Jack in the Green by Diane Capri

check. “That’s Alberto and Franco Vernon. They might have been at the fundraiser. They’re not involved with Greyhound Lanes. But they do own a pari-mutuel track a few miles north of here.”
    “Are they related to Michael Vernon?” Kimball asked, naming the dead man Agent Crane had identified as today’s shooter.
    Carson set her fork on her plate briefly, composing her reply with care because the question came too close to the case she was handling. “They have a brother named Michael, yes. Theirs is a large local family. Long-time Tampa businesspeople. Significant contributors to the community. Like most large families, some members are more successful than others. But they’re protective of their own.”
    Gaspar received the definite message that no further questions would be entertained about the Vernons. Kimball must have received the same message because she didn’t press further. After a few moments, Carson picked up her fork and resumed her meal at a slower pace.
    Otto, fixated as ever, asked, “Did Reacher say why he was there? At the fundraiser?”
    “If he did, I don’t recall. But I’d doubt it. He didn’t say much of anything. Not a conversationalist, let’s put it that way.” Carson glanced at the television mounted on the wall above the bar in the corner. “We’re out of time. Let’s finish up our food and head back. Agent Crane will report me to the chief judge if we’re any later.”
    The way she grinned made Gaspar feel there was a story there about her relationship with the chief judge she wasn’t sharing. Which was too bad. Because it was probably one he’d enjoy.

 
    14
     
    Otto and Gaspar arrived at the hospital’s main entrance first. They signed in again at the information desk and wandered through the maze of some administrator’s idea of organized healthcare. Eventually, they located the OR waiting room where they had agreed to rejoin the others two hours ago. Nightfall came early in November, but the view from the waiting room window was no less appealing, Gaspar noticed. Bright moonlight and illumination along Bayshore Boulevard rendered it more magical than in daylight, not less.
    Agents Crane and Bartos were seated with open briefcases on their laps amid candy bar wrappers and empty paper coffee cups.
    “Looks like you guys enjoyed a gourmet supper, too,” Gaspar said.
    Crane just glowered at him.
    “Where’s Jennifer Lane?” Gaspar asked.
    Bartos replied, “Samantha Weston asked for her about five minutes ago. As soon as Judge Carson and the court reporter get here, we’ll all go back in there and finish up and get out of here.”
    As if his words had conjured her, Carson opened the door and said, “Ms. Chernow texted me on our way back. She says she’s setting up. Let’s get this done so these patients can get some rest.”
    They all started after her down the hallway toward the recovery room where they had left both Westons.
    After less than twenty feet of progress, everything went to hell.
    First, the unmistakable sound of two quick gunshots filled the quiet corridor. A woman screamed. Another woman shouted words Gaspar could not make out. And two more quick gunshots followed.
    Otto pulled her Sig Sauer and ran forward, ahead of Gaspar.
    He pulled his Glock and followed close behind.
    Weapons drawn, Crane and Bartos brought up the rear.
    Before they reached the room, he heard another gunshot.
    Willa Carson ran past them back toward the staircase. An instant later, a horrifically loud buzzing sound exploded around them. She’d pulled the fire alarm. When Gaspar glanced back past the other two agents, he saw the Judge had grabbed her cell phone and was already dialing.
    The narrow, hospital-paraphernalia-choked corridor left the agents no choice but to charge single file toward the source of the gunshots.
    Just before Otto reached the recovery room doorway, Natalie Chernow dashed out and crashed into her. Otto pushed her against the wall and tried to ask