Wolf Amundson, Homeland Security Seattle Station Chief, took the call at 18:20 hours. He knew it because he checked his watch when the cell phone’s buzz cut through the clink of crystal and silverware in the Le Gourmand. Not exactly très chic, and if there were one thing Wolf disliked it was someone disturbing his appointment with an expensive meal—especially a meal he wasn’t paying for.
Too much rode on it.
“Amundson,” he growled into the cell phone and glanced an apology at Ray Fitzsimmons who was just tasting his foie gras stuffed homemade pork sausage with demi-glace and compote of winter fruits. The Washington-based Security Czar waved a bird-boned hand ‘no matter’ and leaned back to sip his lemon water. The long nose, the oddly sloped brow of the man reminded Amundson of one of those flying dinosaurs his daughter’s third-grade class seemed to love. Pterodactyl or something.
“Long time no talk to, friend.”
The voice at the end of the phone was one Wolf hadn’t heard in a while, though he remembered it well. “Clint, old friend. May I call you back? I am in the middle of something important.”
He grimaced at the way his speech still carried the too-proper hint of his Danish roots even after all these years growing up in America. He grinned at his boss, whose pasty skin finally had a lifelike color in the muted restaurant lighting.
A pause and then: “Sure. You can call me, but let me tell you what this is about.”
Wolf sighed. Clint Blacklock was a good cop and had been a good friend way back in ‘the day’, but his garrulous nature was not what Wolf needed right now. The escargot were getting cold, damn it. He eased his broad back in the too-small chair.
“Sure. But keep it quick.” Wolf followed Fitzsimmons’ lead and took a sip of water from the fragile restaurant goblet, though he’d have preferred it be wine. But that was one of Fitzsimmons’ quirks: even managers don’t drink on the job—at least not in Fitzsimmons’ presence. Not if you wanted any hope of promotion, and Wolf did. Too bad, because this restaurant had an amazing wine cellar and could have provided a wonderful accompaniment to the oolong-smoked steelhead sauced with pumpkin and juniper berries that he’d ordered.
“Sure thing, bro. We got a murder a couple of days back. Took place at a parking garage off Broadway and the suspect and vic are employees of an agency in your fold. Before I push any harder on this case, I wanted to know if I’m going to be stepping into a mess of Homeland Security shit. So you have any action going on that might explain the murder of an AGS Agent?”
The water almost choked Wolf. His barrel chest spasmed. “Come again,” he asked when the coughing passed. “An AGS Agent murdered?” he repeated softly, aware of the low ambient restaurant noise.
That brought Fitzsimmons upright, the heavy-lidded eyes actually gleaming under the long, sloped brow.
“Yeah. Two nights ago. Found the body in a parking garage with another Agent over him, but my partner’s on this thing about maybe there’s a walled up stairwell in the garage and maybe it’s related to a Homeland Security case. We didn’t want to step on your toes, bro.”
“Interesting.” Wolf made sure not to put too much interest in his voice, but every part of him was at attention. He shoved his fingers through his white-blonde hair. “Tell you what. Let me check and get back to you on this, all right? I’ll call you back tomorrow?”
“Sounds good. Call me or my partner, Detective Jason Bryson. And Wolf—we really should get together for dinner one of these days. Say Mexican? I could use a feed.”
Wolf’s nostrils curled at the thought of the dive Clint’s budget would probably limit them to. Their ways had truly diverged over time. “Sounds good. Later, amigo.”
Satisfied he’d almost sounded casual at the end, he flipped the phone shut and placed it carefully on the white linen table cloth before meeting Fitzsimmons’ hazy-brown gaze. “That was interesting.”
“I heard. The AGS. A murdered Agent.” The predatory gleam was even brighter. “Do tell.”