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* * *
It was after two in the morning before Carly’s FBI and ATF interrogators reluctantly agreed with her assertion that she’d told them everything she knew—which wasn’t much—and she’d be happy to continue if she wasn’t falling asleep. Which she was. Twice now she’d ignored the agents in the interrogation room with her and had put her head down on the table for a five-minute catnap.
She hadn’t gotten much sleep the previous night. And though she’d accepted Shane’s invitation to the reception at the Zakharian embassy, the gala affair was to have ended at ten. Which meant Carly would have been asleep by eleven at the latest. Unless you brought Shane home with you, a tiny corner of her mind reminded her. But she had no intention of telling the FBI and ATF agents that.
“We must ask you to keep what you know to yourself, Ms. Edwards,” one of the men said. “This is an ongoing investigation.”
Carly shook her head. “Not going to happen. You can’t muzzle the press. But,” she added, when one of the men looked as if he was going to argue—and she was too tired to argue—”I don’t know anything. So you don’t have to worry.” Which is true, she reminded herself. I don’t even know what Shane saw that tipped him off to the bomb. And there had been a bomb. Her interrogators had refused to say yes or no, but the participation of the ATF agents in the interview was a dead giveaway.
The reminder of Shane and how long the questioning had gone on made her worry about him. He’d already had one seizure in her town house—what if it happened again?
She stood, shrugged into her coat and tucked her evening bag under her arm. “I must ask you to return my gun. I have a valid carry permit, and my gun is in no way evidence in this investigation.”
“No problem,” one of the FBI agents told her. “You can pick it up as you leave.”
She nodded. “Okay. Can someone call a cab for me? I went to the embassy with the senator, and—”
The agents looked at each other. “Someone will drive you home, Ms. Edwards. We appreciate your cooperation. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”
* * *
Shane glanced at his watch. He’d been here for nearly four hours, and for the last two he’d done nothing but repeat the same facts he’d already recounted during the first two. Endlessly. The FBI and ATF agents had been deferential—he was a US senator, after all—but their questions had changed slightly with each round, as if they were trying to trip him up somehow. It would almost have been funny—if he wasn’t so damned tired. If he wasn’t worrying about Carly. If he wasn’t feeling so guilty for having put her through this again—the same kind of monotonous and probably just as pointless interrogation they’d both gone through after the assassination attempt in Arizona.
“We’re done here, gentlemen,” he said now, standing abruptly. He picked up his tuxedo jacket, which he’d hung on the back of his chair a few hours ago, and shrugged it on. Then he retrieved his overcoat from the chair beside him. “I’ve answered your questions to the best of my ability. I have nothing more to offer. I don’t know who’s trying to kill me, or why. Do I have enemies? Professionally, maybe, but none that I’m aware of. And no enemies in my personal life, as far as I know. As for tonight’s incident, if you’re thinking it was some kind of publicity stunt—think again. I don’t operate that way. I never have.”
The four agents in the room glanced at each other, then back at Shane. “Why would you bring that up, Senator?” the lead FBI agent asked in silky tones.
Shane smiled cynically. “I can read between the lines. All I can say is it happened, whether you believe it or not. All I can tell you is what I’ve said a dozen times already—the car was speckled with dried slush from the streets...except for that tiny patch on the panel below the driver’s side door, which had been smudged. The light from the streetlamp just happened to hit it at an angle where I could see it when I came around the corner of the car.”
“The valet could have touched that spot with his leg when he got in or out of the car.”
