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“Okay. For argument’s sake, let’s say you’re right. That still doesn’t explain to me who you are or why I should trust you.”
“I could say the same.”
He released a long sigh and shook his head, causing several strands of hair to fall into his harsh, handsome face. For a man so rough around the edges, he was oddly...beautiful. “I’ve got all the time in the world, sweetheart.”
But she didn’t. If enough hours passed with no word, her packmates would come looking for her. She couldn’t risk their safety on something this insignificant. Wolves in the middle of Rochester’s downtown streets weren’t exactly inconspicuous. She needed to give him just enough to get him to let her go. “We don’t want a rogue killing human women on our turf any more than you do. My packmaster ordered me to examine the scenes.”
She held her poker face. This way she was throwing the heat back on herself and hopefully throwing him off identifying her in the process.
“You expect me to believe Frankie Amato ordered a she-wolf to prowl around looking for a killer for him?”
She stiffened. She didn’t know what she took umbrage with more—the fact that he knew her name, that he automatically assumed that to be a packmaster and have a gender neutral name meant she was a man, or that a she-wolf couldn’t get the job done.
“That’s what I said.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Okay.” Abruptly, he shoved back his chair with a nasty scrape that grated against her wolf senses. He grabbed the manila folder from the desk before he downed the last of the coffee and tossed it in the trash bin. Then headed toward the interrogation room door.
“Where are you going?” A rush of panic shot through her.
He pulled the door open before he cast a glance over his shoulder. “What? You didn’t think I’d have a way to check your story out?”
She tensed, but tried not to show it.
“Let’s get one thing clear,” he said. “You don’t want to make an enemy out of me.”
“Too late,” she shot back.
He chuckled, low and deep in a way that caused her wolf to stir. “We’ll see about that.”
5
“What in the flying fuck was that?”
The door to the interrogation room slammed shut, and Jace let out a frustrated sigh. Scowling, he faced toward his region lead. “Hello to you, too, Chet.”
Jace tossed the case folder onto a nearby filing cabinet, which Damon quickly retrieved. His division leader flipped through the pages, meanwhile shooting Jace a look that warnedplay nice. No doubt Damon had tried to keep Chet away, but whenever their region lead got a bright idea in his thick skull, there was little deterring him.
Ignoring Chet, Jace crossed the small space and parked himself in front of the two-way mirror. The viewing room’s close quarters smelled of stale coffee, male sweat, and the mayonnaise-soaked paper from someone’s half-eaten sandwich.
Disappointment and aggression all rolled into one.
Through the two-way, Jace stared into the interrogation room, watching where Francesca rolled her neck and shoulders, then adjusted her position atop her creaking chair. She was still glowering at the door where he’d exited moments ago, as if she could somehow see him there and wanted to tear into him. He shook his head. This part had always struck him as messed up.
Watching their suspects like they were goddamn lab rats. What point did it serve other than to screw with their heads?
Still, he couldn’t bring himself to take his eyes off her.
What was with that?
“I said,” Chet bellowed again. “What the fuck was that, McCannon?”
“Standard protocol?” Jace lifted a brow, though he didn’t look toward the region lead. He was fighting too hard to keep his eyes even, steady. Colored to their human green.
If he expected to get through this little Headquarters inspection with his job intact, he’d need to play nice, like Damon said. Or at least something close to it. If there was one thing that’d goad their asshole of a region lead to fury faster than unfiled paperwork, it was disrespect.
Never mind that “superior” or not, Chet had never given an ounce of that same courtesy to anyone around him—Jace, Damon, or otherwise. Jace would do his job, whatever his team needed to make this go smoothly, but that didn’t mean he’d kowtow to some pompous prick without even half his or Damon’s experience. The whole Rochester division knew Chet had only gotten his job either from blatant nepotism or shameless ass-kissing.
Either way, he was callingsomeoneamong the higher ups Daddy.
