“What’s your problem?” she asked as they walked to the opposite end of the lobby. “You should be happy that someone trained to observe was here.”
“There are security cameras everywhere.”
She rolled her eyes and muttered, “Whatever.”
She and Jim had been involved for nearly eighteen months—the longest relationship she’d ever had. She supposed that really wasn’t saying much considering she was thirty-four, but it meant something to her. Ten months after they started seeing each other, she’d moved in with him. They argued a lot, but making up was always fun. They had a lot in common—country music and micro brew beer and skiing and a love for the Sacramento Kings basketball team, even when they sucked, which was most of the time. But what happened last year—it wasn’t something they could get over. It wasn’t something she could get over.
Alex put on her cop face, because if she was going to get through this, she needed to be professional. She explained that she’d exited the third floor via this staircase, then she walked Jim along the path she’d taken, down the wide hall, past the reservation desk.
“The reporters blocked my way, but I began to push my way through when something caught my eye,” she said. “You know how it is, in your periphery you get that little instinctive twitch when something seems out of place. I looked up. Saw the suspect. Hoodies always make me twitch, though they’re so common now. Yet ... the way he was looking down into the lobby, the way he was standing—it was suspicious. He was rigid. Waiting. I noticed he wore gloves, and it’s too warm for gloves.”
Jim nodded, taking notes.
“I thought I saw a flash of metal, not really much of anything, a dull belt buckle maybe, but then as soon as the doors opened and the group came in and the reporters started talking and taking pictures, I recognized Hart. And I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That it was a gun.”
“Did you see the gun?”
“Yes. I looked back at the suspect and saw the gun in his hand. It wasn’t yet out of his belt—he didn’t have a holster, it was stuck in his pants. I shouted, jumped onto that table,” she gestured to the large round table, “in order to be heard over the reporters. I needed to catch their attention.”
“You didn’t draw your weapon.”
“Not until after I had the target covered. Protect, then pursue.”
“And you put yourself in the line of fire.”
“I didn’t think of it like that.”
“You don’t think.”
She snapped, “Really? You’re going to fuck with me now?”
Jim rubbed his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Yes it is. I wasn’t being reckless, Detective, I was acting on my training. See a threat, neutralize it. I couldn’t get to the shooter, but I could get to the intended target.”
“The target being Travis Hart.”
“He’s the only one I recognized. Was there another politician with him?”
“Just staff.”
“I assumed the target was the politician. CHP said they’re pulling security tapes in and outside of the hotel. Don’t forget the street cams, and the new hotel across the mall has state of the art surveillance.”
“I know how to do my damn job, Alex.”
She ignored his comment and said, “He ran like he was young. Early to mid twenties. I didn’t get a good look at his face—he’s a white guy, pale hair, skinny.”
Jim added that to the description she’d given earlier. “The paramedics are here,” he said. “Go get stitched up.”
She’d been ignoring them.
“Don’t make me go to the hospital in a damn ambulance. I can practically walk there.”
“Just do it, Alex.”
Steve approached. “CHP has Hart secured in a room upstairs, the witnesses in a meeting room. How do you want to handle this?”
“Grab a couple uniforms and you take the witnesses, I’ll take Hart.”
Steve nodded, then said to Alex, “Good to see you.”
“You, too,” she said absently. She stared at the table in the middle of the lobby, the one with the ugly vase and towering canopy of red and white flowers. She looked up at the railing and pictured where the shooter had been standing. At the angle she’d see him his head had been just to the left of a wall sconce that was a few feet behind him.
She started toward the staircase.
“Hold it, Alex,” Jim said. “You can’t go up there.”
“I have to check something.” She stopped, looked at him. “Trust me Jim. I’m still a good cop.”
“Fuck,” he muttered, then followed her, motioning to the cops manning the stairs to let Alex through. “Don’t touch anything,” he said.
She bit her tongue to keep from lashing Jim with it. Jerk.
She took the stairs quickly. Jim and Steve were right behind her. She went to the exact location that the shooter had been standing.
“He stood here.”
“We know that, based on the other witnesses. And we’re getting the security footage. Did you see him drop something? Take off his gloves?”