Anna Perrin - The Enforcer

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her throat so tight she could barely speak. “I’m sorry that your friend died.”

Opening his eyes, Young pinned her with a furious glare. “Pete Sanderson didn’t die. He was murdered. And when his killer is apprehended, he’s the one who will be sorry.”

His glare discouraged conversation, but she had to ask. “Do you know who killed him?”

He shook his head. “Fifteen agents are assigned to the case. They’ve interviewed everyone known to have come in contact with him in the past two months. His recent assignments are also being reviewed for possible suspects.”

So clinical. So emotionless. As if he were speaking about a stranger.

Everybody had different coping mechanisms. Apparently, Young’s was to distance himself.

“With that many men assigned to the case, there’ll be a break soon,” she said.

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “No matter how long it takes, the bastard responsible for ending Sanderson’s life will be brought to justice. I’m going to make sure of that.”

Brent grabbed the can of Folgers fine grind from the freezer, tossed half a dozen scoops into the coffeemaker and punched the on switch.

Why had he talked to Claire about Sanderson last night? That wasn’t his way. In fact, he was known around the Bureau for being tight-lipped. Nobody knew anything about him outside of work. And even though his reticence had fueled wild speculation at times—especially regarding his choice of female companionship—he valued his privacy too much to divulge details of his personal life to anybody.

The only exception had been Pete. That man had known him inside out. His strengths, weaknesses, accomplishments and failures. And now his mentor—and best friend—was gone. Blown away in an abandoned warehouse two weeks ago.

The lack of progress in the investigation was gnawing at him. A prime suspect should have been identified by now. All those agents on the team and what had they come up with? Squat.

But it was more than frustration he’d felt last night. Returning to the cabin had hurt like hell. He’d never been here without Sanderson. For years, the two of them had deserted the city as often as they could. To fish and swim, drink beer and unwind from the pressures of work. Now the place was his. But everything about it—every stick of furniture, every fishing magazine, every boating knickknack—was a cruel reminder that those good times were gone forever.

Claire had picked up on that as soon as she’d seen the inscription on the trophy. The sympathy in her eyes had drawn him in, dulled the memories, eased his pain a little….

He’d quickly reminded himself that she’d been trained to show concern in these types of situations. Just as she’d been trained to dig around inside people’s psyches, ferret out their innermost secrets and then slap labels on them.

Oh, yeah. He knew from bitter experience more than he wanted to about psychologists and their modus operandi.

Safeguarding an FBI shrink was the last assignment he’d have ever chosen. But it wasn’t up to him to choose. Guys like Gene Welland made those calls. His role was to fulfill the requirements of the job with kickass proficiency. Protecting Claire would be no exception. Even though he couldn’t respect her profession, he would watch over her as though she were the most important person in the world.

He’d just have to take care he didn’t let his feelings about Sanderson surface again.

CLAIRE REACHED for her carry-on as soon as she awoke the next morning, eager to listen to the tapes of her sessions with Forrester. Fortunately, it was her standard practice, with the consent of her patients, to tape all her appointments. It saved her breaking eye contact to make notes. It also resulted in a more accurate record of the topics she and her patients discussed.

She had packed the tapes for her trip to Minneapolis, hoping to review them there, but there had been no time. The CEO of Balanced Life Consulting Group had kept her occupied with meetings, then made her a very generous offer which she had not yet accepted. There was so much to consider. Such as, was she ready to admit defeat and quit the Bureau? More than pride was at stake. She’d also be betraying the promise she’d made to herself at her father’s graveside.

She couldn’t dwell on that now.

Last night she’d been too strung out to tackle the tapes. But with Forrester no longer confined to Ridsdale, she needed to gain a better understanding of the man and his intentions. To do that, she would search her recordings for subtle nuances, crucial words she’d missed before, anything that would identify his intended victim.

She retrieved the tape recorder from the center section of the carry-on, then turned the bag over. A bullet had pierced the outside pocket. She dug inside, her heart pounding. Only one of the three tapes had survived undamaged. She peered at the label, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw the tape was of their latest session, the one she considered to be the most critical.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she inserted the tape, then put on the headphones and hit the play button.

She heard herself say, “You seem very agitated today, Andy. Do you want to tell me why?”

There was a noticeable pause on the tape.

“Did something happen?” she prodded.

After a while, he muttered, “Should have been a perfect MIOG op. Instead, megascrewup.”

“What are you talking about?”

He mumbled, “Research is the key. Most of the time.”

Even though she had had no idea what he meant, she’d said, “Go on. Tell me what went wrong.”

“IPO was a bad choice. Who knew?”

“I don’t understand. Can you talk more plainly?”

A long silence followed her request. “You might be sorry you asked.”

“I won’t be.”

She recalled uttering those words with complete confidence, unaware that he would soon shock her.

“Nobody stops me from getting what’s mine.”

“Is that what somebody did?”