Debra Webb - Agent Cowboy

“YOU MUST BE Mr. Tucker,” a man suggested as Trent exited the gate at Houston’s Hobby Airport. “Detective Hargrove.” He extended his hand. Houston’s police department would be working aspects of this case along with the FBI—because the senator didn’t trust the local Bureau.

It hadn’t been necessary for the detective to introduce himself. Trent recognized the cop instantly. Wrinkled suit, probably hadn’t been home all weekend, and a five o’clock shadow well before noon. If he was the detective in charge of this case, Trent doubted he’d get any rest before it was solved. With a senator breathing down his neck he likely wouldn’t even sleep until he had a suspect. He looked to be about forty. Fairly trim, but with a haggard expression that lent credence to Trent’s conclusion.

Which, considering what they had to go on, wasn’t happening anytime soon. This was one of those dig in for the long haul kind of cases. Trent could feel it all the way to his bones. There would be no clear-cut answers. No handy suspects. This one would be solved one tidbit of revealed evidence at a time. Slowly and methodically.

The idea didn’t intimidate Trent in the least. Waiting out his prey was something he did especially well.

Trent shook the other man’s outstretched hand. “I appreciate you coming out to meet me like this considering it’s a holiday,” Trent offered.

Hargrove rolled his bloodshot eyes. “What holiday? Until I catch the perp in this case I doubt I’ll even see my family again.”

Trent had been right. “I understand.”

“You want to go to the scene first, right?”

“Right.”

After a trip to luggage pickup, Hargrove led the way to the short-term parking area where two dark sedans waited. He gestured to one and offered Trent a set of keys. “I figured the least we could do was provide you with transportation seeing how you’re going to be cooperating with us and all.”

Trent accepted the keys. “Sounds fair to me.” He tossed his luggage in the back seat and settled behind the wheel. The Houston Police Department didn’t want him uncovering anything without keeping them fully informed. He imagined there would be a tracking device somewhere on the sedate-looking vehicle just so they would know where he was at all times. No one wanted this case to go any farther south than it already was. And no one, not H.P.D. or the senator, wanted the Bureau to know Trent was involved.

Forty-five minutes after leaving the airport, Hargrove turned into a small parking area that supported a minioffice complex on the fringes of Houston proper. Three separate suites made up the complex with Jarvis’s on the end. An overgrown jungle of shrubbery camouflaged the aging building from its newer two-story neighbor.

Yellow crime-scene tape and a posted warning at the entrance marked the area as off-limits to anyone but official personnel. To breach that line was a criminal offense.

Hargrove unlocked the door and entered the premises. Trent took his time as he moved inside, studying the layout and looking for anything that appeared out of place. The lobby was relatively small, tiled floor, upholstered chairs and a couple of tables covered with magazines for waiting clients. The assistant’s desk stood on the far side of the room where the space narrowed into a corridor that led to the other offices, he surmised.

The assistant’s desk was tidy. A small green plant occupied one corner. A chalk outline on the floor behind it represented the young woman who had been murdered there.

“Her purse was taken as evidence,” Hargrove told him, noting the path of Trent’s gaze. “There wasn’t much in it though. A few dollars, a credit card, sunglasses, and lip gloss and tissues.”

Without looking up from the outline, Trent asked, “No driver’s license or other ID?”

“Apparently she left home without her license that morning, even got a ticket on the way to work. Oh.” The detective shook his head. “Forgot to mention that, the ticket was in her purse as well.”

Trent nodded.

“Look around all you’d like,” Hargrove said as he handed him a pair of latex gloves. “Jarvis’s office, a lounge and a conference room are that way.” He gestured to the corridor. “I’m going to make some calls.”

Hargrove took a seat in the lobby and fished out his cell phone. Trent, thankful for the opportunity to view the rest of the scene alone, tugged on the gloves and entered Jarvis’s office first. He preferred making his own assessments, with no outside influence.

The leather executive chair behind the desk carried the mark of a single bullet hole and the dried remains of a good deal of blood. Some of the life-giving fluid had dripped onto the beige carpet. One of the upholstered chairs in front of the desk was overturned. The agent had likely stood and faced the shooter after Jarvis took a bullet. That would explain the overturned chair and the spray of blood and brain matter on Jarvis’s desk. According to the M.E.’s preliminary report, the bullet had entered his forehead, leaving a small round hole, but had exited the back of his head removing a wide swath of all in its path.

Again, an outline on the floor marked the place the agent had fallen. Trent shook his head. He never doubted his first impressions and this had the look and smell of a setup.

The shooter hadn’t simply walked in at just the right time to take out all involved. He had known when the agent would be arriving. Had known when the other offices would be closed, allowing additional privacy. These killings had been planned down to the precise moment—after the envelope of money was in the agent’s pocket. Almost too precise.

Trent took his time going through the office, then the lounge and conference room. Everything was just as it should be. Not a single thing looked out of place.

When he returned to the corridor, he walked the full length of it. Checked the rear emergency exit, which led into an alley that backed up to a small strip mall. He moved slowly back up the corridor but stopped midway. Something snagged his attention. The grill on the return duct wasn’t fully closed.

He crouched down and found one latch loose, the louvered grill that served as a door was held closed at the top only. “Hargrove!” he called.

The detective appeared pretty damned quick for a guy running on forty-eight hours or more with no sleep. “Yeah?”

“Got a flashlight?”

“In the car. I’ll get it.”

Trent released the one latch and pulled the grill open. The battered filter lay discarded to the side. He leaned forward and looked around inside but couldn’t see anything. Why would the filter be in that condition and moved to the side? He pulled the filter from the duct and looked it over before setting it aside.

“Here you go.” Hargrove came up behind him with a black, heavy-duty police issue flashlight in hand.

“Thanks.” Trent surveyed the inside of the duct. About ten feet long. Not much to see other than the thin layer of insulation coating the sheet metal. As far as he could tell it was undisturbed. But when he drew back something snagged his attention.

A couple of strands of hair. He reached for it. Pulled it loose from the grill and studied it. Blond. Fairly long.

“Whatcha got there?” Hargrove squatted down next to him. “You think the unit sucked those in from the floor or whatever?”

Trent shook his head. “I don’t think so. These two hairs were snagged on this metal edge where the grill frame fits into the duct.” He pointed to the spot where he’d pulled them loose. “I think they got caught there when someone stuck their head in here.”

“To change the filter maybe?” Hargrove suggested.

Trent shrugged. “Maybe.”

But whoever had changed the filter last hadn’t done a very good job, he didn’t bother to mention.