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“Oh, ouch,” she said. “I guess that answers the question of whether or not you were able to get the Intelligence Unit to let you help with the bank robbery case.”
Roman huffed out a sigh. “Yeah, no. I’ve called in every day and I can’t even get an update.”
“Me, either. But that’s why I’m calling. Or part of why I’m calling, anyway.”
Understanding dawned a beat later. “Right. Solidarity. You think if we both ask for an update, we’ll get somewhere?”
“I do,” she said. “And if we both ask for that update in person…”
A low whistle crossed Roman’s lips, followed by a smile. “We’ll be tougher to turn down.”
“Exactly.”
He had to admit, it was pretty fucking brilliant. A little diabolical, but hey, whatever worked. “Did you have a plan in mind?”
“Well, that all depends,” Camila said, taking his ensuing pause as the encouragement he’d intended it to be. “Are you doing anything super pressing right now?”
Roman cracked a grin for the first time in…shit, too long. “You mean, other than meeting you at the Thirty-Third?”
“That’s the spirit.” She laughed, the sound loosening the tension in his chest just enough to make him give the question in his head a voice.
“Hey, you said that’s part of your reason for calling. What’s the other part?”
Her pause lasted for only a second before she said, “Truth? I had a hell of a week, and I missed commiserating with you.”
Something odd moved through Roman’s belly, low and deep, but God, it felt too good to fight. “Yeah, me too. And…me, too.”
“See you in twenty minutes?” Camila asked, and somehow, he knew she was smiling even though he couldn’t see her.
Roman smiled back. “Twenty minutes.”
Pushing back in his chair, Roman scooped up his cell phone and grabbed his keys from his desk, shifting his thoughts. The Intelligence Unit had been working this case for a full week. If they had leads—and knowing them, they probably did—they could share them as a professional courtesy. And if they didn’t? Well, then they needed him after all. Going to the precinct with Camila to press for answers was a risky move, considering Calloway would probably blow a gasket if she caught wind of it. But, he wasn’t doing any investigating on his own, and as much as Roman and the Intelligence Unit had no love lost for each other, Sergeant Sinclair was a reasonable guy. He liked solving cases nearly as much as Roman did.
And Roman could help. Heneededto.
He hustled to the locker room to change into the street clothes he always kept with him. He never knew when he’d need to do recon or go undercover for a case, and his suit would only be a reminder, however subtle, that he was an outsider. Plus, the jeans, T-shirt, and heavy-soled boots he’d stashed away were more comfortable, anyway.
Roman made quick work of the trip out of the building where the FBI’s local field office was housed, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sunshine. Rush hour was still an hour away, which put him at the Thirty-Third precinct just in time to meet Camila. His pulse picked up at the sight of her standing on the sidewalk, her hair swept off her shoulders in a loose twist and a pretty, cobalt-blue sweater hugging her curves just enough to give him Very Bad Ideas, despite the loose, flowy black pants she’d paired it with. As if his defenses needed another potshot, she smiled at the sight of him, her expression brightening her whole face, and how the hell he couldn’t be The Iceman when it came to thisonewoman was fucking beyond him.
“Hi,” Camila said as he approached, and miraculously, his brain complied with a response.
“Hi.”Focus on why you’re here, dumbass. “So, ah, did you have a strategy in mind for this, or did you want to just go in firing on all cylinders and demand some answers?”
Camila bit her lip, which helped the state of affairs in his pants not one bit. “Oh. Well, to be honest, I hadn’t really thought much past showing up to ask for answers. You’re the FBI agent. What do you think?”
“I’m sure this will shock you,” Roman said, his tone indicating that it shouldn’t, “but I’m in favor of the direct approach. I don’t see any point in dicking around.”
She grinned. “A man after my own heart. Shall we?”
Stuffing down the jolt he’d felt at her words—for Chrissake, it was just a turn of phrase—he stepped back so she could lead the way to the Thirty-Third’s main entrance, following her into the spacious, two-story lobby and hoping like hell Sinclair would at least hear them out.
“Maybe you should take the lead on this part,” Camila said as they approached the front desk. “Make this visit seem more…I don’t know, official? At least until we get upstairs?”
He nodded. “Agent Roman, FBI,” he said to the officer behind the front desk, offering his badge to back it up. “And this is Camila Garza. We’re here to see Sergeant Sam Sinclair in Intelligence.”
The officer—Bart Barton (seriously?) according to his nametag—straightened, his eyes narrowing. He looked like he’d graduated from the academy about five minutes ago, his flaming red hair sticking up as if in surrender and his expression wildly self-important, and Roman’s gut clenched.
“Do you have an appointment?” he asked.
