and then toss aside. She was
a complex woman, one he didn’t know all that much about. Jase paced her small
living room, looking for clues about the woman beneath the proverbial
uniform.
Based on the books on her shelf, she was an avid reader,
although she didn’t read true crime. She either went for science fiction or
historical romance. That surprised him. She was so pragmatic and no-nonsense at
work. Like her taste in home decor, her reading preferences made him wonder what
else she hid from the world.
He noticed some photo albums. Took one out and flipped through
it. He smiled at the pictures of her in various stages of adolescence. She’d
been all arms and legs, awkward. Despite the fact she was only five feet six
inches now, she’d towered over her classmates at various stages, boys included.
He imagined she’d endured some heavy teasing, especially because of her flaming
hair that had been more orange than red when she was younger. Still, the Carrie
he saw in the photographs appeared happy. Confident. Which for a high-school
student was pretty damn unusual.
At some point that seemed to change, however. After high-school
graduation, she grew more serious. Several photos were of her with an equally
serious-looking man, sometimes wearing his police uniform, sometimes not. Others
were of her with several men, all in uniform, all with the same red hair and
blue eyes. Not many pictures of her mother. It looked as if she’d disappeared
when Carrie was very young.
Jase put back the album and pulled out another one. This one
was a scrapbook, with article clippings and little mementos and her full name
written in scrolled lettering.
His eyebrows rose into his hairline. According to her
scrapbook, she was a first-class markswoman. She’d competed in the Olympics when
she was seventeen. She’d been the youngest member of the USA’s shooting team and
had won a silver medal. Several years later, she’d graduated from the police
academy and joined the Army. And a few years after that, she’d become the first
female sniper to join the Austin SWAT team.
She hadn’t been kidding when she’d said she could kick his ass.
He’d known she’d served a year on the SFPD SWAT before she’d joined SIG, but how
come she hadn’t told him she was a markswoman? And if she was such an incredible
shot, it made the fact she’d initially failed to shoot Porter even more
disturbing. Once again, he couldn’t help wondering what had really happened that
night. Or if his pushing things between them beforehand had played any part in
it.
She hadn’t given a whole lot of details in her report about
that night, and Jase had gotten the distinct impression she’d been deliberately
vague. Was she hiding something? Something she was ashamed of? Whether she
wanted to admit it or not, she’d had trouble dealing with what that old lady
back at the bar had done to her, and that didn’t jibe with who he knew her to
be. Cops met resistance and dealt with ugly confrontations all the time. Hell,
he’d seen Carrie go toe-to-toe with guys twice her size and who had records that
would make Al Capone look like a choirboy. Yet she’d freaked out because an old
lady had spit on her and accused her of killing her baby boy?
Baby boy, his ass. Kevin Porter had shot Carrie, then tried
beating her to death. If she hadn’t taken him down, she’d likely be dead. She’d
done what she had to do. So why did he get the feeling she was ashamed of what
she’d done? Of killing Porter? Of being a good cop?
Jase heard the shower turn off and replaced the scrapbook. Yes,
she had good reason to be proud of her accomplishments, but instinct told Jase
the scrapbook had been compiled by someone else. Someone who was proud of her.
It showed someone cared about her and that she occasionally lowered her guard
with others. At least, she had at some point.
He ruffled his fingers through his hair and looked around
again. Several files and stacks of paper were strewn
a complex woman, one he didn’t know all that much about. Jase paced her small
living room, looking for clues about the woman beneath the proverbial
uniform.
Based on the books on her shelf, she was an avid reader,
although she didn’t read true crime. She either went for science fiction or
historical romance. That surprised him. She was so pragmatic and no-nonsense at
work. Like her taste in home decor, her reading preferences made him wonder what
else she hid from the world.
He noticed some photo albums. Took one out and flipped through
it. He smiled at the pictures of her in various stages of adolescence. She’d
been all arms and legs, awkward. Despite the fact she was only five feet six
inches now, she’d towered over her classmates at various stages, boys included.
He imagined she’d endured some heavy teasing, especially because of her flaming
hair that had been more orange than red when she was younger. Still, the Carrie
he saw in the photographs appeared happy. Confident. Which for a high-school
student was pretty damn unusual.
At some point that seemed to change, however. After high-school
graduation, she grew more serious. Several photos were of her with an equally
serious-looking man, sometimes wearing his police uniform, sometimes not. Others
were of her with several men, all in uniform, all with the same red hair and
blue eyes. Not many pictures of her mother. It looked as if she’d disappeared
when Carrie was very young.
Jase put back the album and pulled out another one. This one
was a scrapbook, with article clippings and little mementos and her full name
written in scrolled lettering.
His eyebrows rose into his hairline. According to her
scrapbook, she was a first-class markswoman. She’d competed in the Olympics when
she was seventeen. She’d been the youngest member of the USA’s shooting team and
had won a silver medal. Several years later, she’d graduated from the police
academy and joined the Army. And a few years after that, she’d become the first
female sniper to join the Austin SWAT team.
She hadn’t been kidding when she’d said she could kick his ass.
He’d known she’d served a year on the SFPD SWAT before she’d joined SIG, but how
come she hadn’t told him she was a markswoman? And if she was such an incredible
shot, it made the fact she’d initially failed to shoot Porter even more
disturbing. Once again, he couldn’t help wondering what had really happened that
night. Or if his pushing things between them beforehand had played any part in
it.
She hadn’t given a whole lot of details in her report about
that night, and Jase had gotten the distinct impression she’d been deliberately
vague. Was she hiding something? Something she was ashamed of? Whether she
wanted to admit it or not, she’d had trouble dealing with what that old lady
back at the bar had done to her, and that didn’t jibe with who he knew her to
be. Cops met resistance and dealt with ugly confrontations all the time. Hell,
he’d seen Carrie go toe-to-toe with guys twice her size and who had records that
would make Al Capone look like a choirboy. Yet she’d freaked out because an old
lady had spit on her and accused her of killing her baby boy?
Baby boy, his ass. Kevin Porter had shot Carrie, then tried
beating her to death. If she hadn’t taken him down, she’d likely be dead. She’d
done what she had to do. So why did he get the feeling she was ashamed of what
she’d done? Of killing Porter? Of being a good cop?
Jase heard the shower turn off and replaced the scrapbook. Yes,
she had good reason to be proud of her accomplishments, but instinct told Jase
the scrapbook had been compiled by someone else. Someone who was proud of her.
It showed someone cared about her and that she occasionally lowered her guard
with others. At least, she had at some point.
He ruffled his fingers through his hair and looked around
again. Several files and stacks of paper were strewn
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