Free Marrying Mike...Again by Alicia Scott

expression she’d seen before— drop it, his face read. Having learned her lesson this morning, she took her ex-husband’s advice.
    “Did you see who was firing at you?” she asked Officer Johnson.
    “Hell, no.”
    “Did you see the direction the shots were coming from?”
    “Across the street, high. I don’t know. One moment we’re getting out of our car, the next it’s just boom! Huntin’ time at the range and we’re the endangered species.” Johnson shuddered again.
    “Ma’am?”
    Sandra turned around and a large, bearded black man stepped in front of her. He was wearing a thin T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off to reveal thick-muscled arms covered in dark-blue tattoos. On his T-shirt, he sported a picture of a round yellow happy face—with a bullet hole between its eyes. Sandra was taken aback, but once again it was Mike’s reaction that caught her attention. He was beaming at the aging biker as if they were long-lost pals.
    “I’m Smithy Jones,” the man said, and held out a heavily callused palm. “Pleasure to meet the new chief of police. Read your comments on community policing. Can’t wait to be of help. Hell, I pretty much run this block already—well, tonight’s little brouhaha excluded.”
    “Pleasure to meet you, too, then, Mr. Jones. Thank you for assisting our officers.” Sandra returned the handshake with both surprise and gratitude.
    “And you saw the shooting?” she asked, after introducing herself.
    “Yes, ma’am. Shots were coming from the third window of that warehouse right there. Not a rifle, though. Sounded more like a 9 mm.”
    “Could you see who was firing?”
    “No ma’am.”
    “Did you see anyone entering the building earlier, or fleeing afterward?”
    “With all due respect, ma’am, it’s a pretty busy street.”
    Sandra nodded absently. She was not an expert marks-man herself, but she’d been shooting enough times to be comfortable and competent with handguns. And from what she could tell, that window had a clean line of sight onto the smoking patrol car. What had the officer said? It was like being hunted….
    Except…
    Rusty Koontz came walking up. He was tossing a handful of brass in his gloved hand and wearing a smirk. “Shells,” he announced. “Nine millimeter. Found them at the third-story window, just where you said, Smithy.”
    Smithy shrugged modestly.
    “Footprints in the dust, too,” Rusty said, his gaze zeroing in on Sandra. “Small footprints. Like the kind a thirteen-year-old might have.”
    “I see. Make sure we get some good photos of the tread pattern for the file.”
    “No kidding.”
    “Now let me see if I understand this,” she continued smoothly, moving authoritatively to the middle of the street and ignoring Mike’s warning glance. “Two officers pulled up here.” She pointed to the charred car. “One unidentified gunman stood there.” She pointed to the empty third-story window.
    “Child,” Koontz interrupted coldly. “Poor, misunderstood child.”
    “Child, then. Let’s assume it was Vee—”
    “Who the hell else has been sending fan mail to the press?”
    “Who we agree is an experienced shooter?”
    “He says he’s experienced. We haven’t even been able to prove the kid exists, let alone that he knows an automatic from a Tinkertoy.”
    “Then we’ll assume he’s inexperienced. Now then, do you really believe, Detective Koontz, that someone can stand forty feet away from two standing targets, and miss them completely? Let alone the fact that he had a perfect downward angle, the two targets were totally unaware, and the storefront throws great light. And he fired six, seven shots?”
    “Eleven,” Koontz filled in tightly. “Eleven shells.”
    Sandra raised a brow. “Eleven shots at two good-sized targets with perfect positioning. You still think he missed purely by accident?”
    Koontz glared at her sullenly. More officers had gathered and they were looking at her resentfully, too. It suddenly made