Cold & Deadly

by Toni Anderson

  Aldrich was one of those people who was generally harmless but did everything to protect his own standing within the Bureau. She needed to play this situation carefully, to lay the groundwork for when he eventually found out she’d gone behind his back.

  “I’m putting you forward for a commendation for yesterday’s heroics in the face of grave danger.”

  What? She didn’t want a commendation for doing what she was paid to do.

  “I appreciate that.” She smiled at him and tried to make it reach her eyes. Would she also get a letter of censure for pursuing the facts behind Van’s death? Probably.

  She thought about Dominic Sheridan again. She didn’t need him to protect her. She was an FBI agent, not some frightened civilian. They had a solid indication that Van’s death wasn’t as cut and dried as everyone assumed and it made her crazy not to be taken seriously. Not to be respected as an equal.

  “Did you find anything when you went over Van’s files?” she asked.

  Aldrich straightened as if knowing what she was angling for. “Nothing to indicate foul play.”

  She thought about what the neighbor had told her regarding pulling up Van’s pants.

  She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again. If she copped to continuing the investigation by questioning the neighbor, she’d face disciplinary action and lose any hope of continuing her search for the truth. As a rookie agent she might also lose her job. As much as she hated to admit it, Sheridan was right.

  “I know it hurts, but perhaps when he left the Bureau, he decided he didn’t have anything else left to live for…”

  Except the trip to Italy he’d planned and the book he’d started to write about his life as a G-man. His friends. His family.

  Aldrich reached out as if he was about to pat her arm. She bared her teeth in the parody of a smile, and his hand paused mid-air.

  Yeah. Do not touch.

  “I better finish my report, sir.” Hopefully Maria Santana would be convicted for conspiring with an escaped felon. People were stupid. People in love were particularly witless.

  For a split second, a vision of her holding hands with Dominic Sheridan flashed through her brain. Her heart started pounding, and a flush of heat filled her face. Where the hell had that come from?

  “Are you okay?”

  It must be bad if Aldrich noticed.

  “Still a little shaken up after yesterday,” she lied, touching the scab that had formed on her cheek.

  He nodded firmly. “Tomorrow morning. Call the psychologist.”

  She watched him walk away then dropped her forehead to the cool surface of her desk. She definitely needed her head examined if her subconscious was envisaging some sort of fairytale romance with the other agent. Sure, he was ruggedly good-looking and charming when he wanted to be, but he was also the sort of guy who was difficult to read and didn’t let anyone close. She’d worked with that type plenty of times before and was sick of constantly striving to prove herself worthy. He was a Supervisory Special Agent ten years her senior, and someone who played by the book. She was a rookie who followed her gut. And, so what if he had a nice face and nice forearms, possibly six-pack abs under that shirt, but it didn’t mean he knew what to do in the bedroom.

  She huffed at her own thoughts. How had her imagination escalated to the bedroom? He could be married with kids for all she knew.

  Please, please, let him be married. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about making a damn fool of herself over a man who thought of her as nothing more than an annoyance, an irritation, a responsibility he’d inherited from Van.

  She didn’t need romantic humiliation to compound all the other issues going on in her life. Better to keep everything professional and concentrate on figuring out what exactly had happened to Van. She could get her heart broken in her own time.

  * * *

  Dominic pulled up outside Van’s house later again that same evening in his personal vehicle, a black Lexus. It was nearly 9 PM now and dusk. The quiet settled around him, and he realized with a thick sense of despondency it was almost exactly one week since Van had died.

  Dominic got out and closed the driver’s door quietly and walked around the hood. He’d always liked this part of Virginia. It was quiet and relatively peaceful, but close enough to both DC and Quantico to have been in the running when he was looking for his own place when he’d transferred to the Crisis Negotiation Unit from LA. He’d chosen a home more in the country, and closer to work so he’d be able to spend more time with his dog and a little less time driving—theoretically at least.

  He opened the passenger door and unclipped his black lab who jumped out and milled in a circle, head down, tail wagging like a truce flag. Ranger was eight now. A present from his father, presumably chosen to demonstrate how incredibly awkward and time-consuming Dominic’s chosen career was—as if being a lawyer had better hours. But, with the help of a doggy daycare near Quantico, fellow agents who loved dogs, and a neighbor who owned horses and took Ranger whenever Dominic needed to go away overnight, they managed. Ranger was beyond the crazed exuberance of pupdom and supposedly more sensible nowadays. At least he’d stopped eating drywall.

  Dominic clipped on the dog’s leash and strode across the street. Ranger nosed the scents along the white picket fence as Dominic opened the front gate. The motion sensing security light flashed on, almost blinding him. He walked around the side of the house staying on the grass he’d cut earlier that day. A large shrub hid the window of the study from the street. Crickets chirped loudly and a drop of sweat ran down Dominic’s spine. Ranger whined.

  He glanced around. The street was empty. No one sat in nearby parked cars. Still, the sense of being watched lingered.

  The unanswered questions from earlier kept circling his brain. Why had Van’s pants been undone? Why had the window been open?

  Dominic had checked the evidence logs, but no one had mentioned checking the outside of the property.

  Using his cell phone as a flashlight, he pushed back the rhododendron branches, dislodging leaves in a gentle shower. He ran the beam of light over the ground beneath the window, careful to keep Ranger well away from the loose soil. It had rained last week on Wednesday around five PM. A quick shower that had soaked the parched ground. But this space was protected by the bushes and overhanging eaves.

  The beam of light picked up a bunch of impressions in the dirt. Footprints. A frisson of alarm traveled over his shoulders and down his spine. Someone had been here. It could be kids daring one another to check out a death scene. It could be reporters looking for a grisly scoop. He was glad the blinds had been firmly closed against prying eyes.

  But there was another possibility. Ava Kanas’s theory. Where Van had been murdered…and these could be the footprints of his killer.

  Shadows thickened and deepened as the motion sensors timed out, cloaking him in a dense darkness. Dominic backed up and started walking toward the fence on the west side of the property, keeping Ranger close to heel. It was heavy dusk now. No moon. No streetlights illuminating the immediate area. He faced the house and paced about fifteen feet before tripping the motion sensors. He tried the same thing for the security lights at the back of the house. They had even less of a range due to the covered porch.

  Ranger sniffed his way along the ground like a dog on a mission. Dominic wished he had the lab’s nose. How much more convenient it would be to be able to identify someone from the scent they left behind.

  He walked back to the original spot and stared at the window to Van’s study. He pulled out his cell and made a call, wondering if he was making a massive mistake. “Agent Kanas?”

  “Dominic?” The use of his first name caught him off guard. Warm. Intimate. Massive mistake. “What is it?”

  She sounded confused. Hell, she was probably home or in bed.

  “Meet me at Van’s place. I’ve got something to show you.”

  “When?”

  “Right now.” He hung up on he
r, knowing she’d come and not sure how he felt about the bond that was forming between them. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t exclude her from this search for answers. He sure as hell couldn’t ignore her.

  These footprints could have nothing to do with Van’s death and everything to do with people’s obsession with the macabre. But the question kept tugging at him. What if Kanas was right? What if someone had murdered Van and then used his death to target another FBI agent? And what if they’d done it before?

  Chapter Seven

  Ava snagged a booth for her and Sheridan at the back of a bar called the Mule & Pitcher on the outskirts of Fredericksburg not far from where she’d taken down Jimmy Taylor. A friend of hers in the RA had let her sneak a look at Van’s case file earlier. Bank records showed he’d had dinner in this bar. Then he’d gone home and, according to most people in her organization, had accidentally blown his brains out.

  She peeled the foil from her bottle of beer with her thumb and tapped the fingers of her other hand on her thigh as she waited for Sheridan to join her. She was surprised he’d called her, but grateful.

  She glanced around. She’d never been here before. She preferred Netflix to nightclubs. Except for the occasional night out with the guys after work she tended to spend her spare time in the gym or at the firing range. The last time she’d gone on a date, months ago—to the movies, she remembered now—she’d spotted some loser ripping someone off at an ATM and had chased the sonofabitch four blocks until she’d caught and cuffed him. Her date had been long gone by the time she’d gone back. He’d never called her again.

  Van had told her she could be a little intimidating, but she wasn’t going to pretend to be something she wasn’t. She wasn’t about to let somebody get attacked and not do anything about it because her date couldn’t handle it.

  She ignored the glances she was getting from a few of the guys in the place. There were still plenty of men who thought a woman alone in a bar meant she was hoping to hook up. She took another swallow of beer and let her expression dispel the notion.

  The joint was hopping. Didn’t people know it was a Tuesday night? Surely some of them had to work the next day? Ava winced as one woman fell off her chair and started laughing where she lay on the floor. So, did all her girlfriends. Ava was about to get up and assist when the lady rolled onto her side and heaved herself up.

  Good times.

  The bar itself was off to the right against the back wall with a small dance floor tucked in near the window. Thankfully no one was dancing and so the music wasn’t too loud. Most people sat in small groups, drinking and laughing. Clientele looked to be early twenties to mid-thirties. Some people had obviously come straight from work while others were dressed more casually, shorts and t-shirts, jeans. Ava touched the evil eye bracelet on her wrist. It was a silly Greek superstition, but the amulet never failed to make her feel better.

  Sheridan walked in still wearing that expensive-looking, dark suit and the same blood-red tie he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier that day before cutting Van’s lawn. He looked like a smoking-hot politician or a scorching CEO. Common denominator seemed to involve sex and heat and things she should not be associating with a senior agent at the FBI. She let herself enjoy the view for as long as it took for them to make eye contact and then she lifted her hand in acknowledgment.

  She scanned the bar. Several pairs of female eyes were following his progress across the room. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed his good looks.

  It was ten thirty and many customers were on the other side of tipsy. According to the signs, Happy Hour lasted from five until midnight, which suggested the manager needed a basic math lesson but certainly explained the raucous crowd.

  Sheridan reached her booth and slid into the seat, moving close so they could talk without being overheard. His thigh brushed hers before he shifted away, and she jumped at the brief contact.

  Way to play it cool, Ava.

  She cleared her throat, searching for a nonchalance she wasn’t feeling. They weren’t on a date. This was business. This was about Van. “Where’d you leave your dog?”

  He shrugged, and she tried not to notice the broadness of his shoulders. He was just a colleague. Hell, she didn’t think he even liked her very much, and she wasn’t a masochist.

  “In the back of the car. I cracked the windows.” The night had cooled off.

  The fact he cared more about his dog than the security of his Lexus ramped up his attractiveness by another factor of a thousand.

  “You aren’t worried about those fancy leather seats getting chewed up?” She took a sip of beer. She wasn’t surprised his personal vehicle was a luxury model. He was a luxury model kind of guy.

  An amused gleam lit his eyes. Her heart wanted to give a little flip, but she forced it to remain frozen in place.

  “There was a time there would have been nothing left of the interior, but nowadays…” He shrugged. “He’s getting old. Slowing down, thank god. Like me.”

  “Sure.”

  The guy was in his prime and knew it. He sure as heck hadn’t looked like he was slowing down when they’d chased after the shooter yesterday morning.

  “It’s true.” He laughed quietly, more relaxed than she’d seen him before. But the creases at the edge of his eyes were more pronounced today. She wondered if he’d gotten any sleep last night after the shooting. She certainly hadn’t.

  Her server came over with the bucket of wings Ava had ordered. Ordering food had been the only way she’d been able to secure a table.

  “What can I get you?” the server—“Caroline” according to her name tag—asked Sheridan with a big smile before running through the specials.

  “Water, please.” He tapped his coaster on the table. “You have a big crowd in here like this every Tuesday night?”

  The waitress wore a bright smile and a tight top that showcased a killer cleavage. Sheridan got top marks for not dropping his gaze below the woman’s chin, although those cherry lips were probably already accumulating a large tip.

  Ava had once been those lips and that smile. She’d put herself through college waiting tables in a high-end joint in Portland. She’d had her ass pinched so many times it was a wonder she hadn’t stabbed somebody with a cocktail stick. Swapping high heels for steel-toe boots when she’d joined the Portland Police had been one of the happiest moments of her life, eclipsed only by graduating from the FBI Academy.

  “Help yourself.” Ava indicated the wings when the server left. The chicken smelled good and she was drooling, but she wasn’t going to be the only one to eat and get messy. Sheridan already held too many aces. Good-looking, powerful, strong. Independently wealthy if his car was anything to go by—otherwise he owed the bank a lot of money.

  He took a drumstick, chowing down as if he’d forgotten to eat lunch and dinner. Maybe he had. They were both using what precious little spare time they had to dig deeper into Van’s death. Food seemed irrelevant.

  “You managed to get an evidence team out there?” She was surprised he’d contacted her to look at the footprints he’d found before calling Aldrich. Surprised and pleased. It didn’t mean he’d include her in anything else. But he’d wanted a second opinion before he’d reported it. The fact he’d called at all…maybe he wasn’t so bad.

  Were those footprints proof of anything besides morbid curiosity? Were they from Van cleaning windows or doing some weeding? Or had someone gotten into Van’s house through that window? Shot him and staged a suicide? The main thing was to make sure the evidence was properly documented before it disappeared in case this thing ever went to court.

  “ERT arrived before I left. After all, the director did leave orders he wanted ‘no stone unturned.’” He wiped his lips and fingers on a napkin and took a long drink of water.

  Was that a dig at her? For what she’d done at the funeral?

  “You called the director?”

  She got the vibe Sheridan was connected to the higher
ups, but she didn’t know for sure. Maybe he’d worked with them before. Maybe he knew them socially.

  He shook his head, but something about the way he did it suggested he could have, if he’d wanted. He was connected all right.

  “Aldrich. You going to eat anything?”

  She picked up a drumstick and bit into the warm meat and the flavor dissolved onto her tongue. “Oh, my god, this is good.” She groaned. Fried chicken was the reason she could never be a vegetarian.

  He glanced at her quickly and she slowed down, chewing her food self-consciously. He had a way of unsettling her, which irritated her. Her family were all about food. She’d grown up above a Greek restaurant in a small town in Oregon. Was it the fact he was senior to her? He was only a few years older, but being a Supervisory Special Agent was a world apart from someone who hadn’t yet officially graduated from New Agent status. Van had also been senior to her and she’d never felt self-conscious with him…

  The structure of the FBI had appealed to her when she’d signed up. It gave her a target to aim for. She just hadn’t considered how it would feel to be on the bottom rung of that ladder after she left the academy with so many years to go.

  Forcing herself to eat because she was hungry and her body needed fuel, she nibbled the meat down to the bone, then wiped her fingers. “Did you tell Aldrich I was there?”

  “I told him that I was at Van’s house taking care of the place when I noticed footprints outside the office window. I let him suggest we get an evidence team back out there.” He picked up another wing as the server refilled his water. When she left, he continued. “I also persuaded him that it was his idea to dust the window for prints and check for any contact DNA. Just to be thorough.” He grinned and her heart gave a panicked little jolt.

  “You’re good at manipulating people,” she blurted—anything that didn’t sound like she found him attractive. She could not afford to get a crush on this guy. It would be too humiliating.

  A dimple cut into his cheek, but the smile dimmed. “Most people call it charm. You should try it some time.”