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“I’m the insurance investigator with Ambrose Global.”
“Investigator?” His brow furrowed. “I thought they were sending an adjuster.”
“Not in these types of cases.”
His brows hiked. “Thesetypes?”
“Heists. I work like a detective to get to the bottom of the case. To find the perpetrators.”
“I thought that was my job,” Sheriff Brunswick said.
“It is, but it’s also mine,” she said, bracing herself for the sheriff’s reaction. But none came, so she continued. “It’s my job to determine who pulled off the heist.” She turned back to Sheriff Brunswick. “I hope we can keep each other in the loop.”
The man lifted his Stetson off his head and raked a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t see why that would be a problem, as long as boundaries are kept.”
She released her pent-up breath. “Of course.” Then, going for broke, she said, “I’d love a copy of the police report when it’s ready, and I’m more than happy to share any of my notes.” Her words rushed out in a harried fashion, hoping to get the last point in before he had a chance to say no to her request.
Brunswick settled his hat back in place. “I don’t see that being a problem.” He looked up at the sound of a car engine.
“Finally,” Tad said, his tight shoulders drooping.
Brunswick moved for the lot. Andi stuck her head around the entrance wall to see a green Bronco pulling into a parking spot.
“Who’s that?” Andi asked.
“The man who’s going to get us in the building,” Tad said. “He installed the system, so only he can beat it to get in.”
Prime suspect number two. Installation guy. Tad was number one. The gallery owner always was. It was crazy how many robbed their own gallery, or had it robbed, to collect on the insurance money—at least based on Grant’s worldwide cases. One had even been stupid enough to hide the “stolen” pieces in his home.
She shook her thoughts back to the present. “So why aren’t you able to get into your own gallery?”
“Well, I ...” He broke off as Sheriff Brunswick rounded the wall, followed by another man.
“There’s the responsible party,” Tad said.
“I’d hardly say I’m responsible.” Sunlight continued to stream down, and it took a moment for the installation man to step out of the bright beams far enough for her to lay eyes on him. When she did ... wow! Rugged build, at least six-three ... maybe six-four, with brown hair cresting his broad shoulders. He was decked out in hiking—no, climbing—clothes, given the chalk swipes on his pants. An embarrassing heat rushed her cheeks.
“Who’s this?” the man asked Tad, lifting his chin in her direction.
“Andi ... something or other,” Tad said. “She’s with the insurance agency.”
“Ah. The adjuster.” He stretched out his muscular right arm and extended his hand, still dabbed with a hint of chalk. “Christian O’Brady.”
“Andi Forester,” she replied. “And I’m not an adjuster.”
Christian arched a dark brown brow. “No?”
“I’m an insurance investigator.”
“Investigator. Really?”
“Yep.”
He smiled. “That’s very cool.”
“Yes. Yes,” Tad said, waving his arm, his shirt sleeve billowing in the breeze. “It’s cool. Now can you let us into my gallery so I can see what else was taken?” He shook his head, bewilderment flashing across his tan face.
“You okay there?” Brunswick asked.
