Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

“Wallace? You okay?”

Sounded like Lyons had tired of waiting. Maybe he needed to stretch his legs. Maybe he was bored. She was pretty sure, however, he’d been asked to keep an eye on her, so maybe he was curious in a need-to-take-notes kind of way. She hadn’t wanted a guide to the kill site in the first place, and for someone of Lyons’s rank to volunteer for the job was more than a little unusual.

“Yes, sir, fine.”

Heather stood. Brushing dirt and leaves from her jeans, she turned and, ducking under low, slender branches, walked from the grove just in time to see Portland SAC Alex Lyons slide something into the pocket of his hoodie. Cell phone? she wondered. Blackberry? She walked across the grass to her car. Early afternoon sunshine sparked diamond dazzles from her sleek sapphire-blue Trans Am.

Lyons slouched against the passenger door, smoking. The breeze ruffled his curly blond hair. He looked at Heather, squinting in the sunshine. Lines crinkled around his green eyes, lending him rugged good looks and a Marlboro Man masculinity. Tall and lean-bodied, he wore weathered jeans, a gray Plan B hoodie, and black Rippers. She pegged him in his early thirties, but suspected at heart he remained forever twenty and golden.

“Get what you were looking for?” he asked, straightening. He dropped the cigarette to the pavement. Ground it out with a twist of his Rippers.

“Yes, sir. I appreciate you coming out with me on your day off.”

Lyons shrugged. “Not a problem. Glad to help.”

“Well, it wasn’t necessary,” she said. “And thanks for rounding up the Portland PD’s file on Higgins to compare with the Bureau’s file on the Claw-Hammer Killer.”

“Again, glad to help. Especially someone like you.”

“What do you mean—like me, sir?” Heather pulled open the Trans Am’s passenger door and scooted across the black leather interior to the driver’s seat. She grabbed her seat belt and strapped it shut.

Lyons slid into the passenger seat and closed the door. He fastened his seat belt. “I mean, aside from being a fellow agent, someone with a personal stake in the case.”

The smell of his cologne curled into the air, a cologne Heather remembered her brother wearing—Drakkar Noir—but in this case, its mingled lemon, sandalwood, and amber scent was edged with cigarette smoke.

“And all those sirs are way too formal for a day off,” he added with a smile. “How about you call me Alex and I’ll call you Heather.”

“Wow, good thing that happens to be my name.”

“Beautiful, smart, and a sense of humor,” Alex chuckled. “A killer combination.”

“You just caught me on a good day…. Alex.”

“So what’re your thoughts on the case after reviewing it?”

“Higgins was probably good for my mother’s murder,” Heather said. “But I’d like to know for sure.”

“I understand that completely.”

Heather keyed on the ignition. The Trans Am’s engine rumbled to life. She hit the gas and shifted the car through the gears to fifth, merging smoothly with the I-5 traffic.

“Can I ask you a question?” Lyons said.

“Sure.”

“How did it feel to take Elroy Jordan down? I mean, even after that fuckup of an ME had declared him dead in Pensacola, you still found him.”

Heather kept her gaze on the road, guiding the Trans Am into the fast lane to pass a semi hauling Budweiser, but her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Just dumb luck,” she said.

“Just dumb luck?” Lyons laughed. “Hey, no need for false modesty. Claim your glory. I sure as hell would. You tracked that bastard down and put him where he belonged—in the ground.”

The Bureau had named her Jordan’s killer and a hero even though they’d known the truth, a truth never spoken aloud by anyone, a truth both she and the powers that be had wanted buried, but for very different reasons.

She to keep breathing and to protect Dante.

They to cover their collective asses.

And the ME in Pensacola that Lyons had so casually mentioned? The one who’d been ordered to falsify the autopsy report? A suicide. Slashed her wrists in the tub. Ended up on one of her own autopsy tables.

A very convenient suicide.

It’d chilled Heather to the marrow to realize how far the collective ass-covering would go, but it hadn’t surprised her, not after New Orleans. But worst of all was her own silence, a silence that—no matter how necessary—made her feel like an accomplice.

“Yeah, well, I wish Jordan could’ve faced the relatives of his victims in a court, instead,” she finally replied. “It felt like he got off too easy.”

“They often do.”

“They do,” she agreed. “But I still hope to change that with every arrest I make.”

“Amen, sister.” Lyons paused, then said, “I heard you took a bullet too. How are you feeling? You look good for a woman who nearly died three weeks ago.”

“I’ll answer your question,” Heather said, keeping her voice light, relaxed, “if you answer one for me.”

“Shoot.”

“I saw you putting something in your pocket when I walked out of the woods. Are you recording this conversation?”

“Something in my pocket? I’m not sure….” Lyons suddenly laughed. “My sister. I called my sister to see if she needed me to pick anything up for her on the way home.”

Heather looked at him. Amusement glimmered in his eyes and his level gaze met hers. Her gut instinct said: He’s telling the truth . Some of the tension drained from her muscles and she eased her grip on the steering wheel.

“So is this FBI-trained suspicion or just natural paranoia?”

Heather chuckled. “FBI trained,” she admitted. “But I don’t know how to turn it off anymore.”

“Another amen, sister. So, my question…?”

“My injury wasn’t as bad as you might’ve heard—” A cell phone’s abrupt beedle-beedle interrupted her.

“Is that you or me?” Lyons asked, reaching into his hoodie pocket.

“Shit, it’s me,” Heather muttered, fumbling one-handed behind the seat for her purse. She’d programmed a businesslike ring for the Bureau on her cell; a Leigh Stanz neo-grunge song—“Don’t Need Light”—announced her non-work-related calls.

Given that she wasn’t on active duty yet, a call from work couldn’t be good news.

“Keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the wheel,” Lyons said, twisting around in his seat. “I’ll get it.”

“Thanks,” Heather said, doing as he’d advised. A second later, Lyons pressed her phone against her ear.

“Go,” he whispered.

“Wallace,” she said into the phone.

The conversation was short and most definitely not sweet. When it ended, she reached up and took the cell phone from Lyons, folded it shut, and dropped it into her jacket pocket.

“Trouble?” Lyons asked.

An update on your medical status has been requested. Be here at eighteen hundred hours. Be prepared for the possibility of additional debriefing .

Additional debriefing, sir ?

Just a possibility. Eighteen hundred hours, Wallace .

“No,” she lied, flashing Lyons a quick smile. “A mix-up, most likely.”

“I hear that. The Red-Tape Bureaucracy Boys singing their latest, ‘It Needs to Be Filled Out in Triplicate.’”