Stokes’s presence made sense, with her cyber crimes background. Alec’s? Not so much. He’d have been of more use going up to Wilmington and walking the crime scene. But toeing the line was what he was all about these days. Even though his tongue had nearly bled when he’d bitten on it to keep from arguing the issue with his new boss. He didn’t figure it would be a good thing to get fired his second day on the job.
“Why don’t we play it by ear?” The frown snapped back into place.
“I mean,” he calmly explained as he reopened the file and glanced at it, “let’s meet her before deciding how to proceed.”
“I bet with your looks you like playing good cop for the ladies.” If words could actually sneer, those would have.
Alec didn’t look up. His hand remained flat on the autopsy report in his lap. The only sign that her jab had hit home was a slight tightening in his fingers, the tips of which turned white. “Do you have a problem working with me?”
“Let’s say pretty boys in expensive suits make me itchy.”
Pretty boy. He’d been called worse. Rich dude. Hotshot. Maverick.
Thrill-seeking bastard. That had been the one his ex-girlfriend had thrown at him when he’d refused her demands to quit the bureau in the days following the shooting.
Whatever. As long as Stokes wasn’t talking about Atlanta, and he suspected she was not, his new partner could think whatever the hell she wanted.
“Well, drivers who can’t keep all four tires on the road make me itchy, too.” He grabbed the dashboard as Stokes zipped around a tractor trailer doing seventy on the bumper-to-bumper beltway. “How about whoever lives for the rest of this ride gets to decide how to conduct the interview?”
For the first time since he’d set eyes on her, Stokes cracked a real smile. “Snarky, huh? Maybe you’re not just a pretty boy after all.” She put the pedal down, sending them hurtling off the 295 exit ramp at near warp speed. “I guess I’ll give you more than the week I predicted you’d last.”
“You keep driving like this,” Alec mumbled, taking no offense, “and I’ll be lucky to make it through the day.”
With a pencil stuck behind her ear, reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and her fingers flying across her keyboard so fast they barely connected with the letters, the last thing Samantha Dalton wanted to do was answer her front door, on which someone had just knocked. She’d finally hit her stride. The flicker of an idea had met the tinder of her own creativity and burst into an inferno of words that had to erupt out of her or be lost forever. Overblown imagery, but, as usual when she was on a deadline, she’d take whatever she could get if it kept her glued to her chair.
Knock-knock. Harder now.
She continued to ignore the interruption, riding the wave of energy she always relied upon when working on the columns and articles she wrote for her site, samthe spaminator.com. Especially ones like this, her weekly Sam’s Rant, which would go live on her blog late tomorrow night. The Wednesday-night rant, her most popular feature, was also the toughest for her to write. Getting things off her chest while maintaining her professional credibility had become a weekly balancing act. She chose every word carefully, despite the title of the column, never truly ranting. Though, right now, she wanted to because of the annoying knocking.
Having become a hermit since her divorce—at least, so her mother called her—she’d become adept at ignoring the odd salesman or nosy neighbor who dared to disregard the warning on her front door. But as the knocking continued, her eye started to twitch. Her voice low, she mumbled, “Can’t you read?”
She’d put the Do Not Disturb sign outside at noon, feeling optimistic that she’d spend the whole afternoon actually writing. Maybe even do something as adventurous as get dressed in real clothes.
It hadn’t happened. Instead, she’d surfed the day away, still wearing the sweats she’d donned after her shower. The Web had sucked up hours of her life, as it so often did lately.
Somehow, since the moment a judge with emotionless eyes had signed the piece of paper ending the four-year roller-coaster ride of her marriage, she hadn’t felt like Miss Get Up and Go. These days, Miss Got Up, Went, and Got Her Ass Handed Back to Her was content to stay right where she was.
Fortunately, the day hadn’t been totally wasted. She had found inspiration for tomorrow night’s column. But while researching, she’d also cruised blogs, played a few—okay, ten—hands of Spider Solitaire, and stumbled across stories here and tidbits there that grabbed her attention.
Still, she’d finally gotten down to business and the piece was coming along nicely. At least, it had been until the arrival of the person at the door, whose voice brought her irritation level up a notch.
“Ma’am, please answer the door.”
Fat chance. She still had to do updates for her weekly top-ten SPIT—aka Sam’s SPam hIT—list. There was research to be done on a new phishing scheme targeting Facebook users. She had an interview to do for a tech blog. And she had about three dozen e-mails to answer. Not much time for chitchat. Not much time for life, even.
Yet she’d surfed away many of her working hours.
“Loser,” she muttered.
“Miss Dalton? We need to talk to you,” the voice said.
If she had a real office, rather than working out of the living room of her Baltimore apartment, she might have been able to continue ignoring the intrusion. But as it was, she had no escape. So Sam saved her file, then trudged to the door.
Glancing through a part in the drapes and seeing a man wearing a suit, she figured she was in for some soul saving or a high-end sales pitch. Or both. “What is it?” she snapped, yanking the door open.
The man had his hand raised, ready to knock again, and her first impression was that he had big hands. Big fists. Strong-looking fingers. Her second was that if door-to-door salesmen now looked like this, lots more women would be lining up to buy vacuum cleaners and magazine subscriptions. Female shoppers all over the world were probably clamoring for deliveries.
Not her, though. She wasn’t buying. Especially not from men who looked like him.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the man said. “It really is important.”
The face was handsome—square jawed, strong featured, with heavily lashed eyes and sculpted cheekbones. Handsome enough to put Sam’s guard up. She didn’t trust handsome men, not after Samuel Dalton Jr. Her ex had been movie-star gorgeous.
Sam and Sam. God, why hadn’t someone slapped her when she’d accepted his proposal?
As he stepped closer, Sam had to tilt her head back. He was tall, easily topping her five-eight by several inches. Broad shoulders seemed to fill all the empty space between one side of the doorframe and the other. His light brown hair was slightly windblown and his pale green eyes held a friendly gleam. The friendliness didn’t extend to his nicely shaped lips, however. No smile widened them. His expression remained polite but entirely neutral.
Absolutely the only thing that said he wasn’t one hundred percent professional was the way his stare lingered for half a beat too long on her mouth. Which instantly made her want to lick her lips, even while she mentally cursed herself for the reaction.
“You are Miss Dalton? Samantha Dalton?”
“Mrs. Dalton,” she clarified, strictly from habit. Technically, she was no longer a Mrs. Dalton, not since her Mr. Dalton had found a Miss Slut-face to shack up with instead. Sam and Ashley. So much better. But she’d found the moniker useful in dealing with the occasional cyber stalker, and it fell off her lips as a matter of course these days.
“You are the Sam Dalton from the Sam the Spaminator Web site?”
Still feeling awkward about answering the door in sweats and slippers, she nodded hard. Her glasses slipped past the tip of her nose as she did so. Sam caught them as they bounced off, smudging the lenses with her tight fingers.
Reminding herself that she didn’t care what the hot guy with the sexy jaw and rock-hard body thought of her looks, s
he asked, “Do you need me to sign for something?”
He waved the leather wallet he’d been holding, which she hadn’t even noticed. It contained a badge. Sam immediately tensed.
“I’m Special Agent Lambert of the FBI. This is Special Agent Stokes. May we come in?”
She hadn’t even seen the woman. Sam nodded at her, saw the same emotionless expression, then let herself process the situation.
It didn’t take long. “Did you say FBI?” she snapped.
“Yes. We’d like to talk to you.”
God, not again. “Look, I tell people how to avoid scams; I’m not running one myself.” She thrust a frustrated hand through her hair, her fingers tangling in the loose ponytail, knocking several long, blond strands down around her face. “I’m not a hacker and my site and book are not secret instruction manuals for criminals looking for new ways to steal people’s money.”
She’d heard it all since she’d started her blog, and since she’d published her book, Don’t Get Tangled in the Web. Some legal types seemed to think she was helping the criminals more than hurting them. “Don’t you cyber crimes geeks have enough to do without harassing me?”
The man’s shoulders unstiffened a fraction, but his partner didn’t look at all amused.
“You’re not in any trouble, ma’am,” he said. “We’re actually here to ask for your assistance. We’re researching a crime, and have reason to think you were in contact with one of the people involved. We’re hoping you can help us figure out what happened.”
She hesitated. Sam didn’t like people invading her space, especially people who called her ma’am. When she wanted contact with the outside world, she sought it out herself. Sometimes. She did not invite it in when it showed up unannounced at her door, nor did she generally accept unwanted invitations.
Especially from men. And there had been a few—including some from her own divorce attorney, who had made it clear that whenever she was ready to get back into the dating game, he wanted to be first in line.
Sure. Like any woman wanted to go out with the man who’d seen her at the lowest point in her life. Who’d heard every ugly, vicious word her ex-husband had said about her.
She had to hand it to him, though: Rick Young, the attorney in question, hadn’t given up, even though she’d kept saying no.
“Ma’am?”
Sam sighed, already knowing this agent would not take no for an answer. Stepping back, she gestured the pair in. “Fine.” She’d give them five minutes; then it was back to her column. And maybe an ice cream dinner break courtesy of Ben & Jerry—who had, until this very minute, been the only males inside her apartment in months.
But before they’d taken a half dozen steps inside, the female agent glanced out Sam’s living room window, peering at the street one story below. “Oh, no, he is not!”
Realizing what was happening, Sam suppressed a smile. Seemed the local police hadn’t gotten the memo that they should ignore illegally parked, unmarked cars driven by FBI agents.
“Go,” the male agent said. He spoke to his partner’s retreating back. She had already stalked out the door, obviously planning to talk her way out of a ticket.
“Yeah, good luck with that one,” Sam muttered, having had more than a few herself. She didn’t think God himself could talk his way out of a parking ticket once Baltimore’s finest had him in his sights. Cal Ripken, maybe. But nobody else.
“I take it you’ve got some firsthand experience?” the agent said.
“You have no idea. I’m on a first-name basis with the local beat cop. He waves at me and smiles as he tickets me when I forget to move my car on trash days.”
A twinkle of amusement flashed in his green eyes. The stranger suddenly looked less intimidating and more appealing than before. Younger than she’d first thought, too—he was probably only around thirty, close to her age.
Well, the age she would be for another few days. Then she moved beyond the actual three-zero and proceeded directly into her thirties. Do not pass go; do not try to pretend you’re just a day or two beyond twenty-nine.
“Almost makes me wish I could watch. I don’t think she’ll like being told no.” His mouth relaxed into a slow smile, a friendly one that invited her to reciprocate.
Though her heart skipped a single beat in her chest and her pulse did a little flip, Sam’s lips remained tight by sheer force of will. The way she had been feeling about men these days, she wished he’d paste a frown on his mouth. She couldn’t handle an attraction to anyone right now. She’d been burned so badly her hair probably still smelled smoky.
“What is it I can do for you, Agent Lambert?” she asked, her tone curt.
He took her cue, his form stiffening again under his perfectly tailored suit, which looked more appropriate for a Wall Street executive than an FBI agent. “I’d like to show you some correspondence.”
He glanced around the room, seeking a place to sit. Her sofa, a flowery monstrosity her mother had insisted on giving her when Sam had moved out of her ex’s house, was covered with files and industry magazines. Well, mostly industry magazines. There were a few issues of People and Entertainment Weekly thrown in there, too. Not to mention a small pile of unfolded, clean laundry, freshly dumped from the dryer.
Two empty Diet Coke cans stood in the middle of their own permanent rings on the coffee table. A crumpled Snickers wrapper protruded from the opening of one can, looking like a castaway’s note stuck into a poor man’s substitute for a bottle, and on the TV, DVD sleeves for The Notebook and Beaches taunted her about her sadly sappy Netflix movie list.
Her picture should be on Wikipedia as an illustration of a pathetic thirtysomething divorcée.
If not for her desk, she’d probably look like a slovenly hausfrau. Oh, the desk was a wreck, too, but at least it looked as though it was used. Very used. On it were three mountains of paper, in varying heights—one critical, one urgent, and one just important. The just-important one was about one-quarter the size of the others. There was no pile called Take Your Time.
Clearing her throat, she headed toward the kitchen. “Let’s talk in here. I could do with some coffee. You?”
“Sure, thanks.” He followed her, remaining silent while she put the pot on.
Joining him at her small table, Sam tried to force herself to relax. After all, she used to like law enforcement types. Her late father had been a state trooper, and the closest thing she had to a father these days was her dad’s old partner, who was now a judge. It was only recently, since her work had been targeted by some supposed experts who wanted to kick the amateur off their playing field, that she’d begun to question the intelligence of those in any legal profession.
The parking tickets didn’t help, either.
“What’s this all about?”
He opened a folder, spreading what looked like e-mail printouts on her kitchen table. “Did you write these?”
Sam glanced at the pages, seeing her e-mail address on the top of them. “I exchange e-mails with people all the time,” she murmured doubtfully. “This looks like a typical response to someone asking for Web advice.”
Lifting one of the pages, Sam quickly read the original message, and her own response. A smile suddenly widened her lips. “Oh, yeah, I know this kid—what a sweetheart. He’s written to me several times. He even got his parents to bring him to a signing I did last summer.”
“A signing for your Internet scam book?”
She leveled a steady gaze at the man. “My book on how to avoid Internet scams.”
“That’s what I meant.”
Sure it was.
“How long have you been corresponding with him?”
“Probably about a year.” Suddenly remembering what Special Agent Lambert had said when he’d first arrived, Sam met his stare directly. “Wait, you said crime. Is he all right? Nothing’s happened to him, has it?”
Alec noticed right away that Samantha Dalton’s immediate response was to assume young Ryan Smith was a
victim, and she sounded worried. Considering she’d met him only once and had a strictly e-mail relationship with the boy, he filed the detail away, because it said a lot about her. So did her clothes. Her apartment. Her job. Her lifestyle.
But, Jesus, none of that meshed with the visual picture of the woman who’d opened the door to him ten minutes ago.
He’d been prepared for a vigilante computer nerd. Not the brown-eyed, golden-haired beauty with lush lips and a fragile throat. He’d seen fewer curves on a figure eight, despite the shapeless, washed-out sweats she had on. Though she wore no makeup and her hair was a mess, she’d been striking enough to suck every thought out of his head for a long, breathless moment.
Yet she lived as if she’d never had a date and didn’t much care. Which didn’t jibe with that Mrs. Dalton thing she’d carefully pointed out. Or the bare ring finger on her left hand.
Yeah, he’d looked.
All in all, the woman presented an interesting puzzle, one his brain was already trying to take apart and fit back together.
“Agent Lambert?”
“When is the last time you heard from him?”
She met his stare, and he could see the silent debate going on behind those dark eyes. He’d seen it before. Everyone in law enforcement had. Sometimes wanting to know the truth was outweighed by the desire to put off unhappy news for a while. When she shifted her gaze, choosing to delay the inevitable, Alec added another piece to the puzzle: She’d known loss.
She tapped the tip of her index finger on the top page. “This message. About a week and a half ago.”
Alec had memorized the victim’s final e-mail to Sam the Spaminator. “He asked about an e-mail offer a friend of his received?”
“Typical Nigerian four-one-nine scam. I wrote back and sent him links to tons of articles about it, including recent ones I’d written.”
The thing had landed in his own in-box dozens of times, so he knew exactly what she meant, but he let her expound.
“It’s amazing how many people still fall for this scheme. Losses in the hundreds of millions, all because Joe Naive thinks he’s going to get rich if he just puts out a little more money for bribes or taxes or legal fees or security. Until the money’s all gone and the ‘finance minister’ or ‘bank manager’ or ‘estate executor’ is gone with it.”
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