by Anna Perrin
He closed his laptop, letting her draw her own conclusion.
She approached slowly as if she knew she was intruding but couldn’t stop herself. “Has a suspect been identified yet?”
He avoided looking her in the eye. “Nope.”
“This must be so frustrating for you.”
He heard compassion in her voice and had the sudden urge to go to her, bury his face in her hair, breathe in her scent. She would be surprised, even astounded, but he was pretty sure she wouldn’t deny him the comfort he craved.
He steeled himself against the impulse. Numb is the only way to hold it together.
“Investigations take time.” A stock phrase used at the Bureau, but the words tasted like ashes in his mouth.
She came farther into the room, her hands shoved in her jean pockets. “You’d like to help with it, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s against the rules,” he mocked.
“Because you and Pete were friends.” She leaned a hip against the counter. “I understand the reasoning, but it doesn’t seem fair, somehow.”
“It isn’t fair.”
“But you’ll abide by the rules, right?”
That was his cue to stop talking. If she guessed he had unauthorized access to the case files, she’d feel obligated to warn him of the consequences—disciplinary action courtesy of the review board.
His cell phone rang, a welcome interruption. He glanced at the caller ID display. “It’s Gene.”
She moved away. “We’ll continue this conversation later.”
Oh no, we won’t.
He flipped open his phone. “What have you got, Gene?”
“A guy at U Lock It saw a white Trans Am being driven into one of his units a few weeks ago. Our agent showed him a photo of Forrester and confirmed that he’s renting the unit. I should have a search warrant signed off soon.”
Brent straightened as a fresh rush of adrenaline pumped through his system. “I want to be on-site when it’s opened.”
“You can take the warrant to the storage facility. Mickey Langdon is watching the unit.”
Brent disconnected and pocketed his phone.
Sanderson’s files would have to wait. Because no matter how badly he wanted to solve his friend’s murder, his first priority was to locate Forrester and stop him from killing again.
THE U LOCK IT storage facility sprawled over a sizable stretch of industrial park just west of the city. Claire leaned forward in her seat, checking for the main entrance.
“Turn there,” she said, pointing to the next driveway.
Brent spun the wheel to the right. “There’s supposed to be an agent waiting for us.”
A prefabricated office structure faced a long row of gray storage units with eight-foot-high blue garage doors. Brent flashed his headlights twice, then parked adjacent to unit 5.
A man with a crew cut and a bodybuilder physique materialized from the side of the building. He loped over to the car and pressed his credentials against the glass.
Brent lowered his window. “Good to meet you, Langdon.”
“Likewise.” The agent switched his gaze to the passenger seat. “Hey, Claire. You trade in your couch for fieldwork?”
She smiled at his teasing remark. Last November, Mickey Langdon had found it hard to get out of bed, much less tease anyone. He had come to her after his twin brother had died of lung cancer. The disease ran rampant in the Langdon clan, and Mickey was obsessed with the idea that his own death was imminent. After several sessions, she managed to convince him to go to his doctor, who ordered a complete medical workup and prescribed the patch to help him quit smoking. Mickey had called her afterward to say all tests had come back normal, and he was cigarette-free for the first time since high school. He took Zoloft for depression but was fully functional.
“Brent brought the search warrant,” she said, shoving up the sleeves of her cardigan sweater.
“He brought more than that,” Mickey replied. “He brought my favorite psychologist. Thanks to you, I’m back at work.”
“Speaking of work—” Brent began.
“I’ll talk to the manager.” Mickey jogged toward the office building.
Brent turned to her. “You have a fan.”
She smiled. “Not everybody at the Bureau tries to avoid me.”
He hooked his thumbs over the steering wheel, his blue shirt rippling like water over his chest. “Oh, I believe that.”
She detected an edge in his tone. “You think guys like Mickey want something other than counseling when they come to see me, don’t you?”
His eyes narrowed. “I think some people can’t resist dumping their problems onto others.”
“But you’re an island.”
His smile sent an arrow of awareness straight through her. “You got that right, doc.”
A door banged in the distance. A tall, lanky man crossed the pavement toward them.
Brent left the car, and Claire heard Mickey introduce him to Kevin Curtis.
Brent held out the search warrant. “We’re authorized to search unit number five.”
Curtis glanced at the document. “I’ve never seen one of these before, but it looks official.”
“Mr. Curtis just told me that he saw a guy hanging around here early this morning,” Mickey said.
“Forrester?” Brent asked.
Claire felt her stomach knot.
“I can’t be sure,” Curtis said. “He had his back to the office. When I came outside, he got in his car and took off like a bat out of hell.”
“Did you notice the make and model of the vehicle he was driving?” Mickey asked.
“Nah, I was barely awake. It wasn’t the Trans Am, that I do know.”
Brent turned toward the unit. “We’d like to get started.”
“How long is this going to take?” Curtis asked, retrieving a key from his pocket.
“Depends on what’s in there.”
“Well, if you think you might be a while, you need to move your car. I got three moving vans coming to unload this afternoon, and they can’t do it with you parked there.”
“Where to?” Brent asked, opening the driver’s door of the Mustang.
Curtis pointed. “Down at the end should be okay.”
Brent pulled around and reversed into the space Curtis had indicated.
“You might as well wait here,” he told Claire. “I can keep an eye on both you and the exterior of the building while Langdon does the first sweep of the unit.”
Brent headed out, and she caught herself admiring the quick, powerful movements of his legs. Damn, even the man’s walk was sexy.
She glanced away, settled deeper into the Mustang’s leather seat.
A moment later, a loud boom shook the car.
She bolted upright. A dark form lay prone on the asphalt twenty feet from the office.
Brent.
Flinging open the door, she raced toward him, sucking in a breath only when she saw him stir. He was on his feet by the time she got to his side, and he was—thank God—seemingly uninjured. Relief flooded through her so strongly, she nearly sank to her knees.
A gut-wrenching scream came from the storage units.
She turned her head, then gasped in horror. The blast had blown off Mickey’s right hand. Blood sprayed from the severed limb onto the asphalt.
The manager of the facility lay sprawled a few feet away. There was no blood, but his leg was bent at an awkward angle, probably broken. He appeared to be unconscious.
“Claire!” Brent yelled.
She looked toward him mutely.
“Call nine-one-one.” He tossed his cell phone to her.
She caught it and started punching in the numbers as he raced toward the men.
By the time she’d completed the call and joined him, Brent had cinched his belt around Mickey’s forearm. “Easy, man. Help’s on the way.”
Claire stripped off her sweater and used it to staunch the gaping wound. Her stomach churned as th
e blood soaked through, turning the garment and her hands crimson. The metallic smell of blood flooded her nose, and it took a supreme act of willpower not to gag.
“Why?” the wounded agent panted.
“Good question,” Brent said grimly, glancing toward the smoking hole in the unit.
“Search it…before the cops come.”
“I’m not leaving you.” Brent checked under the sweater, testing the belt to ensure it was choking off the blood flow.
Mickey shoved at him weakly with his remaining hand. “Claire…can stay.”
She made shushing noises as she stroked his forehead. “I’m here, Mickey. Don’t try to talk.”
His head thrashed from side to side. “Go. Hurry.”
She glanced at Brent, sick with worry. “I think you’d better go. He won’t rest until you do.”
Brent began to argue, but one look at his colleague’s pleading eyes had him rising to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”
She watched, feeling strangely bereft as he set off for the damaged unit.
Mickey moaned in pain. “Always figured…I’d die from the big C.”
“You’re not going to die,” she said fiercely. “You’re a tough hombre.”
“Hurts.” He spoke through clenched teeth.
“You’ll get something for the pain, just as soon as the ambulance arrives.”
His torso jerked off the pavement suddenly.
She cradled him in her arms. “Lie still, Mickey. Please.”
He didn’t respond, and she realized it was because he was no longer conscious. Looking at his closed eyes, slack mouth and gray skin, she experienced a helplessness that she’d never known before. He was one of the few agents who had ever appreciated her assistance, and he was counting on her. She would not fail him.
“Where’s the damn ambulance?” she yelled in frustration.
She turned her head, hoping to see Brent on his way back to them, but he was still inside the storage unit.
She stared intently at its jagged, blackened entrance, her anxiety escalating. Surely, she should be able to catch a glimpse of his pale T-shirt or hear him moving around in there.
What if another bomb had been hidden inside? What if Brent were attempting to disarm it?
Scared and covered in blood, she fought the urge to scream.
Chapter Eight
Brent hurried through the debris that littered Forrester’s rented storage unit, knowing that he had only minutes to search.
When the cops arrived, they’d secure the crime scene, and no one would be permitted inside until the CSI guys had completed their painstaking evidence-gathering process. Then more time would be wasted while the Bureau and the local police department wrangled over jurisdiction.
The acrid smell of smoke and chemicals invaded his nostrils and burned his eyes. The Trans Am stood directly ahead of him, its trunk empty and cleaved in two by a blue metal projectile that had once been part of the storage unit door. The fender looked like crumpled aluminum foil. All the windows had shattered, dusting the vehicle with a layer of sparkling crystals.
He edged around the side of the car. The driver’s door hung ajar from the force of the explosion.
Tugging on his driving gloves, he proceeded to search the interior. The glove compartment contained a Trans Am owner’s manual and a flashlight. He thumbed through the manual, then unscrewed the top section of the flashlight, removed the batteries and peered inside the empty cylinder.
Next, he flipped down both sun visors and checked the pockets on the driver and passenger doors. Using the flashlight, he went over the front seats and carpet, trying not to disturb the glass shards while he examined every damn inch. Then he moved to the backseat and repeated his search.
Nothing.
That left the interior of the roof. His fingers ran back and forth, feeling for any irregularity in the fabric. After several passes, he detected a raised section near the overhead light. He traced the shape with his fingers, then blasted the area with the flashlight. The fabric had been neatly sliced and something inserted. He coaxed the thin, ragged-edged item from its hiding place.
A key.
Too small for a vehicle or door lock, it seemed about the right size for a locker or trunk. He exited the car, trying to remember if he’d seen anything the key might fit at Forrester’s house.
The flashlight lit up the back wall of the storage unit, revealing a multidrawer metal cabinet. He went over and tugged on the top drawer. When it wouldn’t open, he tried the key, which quickly released the locking mechanism. The cabinet drawers held numerous automotive tools.
Why would Forrester bother to secure them separately when he had a locked storage unit?
After extracting all five drawers from the cabinet frame, Brent knelt down, reached inside and felt along the back and both sides. Then, remembering the car, he touched the top of the cabinet. His hand made contact with a half-inch ridge in the shape of a square. The flashlight showed a CD case taped to the underside.
As he removed the case, the ripping sound was followed by the muted wail of emergency sirens. He pocketed the CD and strode out of the storage unit.
“How’s he doing?” he called out, crossing the parking lot.
“Not good,” Claire said, strain evident in her face. “He passed out a few minutes ago, and his color’s been getting worse ever since. Those sirens had better be his ambulance.”
When she touched the side of Langdon’s neck for his pulse, Brent saw her hands were shaking and bloodstained. “I’m sorry you had to deal with this.”
She glanced up, squinting in the bright sunshine. “Did you find anything?”
“An unlabeled CD.”
As the sound of the sirens grew louder, he added quickly, “My gut tells me it’s important.”
An ambulance swung onto the U Lock It property and drove up the laneway toward them, followed closely by a police cruiser.
“Let’s hope your gut is right,” she said.
THE PASSWORD protecting the unmarked CD was a clear sign to Brent that Forrester didn’t want others accessing it. He made attempt after attempt to type the right combination of letters and numbers in the password box. He tried the man’s birth date, his Social Security number and his employee number. Then his middle name, his mother’s maiden name and all of the names listed in his address book. Within an hour, he was grinding his molars. The Bureau’s tech guys had more practice unlocking protected files than he did, but it would take too long to go through official channels.
After another fifteen minutes, he was out of ideas—and caffeine.
Claire wandered into the kitchen as the coffee finished brewing. He poured two mugs and handed her one.
“Thanks.” She lifted the cup to her lips and sipped. “I’ve never had this much free time. I feel restless.”
“You could take the canoe out. Or go for a swim.” An image popped into his head of Claire wearing a skimpy bikini, her curves covered by only scraps of material, her skin soft and bare—
He gulped down the hot coffee so fast his throat burned.
She strolled to the window, oblivious to the fantasy torturing him. “Anything creepy in the lake?”
He tried to settle himself down, but his voice came out hoarse. “Nothing but minnows near the shore. The last few days have been sunny so it should have warmed up a little.”
She smiled. “Cold water doesn’t bother me.”
It didn’t bother him, either. In fact, his body temperature could use lowering. But taking a dip in the lake with Claire wouldn’t have the desired effect. It would only increase his desire for her.
“Do you want to join me?” she asked.
Of course he did. But until he cracked the password, he had no business doing—or thinking about—anything else.
He returned to the couch. “I’m still working on the CD from Forrester’s car.”
Her smile faded. “Of course.”
He knew his words had reminded her of the in
cident at the storage unit, and he regretted that. Claire had made several calls to the hospital to check on Mickey’s condition but hadn’t been given much information.
He turned back to the computer on the coffee table.
What should he try next? Forrester’s driver’s license number? He checked the info in the file Lisa had downloaded at the office, then entered the necessary keystrokes.
Access denied.
“How long have you been at that?” Claire asked.
“Too long,” he muttered.
“What are you trying to do?”
Brent rubbed the back of his neck. “Figure out his password. Most people pick something easy to remember.”
“I use my zip code,” she admitted.
“If Forrester had, I’d have cracked the sucker in ten minutes.”
He leaned back, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks. “Why don’t you take a stab at it?”
Her eyes widened. “Me?”
He’d spoken on impulse but now decided that getting her involved wasn’t a bad idea. “Hey, you’ve spent more time with this guy than I have.”
“That doesn’t mean I can help.”
“Well, I’m out of ideas. It’s your turn to get frustrated.”
She sat beside him. “Forrester’s passion is classic cars. Have you tried the Trans Am’s license plate number?”
“Puh-lease,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“Sorry. What about the year of the car?”
“It’s worth a shot.” He typed in “1969,” hit Enter and checked the screen.
Access denied.
He was beginning to hate those words.
“Forrester has a nickname for his car that he mentioned during one of our sessions. It’s Beauty.”
Brent typed in the six letters, just to humor her.
The empty password box disappeared, and the image of a Trans Am loaded onto the screen. He was in.
Beauty, indeed.
Claire peered over his shoulder. “Hey, it worked. Are you happy?”
He was very happy. And damn grateful she hadn’t taken his suggestion and gone swimming. He leaned over and pressed his mouth against hers.
What started as a kiss of gratitude quickly became more. As soon as his lips made contact, he forgot everything but how much he wanted her. He kissed her again, not caring that there were reasons he shouldn’t. He’d been holding back too long, stifling urges that were demanding to be acted on.
