Chapter 5—Afterburn and Arctic Cold
Damnation, it wasn’t supposed to come down like that, but this woman just seemed to push every button he had. Blacklock was probably busting a gut over how ‘The Slick Man’ had managed to fuck this one up so far.
The trouble was, Agent Vallon Drake was way too much his type, even though she didn’t look the least bit like Cheryl. It wasn’t her physical type—lean, athletic, maybe even a little rangy like one of those lone feline predators, which meant not as many curves as he usually preferred—no, it was more something about her presence. As if she were a bright flame in this room.
Like Cheryl had been.
He eased himself down into his chair, trying to ignore the faint scent of herbal shampoo that somehow seemed sexy as hell coming from her long blonde hair. He was a cop with a suspect. He would be more careful here on out. The safeguards of her face were writ large in unfriendly hazel-green eyes.
“So. Tell me about the AGS, Agent Drake. Use layman’s terms that I might understand.”
Everything around her was still, taut as if ready to spring. Yup, a solitary jungle cat, all right. Strong and confident: even the way she unconsciously shook out her sleek mane of hair.
“My agency focuses on ensuring the sanctity of American soil from predatory actions that come from either outside or inside our borders. Primarily, we identify risk and take preventative action.”
It was a recruitment brochure quote which told him exactly nothing. “Tell me more about that. What’s the AGS’s background?”
Her brow cocked as if she considered her words.
“The AGS can be traced back to the explorations of Lewis and Clark and other explorers of their time period. They mapped their journeys across the continent. Others around the same time period as well. Mason-Dixon, Zebulon Pike, David Thompson, and so on explored and mapped America. When the AGS, then part of the USGS, first came into being it was at the behest of the American government to survey the continental US. Teams of surveyors covered every inch of this country on foot and the result was the topographical maps we were taught about in school.
“But features change. As technology advanced we got our information from aircraft photogrammetry and stereoscopic analysis of the data. Today satellite photos try to serve the same purpose.”
She leaned back in her chair, and though she was dressed primly in her high-necked sweater, she arched her back a little, as if she were trying to tempt him with the full curve of her breasts. He looked away.
“Does that provide you and your tape recorders with enough information, Detective?”
He looked down at the few chicken scratches he’d made on the pad of paper before him. Not exactly complete notes.
“So let me see if I’ve got this right—you’re really a bunch of glorified map makers.”
Strangely, she went completely still, and that set his antennae into overdrive trying to assess what had caused her alarm. The increased scent of her herbal shampoos said something had aroused her.
“We don’t make maps, Detective Bryson. We—correct them.”
“Aah. Let me see. You use your high altitude surveillance to keep track of things like vigilante groups, unsanctioned fortifications and incursions onto American soil.”
A small smile as enigmatic as the friggin’ Mona Lisa. “You could say that, I suppose.”
But he’d clearly missed the mark—and, damn it, he’d given her an out. She relaxed back into her chair.
She was cool, this Vallon Drake. Infuriatingly cool, but he’d seen cooler.
“So how did you come to that kind of work? It’s a little unusual, isn’t it?”
“Is this relevant to what happened last night, Detective?”
The way she stiffened said this wasn’t something safe to ask about.
“Relevant in terms of what you were doing there—yes.”
Finally she nodded and he felt her thaw a little.
“Fine. I entered the AGS because my father worked there. It’s sort of a family tradition.”
“And how long have you worked there?”
“In the AGS or in the Seattle Office?”
“Both.” If she wanted to answer his questions with questions, he could play that game.
“Five years and nine months, respectively. And the nine months is probably nine months too long according to Chief Gleason.” She met his gaze with a dare.
“He’s not pleased with your work.”
“Let’s just say last night didn’t exactly put me at the top of the list for employee of the year. I left my post to try to help Simon—Agent Lamrey—and it ended up with you involved.”
The accusation was clear. If he’d just back off, things would be better, but the heat was back in her eyes and oh, mama, it was enough to sear his skin right here and now. He could practically smell lust rolling off her.
“Aah.” He kept his cool. The fact she clearly admitted leaving her post said she was honest or stupid—or else she was calculating enough to think it might disarm him into letting her go. “So tell me about it.”
She didn’t even raise her gaze.
“It’s really like I said last night. I was—monitoring things and discovered a situation. I sent Agent Lamrey to investigate, but he didn’t check in, so I responded. That’s how I found him, and that’s how your officers found me.”
Period. End of story by the way she leaned back in her chair and dug her hands deep into her jacket pockets.
“So what time did you leave your office?”
She told him.
“And that’s near Redmond.”
She looked at him, a trifle startled, until he produced Chief Gleason’s card. “Criss-cross. We happen to have those phone books here, including the unlisted numbers. Tools of the trade.” The special phone books allowed you to look up addresses associated to phone numbers quickly. “So how long did it take you to get to Broadway?”
Her face was flushed, like she was uncertain, but uncertain witnesses let their tells come through.
“About twenty minutes, given the time of night.”
“So you drove directly to Denny Road.”
“I did.”
“And what did you do when you arrived?”
“I climbed out of my car and tried to contact Agent Lamrey again by phone. I’d been trying to reach him during the drive, too, but he wasn’t picking up. It was what took me out after him to begin with.”
He’d have bet she was speaking the truth except—.
He’d already done his homework. He’d surreptitiously taken a photo of Agent Drake last night with his cell, and today he’d shown the picture around the building where Lamrey lived.
“Tell me more about that.”
She rolled her eyes and again he was struck by her hot and cold. In this case, cool backbone. She sat in her chair, shoulders straight, figure trim in the same leather jacket she’d worn last night. It suited her curves, but so did the choice of the soft sweater underneath.
“I’d reached him to tell him to attend the site.”
“The garage.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s where you went to find him.”
The hot daggers in her eyes were enough to tell him what he wanted to know. “So tell me what happened when you got there.”
“I told you. I tried calling him. I heard his cell ring and went to find him. I found him there and tried to administer CPR. That’s when your men arrived.”
He stayed silent and let her stew for a minute because she had tripped herself in her lies and omissions. It was a shame, really. He could have liked her under other circumstances.
Finally he shook his head and smiled because this was when things were going to get interesting.
“I’m sorry Agent Drake, but there are a few inconsistencies with your story. When our men collected the evidence at the scene there was no sign of a cell phone belonging to Agent Lamrey. How do
you explain that?”