeezed his wife’s other hand, curled tightly in her lap. His own was beefy, his fingers squat and well manicured.

“Of course it is,” Genevra said through tight lips, pretending, as she always did.

Of course it was.

They made a handsome couple. The college quarterback and his homecoming queen. Growing up it seemed no surprise to Gillian that their only child had become an icon of beauty. At least to everyone with a subscription to Vogue. Not much of an icon to her own parents, however, but that was an old story.

Gillian turned, pressed her forehead against the glass like she was seven again.

“Get away from the window,” Genevra snapped.

Gillian ignored her. She peered into the face of the furies. Was he out there? Watching her? Would he come for her, too?

“Gillian!” Genevra’s voice grated into the hum of silence inside the car.

“Is your glass empty, Genevra? Let me take that from you.” Maddie’s voice behind her. Smooth interference. “Wouldn’t want to ruin that beautiful mink with spilled gin.”

“Thank you,” Genevra said, the words a sniff of stoicism, a warble of concealment, a disguise.

“Vintage?” Maddie asked, and like that she distracted Genevra into a discussion of fur and color and shape.

And Gillian could stare out the window at the faces. Would she see his face? The face of the man who’d killed her beautiful and famous mother? Was he out there, watching?

Be careful what you wish for.

3

Ray Pearce stared hard at the enormous photograph mounted on the museum wall. At the strange light coming in from a window, making the ordinary kitchen with its pink-and-green floral curtains and Winnie the Pooh cookie jar look ominous, even without the body on the floor.

But there was a body. A dead girl lay on her back. School uniform mussed, book bag lying beside her as though she’d been surprised and dropped it. An algebra text and a notebook with a mottled black-and-white cover spilled out of it. The girl, eyes wide and glazed in a bloodless face, stared unseeing at something beyond him. Her attacker? The viewer? He’d seen plenty of crime-scene photographs, but this one made him shift his feet and step back.

Not that moving away lessened the impact. Wider than Ray was tall, the huge picture pulled you in, making it impossible to ignore the girl’s plaid skirt, which lay crumpled above her knees. Or her thighs, which were parted and blood-streaked. A shirt embroidered with a school crest was untucked and unbuttoned. Three red splotches marred the once-crisp white cotton. The blood had soaked through as she bled out, fuzzing the edges of the wound marks. A suspicion of lace beneath hinted at her virginal white bra.

Close to her outstretched arm lay a bloodied knife. The fingers of her hand curled outward toward it as though beckoning: Come closer, they seemed to be saying. See me. That hand, that tender, fragile hand made him feel like the voyeur he was.

“What do you think?”

The voice of Carlson, his boss, and head of Carleco Security, broke the photograph’s eerie hold. “One sick puppy,” Ray said, and reminded himself to keep as far away as possible from her.

Carlson shrugged. “Well, let’s make sure she stays that way.”

Carlson nodded toward the exhibit entrance and beyond, where men in black tie and women in little black dresses sipped champagne. “They’re here.”

Ray followed Carlson out of the exhibit and into the reception area. Amid the black-coated waiters who mingled with trays of wineglasses and hors d’oeuvres, stood a tall, gangly man with black-rimmed glasses that matched his shock of black hair: Wilson Davenport, director of the museum.

Ray nodded, shook hands, filed his face away under “friendly.” At least, for now.

They left the reception and moved out into the hallway that led to the entrance. Once away from the crowd, the museum’s marble floors echoed with their footsteps. It was cold in the empty hallway. Cold the way a room is when all the people have gone.

Ray hunched inward, the collar of the tuxedo shirt tight around his neck. He never liked wearing the things, but babysitting the rich and famous meant blending in. And after three years of it, he had the money to buy all the trappings.

They turned a corner, passed the glass wall that skirted the closed and lifeless gift shop, past the unmanned information desk, and bore down on the metal detector at the other end of the long passageway. The museum had balked at installing it, but Carlson had insisted. Given the tumult outside, Ray guessed Davenport and his crew were glad they’d acquiesced.

Beyond the metal detector, the museum’s front door beckoned. For half a second, Ray imagined what it would be like to keep going. Walk into the night, get in his truck, and drive, baby, drive.

The lines from the Dylan song reverbed in his head: with no direction home. Like a complete unknown. Like a rolling stone.

Soon he’d make his plans. Pack his bags. Clip the guide wires and float free.

Tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. Soon.

He nodded at the uniformed officer manning the security station, and they all passed through. The little group planted itself just inside the museum’s front door and waited.

Exterior lights illuminated the center’s imposing front entrance. A columned portico. A slope of long, graceful steps. At the bottom, a black limousine was disgorging four people.

Beyond the four, the distant crowd still seethed. Fisted arms shook in the air and ugly, twisted mouths shouted slogans Ray couldn’t hear. He could hardly blame them for being incensed. Gillian Gray and her friends could call it art, but the photographs he’d seen were rightly labeled obscene, and if it had been up to him, they’d meet the woodpile. All of them. With a nice hot flame. No one but his former colleagues in homicide should have to look at those nightmares.

But it wasn’t up to him. He was no art expert; he was simply the guy who would escort Ms. Gray and her entourage to her party, then stand around while they ate stuffed mushrooms and drank champagne until they all got back in that limo and drove away to her granddaddy’s mansion.

Away. Far away.

The words played in his head as he watched the four ascend, the patriarch in front.

Although he was past seventy, Charles “Chip” Gray still had a broad, ex-footballer’s frame, though golf carts and country-club meals had turned it into paunch. Red-faced and huffing, he blocked Ray’s view of Gillian and her companion. Chip’s wife, Genevra, held his arm with one hand while the other clutched closed her silver fur as though it were armor. Ray knew who they were because most people in Nashville knew who they were. The Grays were local royalty, founders of an insurance conglomerate worth billions. Their name graced the front of the museum they were climbing toward.

The Gray Visual Arts Center was a cultural landmark for Nashville. For years the arts community had lobbied for an art museum of national standing. The Gray millions had finally made it possible, and a year ago the museum had opened to great fanfare. What better way to celebrate than to bring one of their own back for the first anniversary festivities?

He shot a sideways glance at the museum rep—what was his name? William? No, Wilson. Had it been his idea to bring Gillian Gray back to town? He’d bet Willy boy was regretting it now.

The group below hadn’t gone five steps when the swarm attacked. Swelled with national press and tabloids, a herd of reporters and paparazzi descended from both sides, surrounding the Grays. Now he couldn’t see any of them.

One glance at Carlson, and they both burst through the doors and raced down the steps. Elbowed to get through. Voices screamed questions as they got closer.

“Given community anger, will you withdraw from the exhibit?”

“How do you feel about public reaction to your work?”

A sea of faces, voices, and microphones buffeted the group. Cameras flashed, and the lights of news cameras shone in their eyes.

“Gentlemen! Ladies! Let us through!” Chip Gray pushed relentlessly through the thick sea of bodies and dismembered voices.

“Does your work contribute to violence?”

“Are you violent yourself?”

“Don’t respond,” Genevra Gray said. “Don’t say a word. Just one foot in front of the other. Forward.”

“Do you expect the museum to cancel the show?”

“What will you do if the museum cancels?”

Ray reached them first. He pulled the elder Grays through and handed them to Carlson, who threaded a path for them. Chip and Genevra plowed through, and Ray caught his first glimpse of their granddaughter alongside a tall, black-haired woman.

If he had to pick which of the two was the photographer, he would have guessed the dark one. There was an amused, cynical cast to her long, witchy face. It was a hard face, with a tough, brittle beauty that seemed more capable of handling a corpse than her companion’s.

But the brunette wasn’t the main attraction in the photographs. All the victims were incarnations of the angelic blonde beside her. And it was the angel, the small, slight angel, whose work was mounted on the museum’s walls and whose name was reviled by the protesters below.

The night was cool, but Gillian Gray wore no coat or shawl. No mink stole of any kind.

Only a pale violet dress that skimmed her shoulders and floated down her arms, as delicate as the dead child she pretended to be in the photo. She was older than the photograph; then again, she would be—she wasn’t pretending to be a schoolgirl now.

And yet her adult face and body had the same fragility as the dead girl’s. Wispy fair hair piled on her head. Big eyes that stared out from an elfin face with childlike innocence.

If Ray had let them, they would have pulled him in like her photographs. But he didn’t. He zeroed in on her. Linked an arm around her shoulder and another around the black-haired one. Pushed through. The pack continued shouting questions.

“You found your mother in the kitchen. Is that why you like kitchens?”

“Are you obsessed with death?”

“Ever killed anyone?”

“Let’s go,” Ray said, shoving the two women through.

“If they found him, what would you say to the man who killed your mother?”

He felt Gillian stiffen.

“Not now.” He tightened his grip on her. “Keep moving.”

But like a barge hitting ice, she ground to a halt. Turned back. “What would I say?”

The pack of reporters leaped closer, mad dogs salivating over the sound bite. They jostled Ray, and he swayed but didn’t let go of the women.

“What would you tell your mother’s murderer?” another reporter shouted.

Ray tensed, braced to keep his stance. Kept a roving gaze on the encroaching crowd. The last thing he needed was an incident before she even got inside the museum.

But the blonde didn’t seem to care. “What would I tell my mother’s killer?” She smiled sweetly as the pack closed in. “I’d tell him to come and get me.”

4

Ray couldn’t believe it. If she wanted to set them off, Gillian Gray couldn’t have given a better response. Follow-up questions came so fast they blended together in a screeching, shouted racket.

Gillian swiveled to face the museum entrance again, a poised, confident move. No helpless little girl here. “I’m ready now,” she said, and without his help, shoved her way through, leaving the mob screaming behind her.

Ray was sweating beneath his bow tie by the time they reached the door, but the woman beside him seemed revved up, excited. As if she’d faced down a challenge and won. There was a sharpness in her eyes as she greeted Davenport, who met them inside.

“Are you all right?” He took her arm. “Wilson Davenport, the museum’s director.”

“Ah.” Gillian’s smile could have cut glass. “The money man.”

Will escorted her into the museum’s foyer. “I am so sorry about all that outside.”

“Oh, don’t bother, Will.” Chip eyed his granddaughter balefully. “She likes being in the thick of things.” He shrugged out of his topcoat and dumped it on Will. “My God, a bunch of rabble.”

“Never mind.” Genevra Gray turned her back with a steely-eyed look and waited for Chip to take her fur. Underneath, a cream-colored floor-length gown clung to her frame. She looked all bone and sinew, as though she’d spent a lifetime on half rations and hard labor.

Ray waited for the business with the coats to finish so he could escort the group to the reception. The adrenaline had receded, and he felt the chill of the night and the pull of that red neon exit sign. Meanwhile, Chip was piling his wife’s fur on Will, along with Maddie’s coat, and Will was turning to Gillian, quirking a questioning eyebrow at her.

“No coat.” Gillian raised her arms as if he couldn’t see what was obvious.

“Ah, must be all that New York air.” Will released one arm from around the coats to make a muscle. “Thickened your blood.”

“It’s not my blood, Wilson; it’s my cold, cold heart.”

Ray’s glance swiveled to her. A sudden awareness, keen and interested. She’d surprised him again.

Davenport just chuckled. But it was an embarrassed, did-I-hear-that-right kind of laugh. He cleared his throat. “Call me Will, please.”

“All right . . . Will.”

“Well . . .” He lifted the outerwear as if that were the signal to move, then left, presumably to stash them in the coatroom.

“What a night,” Chip said to no one in particular.

“Mr. Gray.” Carlson stuck out his hand. “Ron Carlson. Carleco Security. The museum hired us to beef up security tonight.”

Chip Gray shook Carlson’s hand. “Thank you for the rescue out there.”

“No problem. We’ve got everything under control inside. Museum security guards at all the entrances—they’re the ones in uniform. My own people are plainclothes and will be floating, mixing with the crowd. And, of course, the metal detector. I’m afraid you’ll have to go through it like the rest.”

“Of course,” Chip said. “My wife, Genevra.” He turned to the other two women. “My granddaughter, Gillian, and her assistant, Madeleine Crane.”

Carlson acknowledged the two women with a nod, and Gillian extended a long-fingered, delicate hand, the one that had beckoned in the photograph. The sight of the fingers, now moving and alive, sent an unnatural shiver through Ray.

“You’ve met Ray,” Carlson said.

She glanced at him, swift but intense. A reading more than a glance. “Yes,” she said.

Will returned from stashing the coats, and Genevra Gray turned her hard, pointed gaze on him. “Will, can’t you do something about that mob outside?”

Will looked embarrassed. “The police are out there. Can’t do much more than that. Freedom of speech and all.”

Genevra sniffed.

Gillian leaned over to Will. “My grandmother isn’t a big fan of the Constitution.”

“I heard that,” Genevra snapped.

“Never mind.” Will clapped his hands and smiled, though Ray thought he still looked uneasy. Well, why wouldn’t he? He had a lot riding on the night. “You’re here; you’re safe.” He winked. “And the champagne is suitably chilled.” He gestured for them to precede him. “Shall we?”

The group moved away, and Ray followed, watching intently but from a discreet distance. He wasn’t part of the show, just the watchdog.

The Grays ignored him, but their companion hung back.

“Hey, good-looking. You gonna fo. . .