He scanned the area, then dragged me under the tape and marched me toward the café. “What are you doing here?”
I could hardly tell him I had Angel watching his every move. Because then I would have to tell him why. I would have to tell him that the man who could be responsible for his death was still at large. I would have to tell him how we thwarted the first—and hopefully only—attempt. I would have to tell him he was slated for hell. And then I would have to tell him why. That I knew what he did for me. That I owed him. That I loved him beyond measure.
“Charley Davidson, you are under arrest.”
Or not. “You can’t arrest me just because you want to, Uncle Bob.”
He stopped just inside the doors to the café and snapped his fingers at a nearby uniform. “Watch me.” He collected the officer’s handcuffs and turned me around, concern drawing his brows into a hard line. “You have the right to remain silent.”
I stilled when I saw the inside of the café. Overturned chairs. Broken glass. And blood. So much blood. “What happened, Uncle Bob?”
“Anything you say—”
“The kid,” I said, remembering what Angel had said. I whirled to face him but kept my hands behind my back even though he’d only cuffed one wrist. “There was a kid. Is he okay? Did he get shot?”
Ubie let out a long, exhausted sigh. “How did you know there was a kid involved?”
“Spies. Uncle Bob, what happened?”
The anger drained from his body, and a sadness crept in. He walked to a chair and lowered himself into it. “Just another day in the city.”
I knelt beside him and put my cuffed hand on his knee. “Is the boy … is he okay?”
After a long moment, he caved. “He will be. He was shot in the head and shoulder. The head wound was just a graze, and the shoulder will heal.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” I scanned the area again. A couple of uniforms eyed me, clearly wondering what I was doing at a crime scene as the CSS team scoured the place.
“Mass shooting,” he said, taking in the scene again. “A homeless man came in and shot up the place. Killed two people. Injured five others.”
“I’m sorry.” It seemed like such a lame thing to say, but I had nothing else. What did one say to such a senseless act? “Did they catch the shooter?”
He shook his head. “There’s a search going on as we speak. He took off toward the interstate, but that’s the last anyone has seen of him.”
Before he could say anything else, his phone rang. He stood, walked a few feet away, and answered it. I stood and followed him.
“Where? Just the coat? Get a field investigator over there and check the area for cameras.” He hung up, then turned, surprised at first I stood right on his heels until it sank in who I was. Who I was explained a lot of my actions to those who knew me well.
“Good news?” I asked.
“Possibly. They found a coat that may have been the shooter’s three blocks over.”
“That’s strange.”
“In what way?”
“Well, if he was just some random homeless guy, why would he ditch his coat?”
“To throw us off.”
“But a homeless guy on a chilly day who probably only has the one coat to speak of?”
Uncle Bob bent his head in thought as I took a closer look at the crime scene.
“Who died?” I asked.
“What?”
“Who died?”
“A woman in her midthirties and an elderly man.”
I nodded. Bit my bottom lip. Started to let the emotions of the spectators I’d felt earlier soak in. A couple felt off, but I chalked that up to reporter enthusiasm. Only a reporter would get excited at a fatal shooting. Especially if he were the first on the scene. So there was definitely one reporter present. So, then, why did I get a similar reaction from another spectator who had no press credentials or cameraman to speak of?
“Who died first?”
“We don’t know that yet. What are you thinking?”
“Okay, who was shot first?”
“According to a security feed and a couple of witnesses, the woman who died was shot first.”
“Was the kid hers?”
“Yes,” he said, fighting the urge to care on anything more than a professional level. He was usually pretty good at that. This one bothered him, though.
“What is it, Uncle Bob?”
“The kid. He jumped in front of his mother, trying to protect her.” Then he looked at me as though the puzzle pieces started falling into place in his mind. “The shooter shot the woman once. Then the boy jumped in front of her to protect her. The shooter…” He stalked to a hall that led to the offices in the back of the place. I followed.
“What are you thinking?”
“Nothing. Not yet. It’s just, it looked like the shooter tried to move the boy out of the way, but the shooter was blocking the camera’s angle, so it was hard to tell exactly what happened.”
We went into an office where another detective was viewing the security recording. He nodded at Ubie, then went back to his task.