Iris Johansen - Dead Aim

"Invasion of privacy." His tone was light as he set the tray down on the night stand beside her. "I could sue."

"When all these sketches are of me? I don't think so." She looked up with a cool stare. "You must have been very bored."

"You weren't the most entertaining company. I had to keep myself occupied."

"This isn't me." She closed the sketchbook. "You've made me… weak."

He shook his head. "There's nothing weak about you. It's not uncommon for a subject to see what they fear in a portrait."

"I'm not afraid. I see what you've sketched."

He flipped open the pad to the first sketch. "You're ill; you're without defenses." He pointed to the line of her mouth. "But there's strength here. And do you see the tension in the jawline? Determination. You wouldn't let go even when you were feverish. You were a very interesting subject."

He was too close. He wasn't touching her, but she could feel the heat of his body and she instinctively tensed. "And you didn't feel in the least guilty for sketching me when I was helpless?"

He smiled. "You know what a ruthless bastard I am. I take what I'm given."

"And also what you're not given."

"True. But I never thought of you as helpless." He took the pad from her and handed her a small plate. "So stop brooding and eat your ham sandwich."

He'd taken a step back, and she breathed a sigh ofrelief. It was idiotic to be this physically aware of him. It must be because she had been hurt and his power and presence were in such sharp contrast.

He smiled. "I thought you'd prefer finger food to spilling soup down your chest in front of me."

She did prefer it. She was feeling clumsy and vulnerable enough without- She had a sudden thought. "I'm wearing your shirt. How did I get it on?"

"Me." He sat down in the chair and put his feet on the hassock. "It wasn't in the doctor's job description and I didn't want to offend him. I'm sorry if it upsets you."

"It doesn't upset me. That's the least of my worries." She bit into the sandwich. "I was just curious."

"I should have known better. A woman who can hot-wire a car wouldn't let a little thing like nudity bother her."

"There are too many ways a person can be naked besides the physical." She tapped the sketch pad. "This bothers me more. You… intruded."

"You have a very interesting face, but I promise I won't do it again without your permission."

She believed him. "You're very good-for a criminal."

He laughed. "That was a grudging compliment. I'm glad I didn't disappoint you."

"You couldn't disappoint me. I don't expect anything from you."

"Good. A clean slate." He made a face. "I wish."

"You're a fine artist. Which makes it even worse that you ignore your gift to do things that hurt other people." She shrugged. "Not that it makes any difference to me. Do what you want, be what you want."

"Thank you."

She ignored the irony in his tone. "As long as you give me the same privilege and let me go my own way." She stared him in the eye. "So prove you didn't lie to me. Let me go. Put up or shut up."

"It's not that easy. All the roadblocks I mentioned before are still in place." He held up his hand as she started to interrupt. "I didn't say I wasn't willing to find a way around them. I'm in a delicate situation. I made a deal with Logan and I don't want to break it."

"Are you afraid of him?"

"No," he said quietly. "I'm afraid of you. Because there's every chance you could get me killed."

"I don't want to get anyone killed. I just want to find the men who buried those men, women, and children at

Arapahoe Junction."

"I know. And since you won't give up until you find them, you won't be safe until you do." He turned away. "And I promised you that I'd keep you safe. So I have no choice. I have to find and get rid of them."

"You expect me to believe you'll help me find them?"

"And dispose of them. After that I figure my debt is paid and you're on your own. Finish your sandwich and milk. We have work to do."

"What?"

"Recuperation time is over. I take it you didn't ID any of the men at the dam in the databases?"

She shook her head.

"Police artist?"

"That was going to be the next step."

"The next step is here. You give me features and I'll put them on paper. We'll get faces and then we'll get names."

She stared at him for a moment. "You mean it."

He sat down and flipped open the sketch pad. "You're damn right I do."

"Longer sideburns?" Morgan asked.

"No, but the forehead was broader, the hair receding." Morgan's pencil moved quickly over the pad. "Any moles or scars?"

"I don't remember."

"That's not acceptable."

"I only saw him for a few seconds. I was paying attention to the men outside the helicopter."

"You remembered the other two faces."

"He was inside the helicopter. There was shadow…" Ken s helicopter exploding in a ball of flame.

"You don't want to remember."

"Screw you."

He ignored her, his gaze on the pad. "You said he was the one who fired the shot. Take it from the point where he lifted his hand and pointed the gun."

"I don't remember."

"What kind of gun was it?" "I don't know."

"What size? A magnum? A thirty-eight?"

"A rifle…"

"Okay, he's lifting the rifle. Follow the line from barrel to stock. Do you see it?"

Metal gleaming blue in the lights of Ken's helicopter.

"Do you see it?" "I see it."

"Then you have to be able to see his face. Lips?"

"Thin."

"Cheekbones?" "High."

"How high?"

"His face is kind of… diamond shape."

"Good." His pencil was flying over the pad. "Eyebrows?" Eyes squinting as he aimed the rifle.

"Bushy."

"Eye color?"

"I can't see them. Dark, I think."

"Nose?"

"Straight. Short. Slightly flared nostrils."

"Okay. We've got a start. Give me a minute and I'll let you see it and we'll make the changes." He bent over the pad.

That had been the procedure all afternoon. Morgan had probed and questioned and made her remember details she had forgotten. Working on the sketches of the first two men had not been easy, but it was on the last one that she had drawn a blank.

A blank Morgan had not let her maintain.

He was tireless and his concentration seemed, if anything, more intense while he was working on this last sketch. "What about his neck? No double chin?"

"No. The line was firm, sharp, and he- What's wrong?" He'd frozen, his pencil still, as he stared at the sketch.

"Nothing. Just making sure I got everything." His pencil began flying across the pad again.

A few minutes later he glanced up at her. "You did well." "You forced me to do well."

"And you resent it."

"No. Well, maybe on one level. But it was necessary for me to remember. No matter how much it hurt. It was my job." She sat up and braced herself. "Are you ready to show me the sketch?"

"Are you ready to see it?" He smiled faintly. "Hell, yes, you are." He turned the pad around. "The shooter."

He'd sketched in the rifle pressed against the face of the man.

She flinched and then forced herself to concentrate on the face. "He looks too… smooth. The face was thin, but there were wrinkles around his eyes when he squinted."

Morgan turned the pad back and began to work. "Ears."

"Close to his head, I think. I didn't see The rifle was-"

"Think about it." His tone was hard, incisive, demanding, as his pencil moved over the pad. "You remembered the sideburns. You have to remember the ears."

"I'll remember. Give me a minute." "Just spit it out. You're on a rolL" "For God's sake, give me a break."

He glanced up at her. "Is that what you want from me?" Hardness. Coolness. Without mercy.

No, she didn't want a break from him. She wanted exactly what she was being given. Intelligence. Dedication. Determination. "Hell, no."