Grace Among Thieves by Julie Hyzy Page A

keep quiet, I asked Rodriguez, “Where to first? The girl who was killed or the man who was shot?”
    The detective spoke in a low growl, close to my ear. “What’s going on here, Ms. Wheaton? A town like this shouldn’t have these kinds of problems.”
    That was twice in as many minutes that someone had made a point to mention the recent upsurge in murders. Rodriguez hadn’t called me out personally the way Frances had, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking it.
    I decided not to answer that as we walked quickly across the main floor.
    “I want to talk to the shooting victim,” Rodriguez said. “Let’s hope he’s still alive by the time we get there.”

Chapter 8
    WITH HIS BACK UP AGAINST THE OAK WALL, the victim sat on the floor, head hanging down. At first I couldn’t tell if he was unconscious or not, but the fact that he retained a grip his left shoulder and remained upright was encouraging.
    Terrence’s staff had managed to clear the immediate area and paramedics were working on the injured man, faces calm, expressions serious. One of them confirmed that the victim’s vitals were being transmitted to the local hospital. “You’re in good hands, sir,” he assured his patient. “Try to keep alert. We need you to stay awake.”
    Another paramedic, nearer the victim’s head, asked about allergies. Yet another set up a saline drip. The woman who had so spiritedly taken Lenore to task yesterday was now crouched on the floor conferring with the paramedics. It dawned on me that she was the doctor in the group who John had mentioned. I’d pegged her as a retired kindergarten teacher. What was her name again? I racked my brain. Marlene.
    Marlene spoke in a crisp tone, asking questions, issuing directives.
    “Oh,” I said, startled, when the man on the floor looked up. Spotting me, he tried to straighten, and I could tell he was trying to place who I was. Just then, however, Marlene lifted the man’s arm to examine his wound, causing him to stiffen and wince.
    I winced, too. So much blood from one bullet hole. The victim clenched his eyes and turned away.
    “You know him?” Rodriguez asked from over my shoulder.
    “Not really,” I answered. “He was part of the tour group that came through here yesterday when we had that altercation. I remember seeing him. The tour guide says his name is Mark Ellroy.”
    The man on the floor focused mad, dark eyes on me now. He tried to get up but the paramedics held him down. “Lenore,” he asked, voice cracking. “No one will tell me anything. Is she all right?”
    I turned to Rodriguez. “He doesn’t know.”
    Whispering served only to stir the man’s agitation.
    “Oh no,” he gasped, his gaze frantically bouncing between my face and Rodriguez’s, “she’s not okay, is she?”
    The concern in his expression gripped me. I had no words of consolation, but I was moved with pity. “I’m so sorry,” I began, realizing by the widening of his eyes that that was probably the worst way to begin. “Can you tell us what happened?”
    Flynn, who up until now had been mostly silent, gave a grunt of displeasure. “Since when are you in charge of questioning witnesses?” he demanded under his breath.
    Rodriguez had placed a restraining hand on my arm. His voice was gentle. “Let us handle this. You can help by gathering all the other potential witnesses. Is there somewhere they can wait until we’re ready to question them?”
    “I’ll find a room.” I thought about it. “Or two.”
    “Evidence technicians will be here soon,” he added. “We’ll need your help coordinating.” He started to move away, then stopped and turned back. He heaved a sigh so deep his protruding gut lifted and dropped with a bounce. “What am I saying? You know the drill.”
    Unfortunately, I did.
    “John’s downstairs,” I said, adding, “The tour guide,” when Rodriguez looked confused. “I’ll make sure he’s okay. He saw the man who did this.”
    The rest of the