Free Dust Up with the Detective by Danica Winters Page B

ragged breath.
    “What’s the matter?” Jeremy asked, staring at her.
    She tried to shake off the thoughts that plagued her. “Nothing. No worries.”
    “I know you. You can’t lie to me.”
    Was that true? Did he really know her? She had been on her own for so long now that she balked at the thought that a man—no, not just some man, but Jeremy—really cared enough to think that he knew her. She looked at him for a moment, taking in the barely noticeable crow’s feet that adorned his perfectly almond-shaped eyes. Eyes that seemed to look straight through her. Eyes that seemed to see her for who she really was, and not the hard-edged person she tried to show to the world.
    She looked away. She couldn’t fall for those eyes, or the man behind them. She couldn’t let herself lose her focus or her edge.
    “I think I got a lead,” she said, skirting the issue. “Mayor Engelman was at the Shooting Sports Championship.”
    “That’s not much of a lead.”
    “No, but we have a solid place to start investigating our number one suspect.”

Chapter Nine
    At the gun range men and women were standing in the trapshooting fields, and the sharp echoes of shotgun blasts and the scent of spent gunpowder filled the air. In a strange way, the smell of the powder made Blake comfortable. She’d spent so many days on the range with her standard-issue Glock 22 .40 caliber pistol. Every officer in combined city and county sheriff’s office, known as the Butte–Silver Bow County Sheriff’s Department, had been issued the same gun, but over time hers had become special. It had become a part of her. She reached down and touched its familiar grip.
    She and Jeremy made their way to the clubhouse. A man in his early twenties sat behind the counter reading a Guns & Ammo magazine. He looked up as they approached.
    “How can I help you, Officer?” he asked, setting the magazine down on the counter and giving them his full attention.
    She smiled. “I was just wondering about yesterday’s competition. Was the mayor here?”
    “Yeah,” the clubhouse manager said with a sharp nod. “Mayor Engelman gave a great speech on the need for enforcing our Second Amendment rights.”
    “How long was the competition?”
    “The prelims started last week. Yesterday was the finals.” He rambled on about the winners and their shooting averages, while Blake pretended to listen.
    “Was the mayor here the entire time?” Jeremy asked when the man took a break between statistics.
    The manager nodded. “He was here on and off throughout the week, and yesterday he was here most of the day. Made a big thing out of it. You should have seen it—he even took a turn on the shooting stage. Missed just about all the clays, but you know how it is, not being his gun and all.”
    “He’s not a good shot?” Jeremy asked, giving her a questioning look.
    The manager passed them a grin. “Hey, I ain’t saying he’s bad. He just ain’t a shotgun man.”
    If the mayor wasn’t a good shot with a shotgun, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t necessarily a good shot with a handgun—particularly the one that had been used in Robert’s murder. Heck, anyone could have been a good shot at such close range. Then again, would the mayor really have wanted to get his hands dirty? Would the glad-handing, speech-making, baby-kissing mayor really be capable of pulling a trigger to get something he wanted?
    Jeremy laughed. “Hey, we can’t all be good at everything. Am I right?” he asked, chumming up with the club’s manager.
    “Hey, I heard he’s real good with a sidearm.”
    “Is that right?” Blake asked, perking up.
    “That’s the talk around the clubhouse. I had a guy in here yesterday. Said he was shooting with the mayor just last week. He said the guy could shoot a solid grouping at twenty-one feet.”
    “Who was the guy the mayor went shooting with?” Jeremy asked as he leaned against the counter in what she assumed was his attempt to look nonchalant