Page 77 of Burning Justice

Brett pointed to Pilcher’s image on her laptop. “And he’s relevant, why?”

“I’ll show you why.” Gemma closed out the website, then clicked the mouse. The laptop screen again filled with a grid of documents. She clicked on one of the docs, enlarging it and pointing to the notary box. “There. And there,” she said after enlarging the adjacent document. “I just looked again at over a dozen of these titles issued by the nonexistent Kobuk Titling Agency in Alaska. I never noticed it before. Each one was notarized by the same person. Charles Pilcher. Right here in Denver.”

He leaned in closer to read Pilcher’s bio. “If he’s notarizing documents for a company that doesn’t exist, he’s gotta know something. That’s good work. Really good work.” Without thinking, he clasped Gemma’s face and planted a quick kiss on her mouth. Her eyes flashed wide.

He dropped his hands. “Shit.” You ass, Tanner. Great way to send mixed messages. He’d been so amped up on adrenaline he hadn’t stopped to think about the consequences of his impulses.

“That’s okay.” She licked her lips, then averted her gaze. Not before he’d caught the look of pain on her face, making him feel like the bastard he was.

His laptop dinged with an incoming message. HIT CONFIRMATION. Attached to the response was a file. He clicked on it and scanned the essentials. “Two days ago, David Hawkin was arrested by the New Mexico State Police. Recognize him?” Gemma leaned over to look at Hawkin’s arrest photo, then shook her head. “Originally, he was pulled over for speeding. He had a concealed, loaded, unlicensed handgun in his possession.” As he read the next line to himself, his heart pounded faster. “It was a 9mm.”

The same caliber as the gun that nearly killed him and Blaze at Piggly’s.

Brett’s pulse pounded faster. If the gun had been seized, then sitting in an evidence locker in a New Mexico State Police district office was a gun that could be fired, the spent casings from which could be compared to the ones he’d collected at Piggly’s.

If they were a match, he’d know who tried to kill him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Why did he have to kiss me again?

Gemma had been doing great until that moment, having successfully hauled herself back onto the no-physical-contact-with-Brett wagon. With what was barely a peck on the lips, he’d yanked her off the wagon, and she’d landed solidly on her ass again. Then, in the time it had taken for him to read the arrest report on Hawkin, Brett had clearly eradicated the moment from his consciousness.

What she ought to have done was stick to her guns, so to speak, and driven her own truck to Denver and met Brett outside Charles Pilcher’s office. Instead, here she was, sitting not two feet from a man who set her blood on fire and made her want to jump his bones all over again. He, on the other hand, had deftly avoided discussing that kiss the same way one would avoid stepping on a big, steaming pile of dog poop.

She leaned her arm against the window and sighed. Instead of being angry or frustrated, maybe she should be grateful. Unlike with the colleague she’d gotten involved with, who’d remorselessly stabbed her in the back, things with Brett had ended before she’d been seriously hurt, and with no lingering work complications. With the case, at least, they were still in sync.

The only sounds in the Expedition came from the click of Blaze’s nails on the kennel floor behind them and the dog’s panting. She rubbed the soft spot behind Blaze’s ear. The muscles beneath the warm fur were taut. The dog was so attuned to Brett that he understood something was wrong. She’d once heard from a local K-9 officer that if either the handler or the dog was in distress, the other would know it and feel it the same as if they were the one experiencing the symptoms. Emotions traveled up the leash and down.

Before leaving the house, Brett had left a message for the New Mexico State Police officer in Raton who’d arrested David Hawkin. As he searched the side streets for a parking spot near Union Station, inside of which was the Mountain Legal Associates office, he glanced continually at his phone. Finally, he snagged a spot half a block away from Union Station.

Two seconds after putting the SUV in park, Brett’s phone rang. The letters NMSP lit the screen.

Brett put the call on speaker. “Tanner.”

“This is Trooper Sanchez, New Mexico State Police. You left a message wanting information on David Hawkin.”

“I did. I see you arrested him less than a week ago. I read what’s in NCIC. What else can you tell me about the arrest?”

“I pulled him over for speeding on I-25. He had a concealed handgun, but no license, so I took him in. He said he’d applied for a concealed carry license but hadn’t received it yet. He was released, pending verification of the license.”

“Did you seize the gun?”

“Yes. He won’t get it back until his license is issued.”

Brett fisted his hand triumphantly.

Blaze pushed his head farther through the opening, staring at the phone as if he were actually listening and understanding the conversation. Maybe he was. Blaze uttered a snort, then rested his chin on Brett’s shoulder.

“David Hawkin is suspected of trying to murder a federal officer and attacking a woman. I’m sending another ATF agent to you today to take custody of that gun.”

A loud whistle came through the phone. “I’d be happy to lock this guy up again for you. You got a warrant?”

“Not yet. NCIC said he was arrested two days ago. What time of day, and what was the exact location on I-25?”

“It was around 1 a.m. I was working the midnight shift. I pinged him doing ninety-five just south of the Colorado border between Raton and Springer.”

“Did you search his vehicle?”