Uttering her name, she raised her hand to his. "Are you in charge?" she asked.
"I'm the primary." Grimacing, he looked toward the damaged bar. "You own this place?"
''What's left of it."
"You look like you could use a chair and something to drink."
She nodded and allowed him to guide her to a nearby bistro table. He pulled out a chair and she sank into it, aware that a bullet had taken a chunk of wood out of the backrest.
"What happened?" he asked.
Leaning forward, she closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. "Jesus, it doesn't seem real. It happened so fast."
"That's the way it goes sometimes. Takes a while for something like this to sink in."
Addison recounted the shooting in a low, raspy voice that didn't sound at all like her own. By the time she finished, her hands were shaking so badly she could barely grip the cup of water a uniformed policeman had brought her.
Van-Dyne leaned back in his chair and flipped through the pad where he'd jotted notes. ''The convenience store two streets over got hit last week," he said. ''Thug got about a hundred bucks and change."
"Was anyone hurt?" she asked.
"No, but he shot up the place." The' detective looked around her shop. "Similar M.O."
"You think it's the same guy?"
"Probably." He toyed with the napkin holder on the table between them. "A witness reported seeing a chrome pistol. Suspect wore a black coat. Ski mask."
''That's him."
"This guy's good at what he does. Doesn't leave anything behind."
"You mean like fingerprints?"
"Or anything else."
"Hell of a way to make a living." Spotting the shattered Italian bowl at her feet, Addison leaned forward, picked up the biggest piece, and put it on the table between them. "You hear about crimes every day on TV, people being hurt, lives ruined, but it's different when it happens to you."
The detective looked at the broken piece of ceramic "You're lucky, Miss Fox. This could have turned out much worse."
"There was less than eight hundred dollars in that bank bag, Detective. I like to think my life is worth more than eight hundred dollars." She knew there had been more horrible crimes committed for less, but it frightened her to know how little value criminals placed on human life.
"If it's any consolation, he didn't get the money," he said.
Her gaze snapped to his. Something inside her stirred, a foreboding that had her gripping the mug with white-knuckled hands. She distinctly remembered Randall tossing the bag over the counter. "Are you sure?"
"The money bag was on the floor in front of the bar." He shot an annoyed look over his shoulder where Randall sat at a bistro table talking to another detective. "Guess the lone ranger over there scared him off before he could take the bag."
Van-Dyne pulled his business card out of his wallet and put it on the table between them. "If you think .of anything else, give me a call. If I'm not at the station, you can leave a voice message."
After the detective left her, Addison sat alone at the table, watching the chaos, wishing she wasn't the one right in the center of it. A sick sense of dread twisted through her as she assessed the damage. Bullet holes peppered the front of the bar. A hole the size of a dime marred the facade of the antique cash register. Atop the counter, two glass canisters filled with some of the rarest coffees in the world had been shattered. Dark beans were spilled onto the floor like loose gravel.
Suddenly tired, she lowered her face into her hands and closed her eyes. Her refuge had been invaded. A place where she'd always felt safe. A place she'd built with her own two hands. A place that defined who she was, and where she fit into an increasingly complex world.
She struggled to put what was left of her control into play. The last thing she wanted to do was break down. She refused to play the role of helpless victim. It was her anger that saved her from it. A deep, burgeoning fury that kept her mind working when it wanted to shut down, her eyes dry when she wanted to cry.
"Christ, it looks like Bonnie and Clyde happened by."
She started at the sound of the newly familiar voice. Raising her head, she found Randall Talbot taking in the scene around him with the nonchalance of a cop. He looked right at home among the bedlam as if getting shot at was a routine part of his day. A fact that irked her despite the reality that he'd saved her life.
"You okay?" he asked, taking the chair across from her.
"No," she snarled. "Dammit, I'm not okay."
"I guess I'm not the only one who takes it personally when people start shooting at me. At least you're not in shock. That's good."
"I didn't mean to snap at you," she said. "I just feel so . . . violated. This is my shop. Mine." She rapped her fist against her chest. "I deserve to feel safe here. He had no right to take that away from me."
"No, he didn't."
"The worst part about this is that he'll probably get away with it."