Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [80]
“This is getting old,” Miranda grumbled as she climbed into the passenger seat of Will’s car the next morning. “Old, old, old . . .”
“Hey, you were the one who wanted to work on Saturday, remember? I was just as happy to work from home.”
“Well, after losing half a day, yesterday, chasing our tails in Ohio . . .” She snapped her seat belt closed. “All that way just to find out that Curtis Channing had been a model employee. Who’d have thought that?”
“Yeah, the least he could have done was show a little hostility toward the waitresses. Give us something to work with.”
“Shut up and drive.” She sank into her seat.
“I see we’re just a little ray of sunshine this morning.”
She glared at him.
“No coffee this morning, Cahill?”
“I was out.”
“Uh-oh. We all know what that means.”
“I said shut up, Fletcher.”
He chuckled, further incurring her wrath, but he redeemed himself when he pulled into the first convenience store they came to.
“No, no, you stay right there,” he told her as he got out of the car. “I’ll get your coffee.”
“I’ll come in.” She opened the passenger door. “You don’t have to go in for me.”
“I do if I ever want to shop here again. God only knows what kind of damage you could do to my reputation, the mood you’re in. . . .”
She slammed the door closed again and sat back in the seat.
Will was back in under five minutes, a cardboard carrier holding three cups of coffee in one hand, a bag in the other.
“I got you an extra cup. And look, Cahill. Doughnuts.” He got into the car slowly, trying not to tip the cups. He tossed the bag in her general direction, then looked over at her when the bag hit the floor. “Hey, you were supposed to catch—”
Miranda sat stock-still, her phone up to her ear, her face white. “Fuck,” she yelled. “Fuck!”
“What . . . ?”
She got out of the car and paced the parking lot wildly. She looked stricken, furious.
Will followed her, pinned her up against the car, and took the phone from her hand.
“What happened? What?”
“Landry is dead.” She spat the words at him. “The Plainsville police found his body about forty minutes ago.”
“Jesus.” He appeared momentarily stunned. “What about Phillips?”
“He’s in the emergency room at Princeton Hospital. He took one shot, but he’ll survive.” She pushed Will away with a two-handed shove to the chest. “Son of a bitch! How the hell is this little wienie getting away with this shit?”
Before he could answer, she’d taken off around the car and was getting back in.
“Drive,” she pleaded. “Get back in and drive.”
All the way to Plainsville, she muttered curses under her breath, stopping only long enough to make those phone calls she knew she needed to make. The first was to John Mancini. The second was to the Plainsville police for an update.
“You were supposed to be watching this guy,” she’d said in her most controlled voice. “Why weren’t you watching him?”
“Hey, we don’t have enough officers to have one stationed twenty-four hours a day watching any one individual, okay?” the chief of police had spat back. “And besides, since the FBI had a man there, we figured Mr. Landry was in good hands. So why don’t you ask your own man what happened, Agent Cahill? Ask him what he was doing while Josh Landry was being shot and killed on his watch.”
“I just can’t believe this.” She shook her head after she’d hung up the phone. “I can’t believe that Archer Lowell has pulled this off. Where the hell was Art Phillips?”
She leaned forward and turned to Will. “How could he have outsmarted us, not once, but twice? How could he have shot not only Landry, but the agent who was supposed to be watching Landry? What is wrong with this picture?”
“All reasonable questions.” Will accelerated as he hit the highway. “Ones I intend to ask of Phillips, assuming he lives.”
“He’ll live. It didn’t sound as if his injuries were that serious.” She sat back in her seat and exhaled. “This is the damnedest case I ever worked, I swear it is.”
“Drink your coffee, Cahill, and calm down a little.”
“I don’t want to calm down. I’m so pissed off right now—”
“I understand.