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The detective was well-trained and didn’t react emotionally to Faith’s outburst. She simply said, “You may be right, Special Agent, but until I am officially removed from this case, I have a job to do, and I intend to do it. Do you have a good reason for breaking into Mr. Clark’s apartment and waiting to call police until you examined the scene and tampered with evidence?”
Faith took a deep breath and released it slowly. “When he didn’t answer the doorbell, I figured he was probably in trouble or hurt.”
“So you attempted to announce your presence to Mr. Clark before you broke into his home?”
“I didn’t attempt shit, detective,” Faith spat. “I announced it. Gordon was dead, so he didn’t hear me.”
“All right,” the detective said calmly, lifting a hand. “So you entered the apartment and found it as you see here.”
“Yes,” Faith said, calming slightly.
“Do you know who might have done this?”
“Who the hell do you think?” Faith said, losing her cool once more. “He left a damned note!”
“With all due respect, Miss Bold—”
“Special Agent Bold,” Faith bit.
“Special Agent Bold,” the detective corrected, still unflappably calm, “this crime scene doesn’t match the Copycat Donkey Killer’s MO.”
“Well, he doesn’t usually pick victims with years of training in law enforcement,” Faith replied. “Gordon fought for his life. But it’s him. I know it’s him.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know!” Faith shouted. “I’ve been working on this case for years!”
“Yes,” the officer agreed, “but up until recently, that work was without the permission and, in fact, expressly against the instructions of your superiors, correct?”
“Oh, for crying out—" Faith rolled her eyes. "Are you seriously considering me as a suspect? That's your smart cop conclusion? She happened to be here, so she probably did it?”
“I’m just doing my job, ma’am,” the officer demurred in her goddamned infuriating bedside manner voice.
Faith sighed and shook her head. “Well, with all due respect, detective, I’m going to sit here and wait until it isn’t your job anymore before I answer any more questions.”
The detective looked about to reply, but a moment later, Faith’s partner, Michael Prince, and Faith’s boss, Special-Agent-in-Charge Grant Monroe—known to his employees as the Boss—entered the apartment, brushing past a protesting uniform who looked just about old enough to shave.
The Boss hooked a thumb behind him and addressed the detective. “Out.”
A flash of irritation crossed the detective’s face. “Sir, proper channels need to be followed before—”
“Proper channels will be having you write parking tickets for the next twenty years if I hear your voice again or see anyone who doesn’t work for the FBI at this crime scene in three minutes. Out.”
The detective reddened, and Faith felt a perverse pleasure at seeing the first display of real emotion on the officer's face. She glared at Faith, and Faith returned the look in kind.
The detective sighed and left the room, followed quickly by the uniforms, most of whom looked relieved as they filed out after her.
Michael crossed the room and wrapped Faith in his arms. Faith allowed the embrace for a moment, then pushed gently away. She appreciated Michael’s attempt at comfort, but she wasn’t in a mood to be comforted right now.
The Boss looked down at Grant’s body and his shoulders slumped. For a brief moment, he looked every bit the sixty-year-old man he was.
He sighed and shook his head. “Dammit.”
When he looked up at Faith, the gruff exterior was back, but his eyes shone with a cold fury that was the closest thing to hate that she’d ever seen on his face.
“You said the copycat killer did this?” he asked.
Faith nodded. “He left me a note.”
