Bullseye (Falsely Accused) - Softcover

"Albuquerque police department. Open up!"

The voice, deeply male and harshly insistent, chased away the last tendrils of sleep. The police—here? Not an annoying stereo after all. She forced her eyes to focus on the clock on the nightstand. Three thirty-seven in the morning. Fear, sharp as a knife's blade, sliced through her insides. Had something happened to Alex?

"I'm coming."

Her voice, squeaky with panic, filled the apartment as she jerked on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt over her pajamas. No time to brush her sleep-tousled hair, so she pulled the thick dark mass into a messy knot at the back of her neck as she hurried across the tiny living room to the front door. A quick peek through the peephole settled her fear deeper inside. A stern-faced man with short-cropped hair frowned at her from the sidewalk outside.

Please don't let something have happened to Alex.

She unlocked the door and opened it. Not just one officer, but two. Both men. Surely if they were coming to give her bad news, they would have sent a woman, right? She grasped at the thought and could not find a voice for the question that screamed in her mind.

"Hello, Karina," the first officer said.

The familiar use of her name made her look more closely at him. A face from the past peered back at her.

"Parker Harding." She hadn't thought about him in several years. Memories of him inevitably brought back memories of his friend and former partner, and she absolutely could not allow herself to think of Mason Sinclair. That was too painful.

The shadowy smile hovering around Parker's mouth acknowledged the painful memories, but thankfully he didn't bring up old times. Instead, he gestured toward the man standing beside him. "This is my partner, Officer Graham. We're sorry to disturb you at such a late hour, but we're hoping you can help us."

A flicker of hope sparked to life. That didn't sound like someone bringing bad news. Maybe something had happened in the neighborhood, and they were checking for witnesses. That wouldn't be unusual in this apartment complex. She nodded, still unable to speak.

He held her gaze as he spoke. "We're looking for Alex, Kar-ina. Our records indicate he lives here with you."

His words landed like slaps across her face. Alex must be in some kind of trouble.

He said lives, not lived. That means he's alive. Right?

Fingers biting into the flesh of her arms, she managed to find her voice. "Is he in some kind of trouble?" She swallowed.

"Is he okay?"

Did she imagine it, or did Parker's expression soften just a fraction? And if it did, was it with pity?

"Karina, it's very important that we talk to your brother. Is he at home?"

"No, he's not. He's staying the night with a friend. I can give you the address."

Parker exchanged a glance with his partner. "Is his friend's name Jose Garcia?"

Oh no. Was Jose in trouble, then? The times Karina had met him he'd seemed like a good kid. "Yes, that's right."

Officer Graham's expression grew grim. "Jose Garcia was killed tonight, ma'am. Several witnesses saw him with your brother right before the shooting. That's why we need to speak with Alexander."

A wave of shock washed over her, leaving her dizzy. She clutched at the door to keep from falling. Jose dead? But he was only fourteen years old. And where was Alex?

"I—" She swallowed, trying to put life into her numb tongue. "I don't know where Alex is. He was spending the night at Jose's. Have you looked there?"

Jose's parents will be devastated!

"Mr. and Mrs. Garcia haven't seen him." Officer Graham straightened and assumed an authoritative stance. "Ms. Guerrero, we'd like permission to look in Alexander's room. Will you allow us to do that?"

"But I already told you, he's not here." Wait a minute. Why did they want to look in Alex's room? She clutched the edge of the heavy wooden door and peered up into Parker's face. "Parker, surely you don't think Alex would do anything to hurt Jose. You remember Alex, right? My brother is a good boy. He goes to school, gets good grades. He even has a job and helps pay our bills."

His answer confirmed her suspicions.

"Karina, we need to take a look. If we need to get a warrant to search Alexander's room, we can have it within fifteen minutes."

Karina opened her mouth to insist that Alex wouldn't do anything wrong. In a city where teenagers ran in gangs and did drugs and robbed convenience stores, fourteen-year-old Alex was an anomaly. He was polite and helpful and responsible. But she kept her arguments to herself. These men were doing their job, but their job chilled the blood in her veins.

If Alex wasn't at Jose's house, and if Jose was dead, then where was her brother? Let them look in his room. They'd find nothing, because there was nothing to find. Then maybe they'd realize that the kid they were looking for wasn't running from them—he was missing. Probably frightened, and maybe even hurt.

Without a word, she swung the door open wider to invite them inside. They followed her across the living room and down the short hallway past the bathroom she and her brother shared. Alex's door was closed, as always when he wasn't there. She twisted the knob, threw it open and flipped the light switch.

And froze, stunned.

There, crouched in the corner between his dresser and closet door, was Alex. His clothes were covered in blood.

Mason Sinclair bit into his toast and examined his schedule for the day. His lone client at the moment would arrive at his office at one o'clock this afternoon to hear a report of his wife's infidelity, complete with pictures. Lots of them.

"Poor slob," Mason mumbled.

A loud snore drifted down the hallway from the direction of the second bedroom. His roommate, Caleb. Six months ago Caleb had moved from Las Vegas to Atlanta at Mason's suggestion. Along with their friend Brent, the three formed the Falsely Accused Support Team to help prove the innocence of people who'd been accused of crimes they didn't commit. Since they began, F.A.S.T. had helped clear four innocent people.

Mason took pride in their success rate. He enjoyed helping people who were in the same tight spot he'd been in four years ago. Only he didn't have a F.A.S.T. team to help him, so he'd faced the accusations alone.

His cell phone interrupted his thoughts. He swallowed another gulp of coffee, then leaned back in his chair to grab the phone from the kitchen counter by the tail of its charger. An unfamiliar number appeared on the screen. 505 area code. He knew without looking it up where that was. Albuquerque. The thought was enough to make him put the phone back on the counter and ignore the call. There wasn't a single person in Albuquerque he wanted to talk to.

After a few rings the call went to voice mail. He waited for the chime telling him he had received a new message. Instead the phone rang again. Same phone number. Somebody really wanted to talk to him. Must be important.

Before he could second-guess his decision, he answered the call. "Hello?"

A sharp intake of breath, then a female voice said, "Mason?"

At the familiar tone, memories engulfed him. Gone were the kitchen and the open jar of grape jelly on the table in front of him. Forgotten were his notebook and coffee mug. Instead, vivid images rose in his mind. Picnics on the grass. Hikes in the Sandia Mountains. Wavy black hair blown by a hot desert breeze. More vivid than the images were the feelings. Sweet lips moving against his. Soft arms wrapped around his neck. And something else.

Guilt.

Primarily he felt the sick bite of guilt gnawing in his gut. Just like always.

He wrapped the fingers of one hand around his coffee mug and squeezed. "Been a long time, Karina."

Another breath sounded through the phone line, this one shaky. "I called because I need help, Mason. I wouldn't ask except I don't have anyone else. We're alone."

Several questions came to mind, but he asked the obvious one first. "We?"

"Alex and me. My dad passed away two years ago." More memories. Nine-year-old Alex playing volleyball with Mason at a church-sponsored picnic, while Mr. Guerrero and Karina sat on the sidelines cheering them on. Karina cheered louder for him than for Alex.

Mason leaned forward and pushed the coffee mug toward the center of the table. "I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"Mason, Alex is in trouble and I don't know what to do."

Alex would be about fourteen now, a teenager. "What's he gotten into?"

"He's being held in the juvenile detention center. They've charged him with murder. But he didn't do it. I promise he didn't."

Mason sat back against the wooden spindles of his chair. Murder. The word fell on his ears like a gong, resonating with horrible feelings from his own past.

A movement drew his attention to the hallway. Caleb stumbled out of his bedroom, lumbered into the kitchen and headed straight for the coffee pot. The big man's hair, normally caught back in a ponytail, hung in tangles after a night of fighting with his pillow.

Mason flapped a hand in his direction to keep him quiet, and said into the phone, "Who do they say he murdered?"

That got Caleb's attention. He whirled around, coffee carafe still in hand, and peered intently at Mason.

"A friend. Jose Garcia." Her voice held a sob. "He w...