“The warehouse fire was a week ago. You didn’t witness anything.”
The detective’s attitude takes a step back when the female agent snickers. “That’s not what that dumpster says.”
I almost fist bump the air when my neck cranks to the side in sync with Detective Carter to take in a burning dumpster. The evidence Crombie was attempting to discard was most likely ignited by a cigarette butt, but since Detective Carter can’t conclusively say that, he has no choice but to hand Crombie over to the Bureau.
“This is strike three for Crombie. Felony arson. Felony.” The female agent repeats her last word extra slow to ensure Detective Carter doesn’t miss the words she didn’t speak.
With his sneer hidden by a half-hearted grin, Detective Carter hands Crombie off to the female agent. He’s pissed, but he’s aware even in his hometown, he has no jurisdiction when it comes to federal cases.
I wait for Detective Carter to slide into the driver’s seat of his unmarked cruiser to call in his movements before shifting on my feet to face the lead agent on Crombie’s case. “Where are you taking him? We have a field office set up on the—”
“Good evening, Agent James. Enjoy the remainder of your weekend,” she interrupts, dismissing me as if I’m not a fellow agent.
I don’t back down as quickly as Detective Carter, especially when it comes to my past. “I have an interest in this case.”
She walks Crombie to the first Lincoln, places him in the back seat, shuts the door, then pivots around to face me. “I’m aware of that. That’s why I said good evening.”
“But—”
“Good evening, Agent James.” Her tone is the same ball-crushing one she used on Detective Carter, and once again, her unspoken words are the loudest of them all. If I don’t back down, she’ll have Alex breathing down my neck with a click of her fingers.
“Good evening, Agent…” I leave my reply open for her to fill in the blank.
She follows along nicely. “Russell.”
“Good evening, Agent Russell.” I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.
BRANDON
SIX WEEKS LATER…
I wait for Isabelle to disappear into the hallway before dialing a frequently called number and squishing my cell phone to my ear. Isabelle has been a little cold with me the past six weeks. I don’t know if she’s angry because I plowed her with drinks in the hope of ending her weekend early, or if she’s hoping a bit of distance will stop her from revealing she went home with Isaac Holt the night we visited a dance club a little over six weeks ago.
She got lucky that night. When news of another team in Ravenshoe circulated throughout comms, the men responsible for tracking Isaac missed Isabelle slipping into the back of Isaac’s BMW X7 SUV. I was certain she’d been snared by Alex’s trap, so you can imagine my surprise when I discovered my assumption was wrong.
Word to the wise, if you don’t want your private life witnessed by anyone with medium to well-developed hacking skills, don’t buy any electronic devices. Cell phones, laptops, smart TVs, hell, I can even hack into the electronic panel in your fridge if it means I can listen in on a conversation I’m not privy to.
While Harlow tapped away on her phone, oblivious to the undercover work I was doing on her friend, I hacked into the smart TV in Isaac’s penthouse on Hyde. I couldn’t see anything since it was in the blacked-out living room, but once I paired it with the microphone in Isabelle’s cell phone and bounced the image off Isaac’s glass coffee table to the mirrored ceiling in his bedroom, I got the gist of what was happening.
It was a lot more subdued than I had anticipated.
I may have even laughed when Isabelle’s snores filtered through the pods in my ears, confirming the cause of her slumped form on Isaac’s bed.
She was fast asleep.
This is hard to admit, but I failed Isabelle that night. I should have continued with my surveillance to ensure she was safe, but with Crombie in the forefront of my mind, my focus shifted to the past instead of the present.
As it is now.
“Hey, any news on Crombie yet?” I ask Grayson when he finally answers my call after several rings.
He exhales a growling breath. A telltale sign he’s pissed. “They’re not letting anyone near him. I’ve been denied over two dozen times the past six weeks.”
“They’re?” I know who he’s talking about. I just want him to spell it out to me.
“Agent Russell. She has him on such a tight lockdown, Crombie’s movement sheets aren’t being logged each day.”
That spikes my interest. “Can we get her on protocol? If she’s doing shady shit, we could loosen her grip a little.”
