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“I emailed your office twice,” Jason replied. “And I phoned on Friday and spoke to your assistant chief, to let her know we’d be interviewing Bozwin residents.”
“My assistant chief is not the one in charge.”
“I couldn’t get an answer from you.”
“Then that was your answer!”
Jason was trying to keep his tone reasonable, but it wasn’t easy after the morning he’d had, and he’d already gone through one round of questioning from the deputy sheriffs, who at least had a right to be on-scene.
“Sir, you don’t have that option. Letting you know we were speaking to people in your community was merely a courtesy. This is a federal case. We have jurisdiction.”
“Leave ’em the hell alone, Amos,” Thompson suddenly chimed in. “Feds or not, these assholes saved my life. Not to mention the lives of several of my guests.”
“The hell I will,” Sandford snarled. He jabbed his finger at J.J. “This asshole killed someone in my backyard.”
Abruptly, Jason lost his temper. “Backyard? This isn’t even your county!”
“I decide what’s in my county.”
Huh?
That was a new one.
J.J., who had been uncharacteristically quiet through the butt-chewing, protested, “He was firing an automatic weapon at a house full of civilians!”
Sandford had opened his maw for another mauling, but that had been the moment the cavalry, or at least what looked like the entire staff of the FBI’s Bozwin Resident Authority, had started taking up every available parking space not currently occupied by the sheriffs. There was something kind of solemn, even ominous, in all those official, unmarked vehicles silently filling the yard.
“Goddamn,” Sandford muttered. “Why don’t they send the black helicopters too?”
It did seem like a lot of agents for a tiny RA like Bozwin, but the reassembling of Sam’s task force meant agents from Missoula and Helena had been in the office when the call came through, resulting in a pretty impressive show of force.
The Bureau preferred to handle agent-involved shootings in-house. That was what this was about.
Jason watched as a black SUV pulled up in front of the ranch house and Special Agent in Charge Elinor Phillips and her sole passenger got out.
Phillips was tall and athletic, with the kind of freckles that looked like a fashion statement rather than genetics. She wore a black pantsuit, and her champagne-colored hair was pulled up in a bun that bore zero resemblance to the version sported by schoolmarms and spinster cat ladies.
“Chief Sandford!” She sketched a wave to Sandford that might have been something else had sixty-plus people not been watching her. Despite the professional smile, Phillips didn’t sound any more thrilled to see the police chief than he was to see her.
Jason glanced at the SUV’s passenger. His heart jumped at the unexpected sight of Sam.
BAU Chief Sam Kennedy made an imposing figure in his favorite black suit, razor-sharp white shirt, and a black-cherry-colored tie. The summer breeze cheekily ruffled his pale hair, but behind the formidable dark glasses, Sam’s face was steely.
His aftershave, an aggressive blend of musk and sandalwood, reached their enclave a couple of steps ahead of Sam—or Phillips.
“Problem?” He looked from Jason to Russell to Sandford.
Jason shrugged, nodded at Sandford. “Apparently there is, though I’m not sure why. It’s not like we had a lot of options.”
“What’s going on, Amos?” Phillips questioned.
Sandford launched into a list of grievances. Support for Jason and J.J. came once again from Bert Thompson.
“My step-daughter’s halfwit ex-boyfriend and his drooling moron cousin decided to shoot up the place. I guess Brody didn’t believe my wife when she told him Patty wasn’t here. Thank God she’s with friends in Great Falls.”
Sam gave Jason’s shoulder a hard, reassuring squeeze. “You okay?” His blue gaze was searching—and assessing.
Jason nodded. He had stopped shaking, his heartbeat was normal again, but he still felt a little queasy, a little shaky. He would never admit it, but it was the truth. Reaction, plain and simple, and Sam probably knew it, because he gave Jason’s shoulder another of those bruising grips.
