She chuckled. “You must be the only person who thinks driving in D.C. is interesting.”
He smiled. “I meant it’s interesting to see what Foyle does when he’s not running the unit. I like politics.”
“Tylo Blume was at the hearing yesterday. Did Foyle talk to him?”
He nodded. “He owns Triad, one of the security contractors that Hornbeck recommended for a ceremony at the National Archives. Are we back to the interrogation already?”
She rolled her eyes and lied, “No. Lighten up, Jono. A subject we have in common happens to be related to an investigation. We’re not friends yet. This is called getting-to-know-you conversation.”
“You want to be friends?”
She shrugged a little. “Let’s say I don’t want us to be adversaries. I’m putting my ass on the line for you, and it would be nice to know if my gut is right.”
“Me, too. Tell me why you’re spying on the SWAT team.”
She rested the beer on her hip. “Fair enough. To be honest, I wasn’t this time. A year or so ago, Foyle needed a druid to fill in for Deegan when he was on sick leave. InterSec thought it might be beneficial to have someone on the inside there, so I created Janice. It didn’t go anywhere, but I got stuck doing Foyle a favor as a result. That was how I ended up on the drug raid.”
“You want me to take over that job,” he said.
Laura played with the label on her beer. “More or less. I’m stretched too thin to keep it up for much longer. There might be other things.”
“Like what?”
“Like, let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. You’re on probation until Terryn is satisfied you aren’t a double agent,” she said.
“Like you,” he said.
She sighed. “For the right side. I’m not going to apologize for what I do, Jono. It’s fair game in this town. I’ve accomplished a lot of good, positive things over the years.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I forget how the good guys kidnap people and threaten to make them disappear.”
She tore the edge of the label. “Is this how it’s going to be? Because I don’t need it.”
He chuckled again and stood. “Yeah, this is how it’s going to be. I’m not the only one on probation. You’ll have to figure out when I’m joking and when I’m not. Come on. Let’s find the bedroom ward so I can get some sleep. We have to work tomorrow.”
She followed him through the door at the back of the dining room. A short hall had a clean, well-lit bathroom to the left next to the kitchen. To the right, a space too large to be a closet and too small to be a room served as a study area. Laura found another ward-stone pencil sharpener-and held it up for Sinclair so he knew where it was. The bedroom at the back of the apartment had a clean, masculine feel-midcentury modern nightstands and bed, mini malist bureaus, and crisp white sheets.
“So this is my bedroom,” he said.
“It’s nice. Are the nightstands original?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’m not sure. They’re secondhand, though. Found them in a shop.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots while Laura made a circuit of the room. She found the listening ward. The base of the lamp on the alarm-clock side of the bed had been charged. She pointed it out to Sinclair.
“Why so shy, Crawford? We’ve been wanting this for days,” he said.
Startled, she pointed again at the lamp. He wasn’t close enough for the medallion to block the sound of his voice. Sinclair chuckled loud enough for the ward to pick it up. “Mmmm. Lift your shirt a little higher.”
She crossed her arms firmly across her chest. What the hell do you think you’re doing? she sent at him.
He grinned and slipped off his jeans. She met his challenge and refused to look away as he stretched in his T-shirt and navy boxer briefs. At least he didn’t push it with an arousal, she thought. “Very nice,” he said, his voice soft with seduction, “now slide the jeans down slow.”
Knock it off!
“I love thongs,” he said.
She grabbed a pillow and threw it at him. He caught it with one hand and moaned. “I knew I’d love the way your skin smells. Talk, Janice, I like to hear you talk. Tell me how good this feels.”
“You like to play games, don’t you?” she said, as annoyingly sweet as she could while maintaining the threat in her eyes.
He groaned again. “Oh, yes. Let’s play more.”
Stretching out on his side and closer to the lamp, he propped up his head on his hand and grinned up at her. Behind him, the essence ward faded as the field from his medallion touched it.
Laura put her hands on her hips. “You are dead meat, Sinclair.”
He patted the sheets next to him. “Time for bed.”
She sat down hard with her back to him, then lay fully clothed on her side. “You can sleep on the couch,” she said.
“Uh-uh,” he said. “If someone’s listening in when I bring a woman home, you can be damned sure she’s sleeping in my bed with me.”
She half rolled toward him. “Sleeping is all she’ll be doing.”
“Got it,” he said, still grinning. He slipped under the sheets and turned out the light. “There’s a blanket at the end of the bed if you want it.”
She found the blanket, arranged it over her jeans, and lay back down. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Do you need another pillow?”
“I’m fine.”
Sinclair shifted on his side, not crossing the space between them. She closed her eyes and listened to him breathe.
“Would you like a glass of water?” he asked her back.
“I’m okay, Sinclair. Good night.”
“How about a story then?”
“Good night, Sinclair,” she said loudly. He snickered behind her.
She smiled in the darkness, watching leaf shadows cast by a streetlight dance in dark gray against pale walls. The last time she’d slept in the same bed with someone was… a long time ago, she realized. Although technically, she was working. And wearing her clothes. And on top of the sheets while Sinclair was under them. But she was sleeping in the same bed with someone. Technically.
Sinclair breathed lightly behind her. She knew he was awake, probably staring at the back of her head like she was staring at the wall. He had started out the night as a cop following up a hunch on his own and ended up sharing his bed with a druid who had threatened to kill him. She tried to imagine being in his situation, and if their positions were reversed, would she have a sense of humor. She admired that he could. She liked it.
She adjusted the pillow. That was as far as she was going to take that line of thought. It was fun-fantasy always was-but Sinclair was the wrong person at the wrong time. And maybe a little too cocky. He definitely was too cocky. She pictured him swilling beer every night at his dining-room table, completely oblivious to food stains on his T-shirt. Yeah, she thought. That was what he was probably really like. Behind the handsome face, the attractive body. An arrogant cop who would take any opportunity to trip her. She didn’t need the hassle. She had gotten along fine without it for years. His breathing became rhythmic, a slow deep inhale, a soft exhale. It soothed her into drowsiness, then sleep.
She dreamed of a city empty of people, the sky a stark white above, something acrid in the air. She ran, darting around corner after corner, looking for something while something looked for her. A sound gained on her, like the panting of a large animal, its breath broken by the lunging of a heavy body. Light flashed across her vision, bright white and blinding. Whatever followed was coming closer. Panic took over as she ran between parked cars and dodged down broken sidewalks.
Her hair became damp with sweat. The stark white sky turned orange and red, thick black smoke smearing against the horizon. Something was wrong, and she didn’t understand if she were trying to fix it or escape it. The thing behind came closer and closer. She tripped. Of course. She always tripped in moments like this in her dreams, an abrupt twist of an ankle c
aused by some minor heave in the sidewalk, a slow-motion fall as she curled into a ball to land with the least damage. She rolled onto her back and it was night. Something huge and dark loomed over her while flames roared behind it. It descended.
Laura gasped, and her eyes flew open. Sinclair had his hand on her arm, rocking her gently. She let him continue to hold her while her racing heart slowed. She took deep breaths to calm down.
He must have sensed she was awake because he stopped rocking. “You okay?”
“Nightmare. Sorry I woke you.”
His arm slid down, his hand lingering on her biceps. He gave it a soft squeeze and let go. “Yeah, I get them, too.”
He rolled away. She stared at the leaf shadows, Sinclair’s scent tickling at her nose. “Thanks, Jono.”
“You’re welcome,” he said in the dark.
She dropped into sleep again.
CHAPTER 19
LAURA HAD BEEN around Washington long enough to remember when she could walk in the front door of the FBI building without an appointment. Security had tightened over the last decade, and the building was closed to the public. The Bureau no longer offered tours, and nonstaff visitors were invitation-only. Her driver looped around the block, waiting for a space to open in the drop-off zone.
She retrieved the dossier on Sanchez from her briefcase. Terryn had collected scant information. Whatever Sanchez was involved in, even the InterSec back channels couldn’t pick up on it. That meant his mission was compartmentalized, records would be limited, and few inside the Bureau would have direct knowledge. That also meant it was a sensitive mission that the FBI wanted to move on carefully.
Her mind wandered to Sinclair and the morning. She awoke before he did and jumped in the shower. When she came out of the bathroom, he had coffee ready. They spoke little, bumping into each other in doorways as they passed between the rooms in the small apartment. An awkwardness marked their movements, as if they had done more than sleep. Neither mentioned Laura’s nightmare or the moment after it that was oddly more intimate than sex. As Sinclair went out the door, she warned him to stick to main streets and not take shortcuts. InterSec would be watching in case someone decided to stage another accident for him. He leaned down to kiss her but darted back with a smirk before making contact. She glared at him all the way to the car, and he returned her look with a mock-innocent expression.
Sinclair’s manner intrigued and confused her. He made his blatant come-ons with an obvious awareness that she wouldn’t react to them, at least not react positively. He made no secret that his attraction to her was genuine, yet he continued the antics. Maybe he thinks he’ll wear me down, she thought. Maybe after we figure out what was going on at the drug lab, and we manage to live through it, I might let him buy me dinner, but not now. She laughed. Given that she was considering seeing him under these circumstances, maybe he knew exactly what he was doing.
The black car pulled to the curb. Laura thanked the driver and stepped out. She ran a quick check of the Mariel glamour, making sure her outfit clung snugly in all the right places. Walking the half block to the building entrance, she displayed her ID badge on its lanyard. From experience, she knew that the military police who patrolled the outside perimeter were not shy.
Despite the lack of public access, the lobby bustled with people. The Bureau was a huge, sprawling entity with thousands of employees, even more investigations and research projects, as well as being actively involved in programs with other government groups. Except InterSec. They gave some token support, but integration with a security group that included foreign nationals did not sit well with them.
She queued through the first layer of metal detectors, pretending not to notice the sideways glances from men. A wall of bulletproof glass blocked the main hallway, and she waited with others to be photographed and demonstrate that she was approved for entrance. Once through, a guard escorted her to the elevators. While the Bureau didn’t love InterSec, they honored her security status and left her alone at that point. Nonsecurity staff were escorted for their entire visit.
Lawrence Scales waited outside his office. He didn’t outrank Mariel Tate, but she had cultivated a formidable reputation for courtesy and expected it to be returned. Not a few people tested her patience and found themselves waiting a long time to speak with her, if they managed to get an appointment at all. It was all part of the D.C. game.
Laura held out her hand, automatically imprinting his body signature into her memory. It was an old habit that served her well. “Section Chief Scales, I’m Mariel Tate.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. You’re early.” He ushered her into his office with cool professionalism. The stark, utilitarian room had few personal touches that did not relate to work with the exception of a small framed photograph of a woman and two children that graced his desk. The kids looked like him. Laura did not wait to be offered the guest chair but made herself comfortable.
She slipped her briefcase to the floor. “I thought I’d be longer getting through security, so I padded my schedule.”
Scales took his own seat behind the desk. “I’m not sure why your office requested this meeting.”
Mariel folded her hands in her lap. She knew he was lying by the tone of his voice. Anxiety fluttered from him when she turned her deep gaze on him. “A D.C. SWAT-TEAM officer named Gabrio Sanchez was killed five days ago. An InterSec agent with him was almost killed, and another attempt has been made on her life since then as well as an attempt on another police officer. It is our understanding that Sanchez was working an undercover operation for the FBI.”
He gave her a false, professional smile. “That’s where my confusion comes in. No one by that name works here.”
Not by the name of Sanchez anyway, Laura thought. That a lie could be the truth amused her. She knew Terryn had made the same claims about her personas on more than one occasion. “We have an agent who is being targeted, Chief Scales. If InterSec opens its own investigation, we will eventually stumble into each other. I would prefer that our agent not die in the meantime.”
Scales nodded, his manner sympathetic, yet resistant. “I understand your concerns. I would feel the same way. As of now, I can only say your information is mistaken and that I can have someone look into clarifying the situation for you.”
Laura let her body essence seep out, not enough for a physical manifestation, but enough for Scales to feel a change in the air. A mild static would tickle along his arms and legs, maybe the back of his scalp. It was an old druid trick to tease out anxiety, and one that worked particularly well with humans. “Chief Scales, I cannot stress enough the interest in this case. If there is anything you can tell me off the record to assist in protecting our agent, I would appreciate it.”
His gaze slipped away as he tidied things on his desk, moving a stapler, then some pencils. “If I were to conjecture, maybe this Sanchez-if he were an agent-might have exposed something unexpected. I imagine it would be fairly high-level. Perhaps he even had names.”
Laura nodded. “Assuming he was an agent, do you think he would have reported those names?”
Scales nodded. “As part of his duties, of course. He might have already provided one, and the night he died, he might have thought he would provide more.”
“I see.” She did. Scales headed Counterterrorism. Even a low-level case for him was off the charts for other agencies. If someone took out Sanchez to keep him silent, Janice Crawford would not be left alone if that same someone thought she knew something. Scales effectively told her that Janice Crawford was in grave danger. She shifted in the chair, boosting the essence in the room. “I imagine the FBI would be keen to keep any information confidential until they sort things out themselves.”
“It’s quite possible,” said Scales. Probable, thought Laura. The message from him was clear. He couldn’t and wouldn’t say anything that might jeopardize their investigation. Which meant the Bureau was going to stonewall at the drug-den site. They weren’t going to sh
are because Janice Crawford was not important enough and not their immediate problem.
Laura stood, keeping her face cordial. “Thank you for your time, Chief Scales. Unfortunately, I may have to pursue this through higher channels.”
He rose and shook her hand. “Understandable, Agent Tate. Please keep in touch.”
He walked with her to the door. “Have you ever been to the Vault?” His voice changed, shifting to a more relaxed tone to indicate they had moved to more social conversation.
“The club?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes. I recommend it. A surprising number of politicians enjoy the place. You might say the names that go through the door are very interesting.”
She smiled to indicate she understood what he meant. He wasn’t going to tell her what he knew, but he was giving her a lead. “Perhaps we will run into each other there.”
Amusement danced in his eyes. “It’s a small town, Agent. You never know who you will run into.”
She kept her pace steady as she walked down the hallway. The stonewalling didn’t bother her. It had happened before and would happen again. She already suspected something was going on with the Vault, but Scales’s hint of a political connection gave the situation a different spin.
Her sensing ability flickered as a shimmer of essence passed over her. She hesitated at the elevator. Someone was casting a spell, a damned large one, big enough to cause a wave front. Her skin prickled.
Back up the hall, a young man left Scales’s office and made his way to the floor exit at the far end. On his heels, Scales appeared at his office door with a box in his hands and a confused look on his face as he watched the retreating figure. As he turned back, he noticed her, nodded, and retreated into his office.
Something wasn’t right. The FBI didn’t have any fey on their teams. They didn’t like the fey on their teams. The president and Congress had determined it was a national-security issue to have nonhumans in the Bureau. Either she’d sensed something she wasn’t supposed to, or something was wrong. She decided not to let it go and walked back toward Scales’s office.
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