Read Online Dead Shot by Annie Solomon - Free Book Online Page A

the picture because of the trophy. Division championship. It’s the only one I have.” Hockey had been his ticket to college. It had led him to Birmingham, and the University of Alabama Chargers had led him to a burger joint on the edge of campus. Nancy had been behind the counter. Nancy with her ready hands and her eager mouth, and her Nashville family. Hockey had been the beginning and end of everything.
    Gillian winked. “Ah, yeah sure, the trophy.”
    The doorbell rang, and he immediately tensed. His ex-wife had been quicker than he’d expected.
    But it wasn’t Nancy at the door.
    “Where is he?” Peter Coombs asked. Instead of a shirt, he wore a pajama top stuffed into his pants. Shorter than Ray, he was a slight man, sandy-haired and sandy-eyed. Made the most unremarkable impression a man could make. But he was a fifth-grade teacher, not a cop, and that was the main attraction.
    Ray stepped aside so Peter could see Burke slumped in the easy chair.
    “Where’s Nancy?” Ray asked.
    “It’s late,” Peter said curtly, as if that was all the explanation Ray needed. But of course, it wasn’t, because he added, “And she’s pregnant.”
    Ray nodded. Didn’t know if he was relieved or annoyed that she hadn’t come. Relieved, he decided.
    Together, he and Ray managed to heft Burke’s weight out of the house and down to the curb where Peter had parked his car. Burke mumbled and swore, farted once, but didn’t completely wake up.
    “He’s getting worse,” Ray said when they’d laid Burke in the backseat. “He needs someone looking out for him.”
    “Nancy’s got her hands full with little Carson,” Peter objected before her name had even been mentioned. “And now with the two new ones coming—”
    “Okay, okay.” Ray put up his hands in stop mode. He didn’t need an inventory. “Whatever. It’s just one of these days you’ll be picking him up at the morgue.”
    “I’ll talk to Jim,” Peter said.
    He was the only one who called him “Jim.” “Yeah, you do that.”
    He watched Peter drive off. The husband of his wife. The father of his wife’s children. Could his life get any weirder?
    Then he turned back to the house and saw Gillian Gray at the door.

13

    From the doorway, Gillian watched Ray and the man she’d gathered was Nancy’s husband stuff that confused bloated old man into the backseat of the husband’s car. Finished, Ray closed the door, then stood sentry as they disappeared into the darkness.
    Then he headed back to the house.
    He came in, looked her over. “Ready?” he asked. No cursing, no commentary about what had just happened. Something had to be done, and he did it. Calmly and with grace.
    “You’re a nice guy, aren’t you, Ray?”
    That made him shift in embarrassment, which amused her.
    “What was I supposed to do,” he said, “leave him in the street?”
    “Others might have.”
    He shrugged. “Maybe.” But he didn’t sound convinced. He checked his watch. “Look, it’s late. If we’re going, we should go.”
    But the scene with Ray’s ex-family had dampened Gillian’s enthusiasm for partying. So instead of going downtown to close the tourist bars, she directed Ray west, into Belle Meade, where the bronze statue of a prancing Thoroughbred and colt paid homage to the area’s racing history and where the
capo di capo
of old Nashville money resided.
    Like most of the homes in the area, the Gray house was set far back from the road. It sat on four wooded acres a stone’s throw from the Belle Meade Country Club. Pillars with open iron gates guarded the entrance. Ray drove between them slowly.
    “These gates ever close?”
    She looked at the braided black bars and decorative scalloped edge. “I don’t know that they can close. They’ve been there since 1872 or something like that. I think they’re rusted in place. Like the tin man.”
    He grunted a reply, his eyes scanning as he drove up the curved drive that led to the house.
    On either side,