Cold & Deadly (Cold Justice: Crossfire #1)(8)

“Contact me at the BAU if your boss finds any discrepancies in the circumstances surrounding Stamos’s death, Agent Kanas. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve this and neither did Cal Mortimer.” Frazer squeezed Sheridan’s shoulder like they were buds. Mallory Rooney shot her a wry smile, then she and Frazer headed off to their car.

Ava was suddenly alone with Sheridan. They both stared at Van’s casket, the hot sun making her cheeks heat. The funeral was on hold until the crime scene was processed.

“You realize you could have handled that with more tact if you’d been driving a bulldozer?” Sheridan said softly.

She shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. “Because I said what I was thinking rather than sucking up to the big bosses?”

That slight smile touched his lips again, suggesting she amused him. Well fuck him.

“Because you made your boss look like a jackass who can’t control you and he’s gonna be pissed.”

She raised a brow as they eyed one another. It was beyond obvious Aldrich was a jackass and couldn’t “control” her.

“I only want the truth.” Ava crossed her arms over her chest, and he took in her body language with a sweeping gaze that saw everything she wasn’t saying. That she was pissed and frustrated and hurting. And maybe she was being too hard on her boss. Aldrich was harmless. He might be angry, but he wouldn’t screw with her career even though she’d just screwed with his.

Dammit.

Sheridan shifted even closer until his breath stroked her ear. “You need to be careful, Ava.” Her name on his lips sent a shiver of awareness down her spine. “Pulling a stunt like that in front of the director is going to get you a reputation as a blue flamer and that will lose you a lot of friends.”

Was he testing her for a reaction after what had happened on the roof? She lifted her chin, and they stared at one another. So close she could smell the scent of his skin and count the dark lashes around his eyes.

“The FBI is a team, and in this business, we need all the friends we can get—Van taught me that.” His gaze never wavered from hers.

“Kanas!” Aldrich shouted as he strode up behind them, making her startle. “What the hell was that? Are you trying to make me look like an imbecile?”

She winced.

Dominic Sheridan murmured again next to her ear. “Told you.” And then he turned and walked away. She watched him cross the road and climb into a black Prius, driving down the road and taking a right turn out of sight. Aldrich’s words bounced off her like hard rain. She looked over at Van’s coffin baking in the sun. What would her mentor have done if he’d been here? A small smile touched her mouth. He’d have done exactly what she’d done.

“Are we finished, sir?” She touched her injured cheek. “I’m feeling a little woozy.”

The man threw his hands in the air. She’d played her trump card, and he knew it.

“I want you in my office at eight o’clock tomorrow morning to talk about this, Ava. I’m serious. Do not be late.”

She almost snorted as she walked away. Late? He was the one who kept bankers’ hours.

Circling the enormous crime scene took time and only increased the feeling of sweaty isolation she felt from her colleagues. Why was no one else buying the idea Van had been murdered? Was she deluding herself? Had they known him so much better than she had? Were her instincts nothing but heartbreak and wishful thinking?

She hadn’t been lying to Aldrich about feeling woozy though. She climbed into her Bucar and drank out of the water bottle she kept in the cupholder, placing a hand on her stomach which gurgled and groaned. The headache had grown and stabbed her brain like a knife in her skull. She popped a couple of pills from her purse with another mouthful of water and squeezed her eyes closed for a few seconds’ respite.

Another glance at the Evidence Recovery Technicians searching on their hands and knees through the wet grass made her more determined than ever to figure out the truth. Van hadn’t believed in coincidence. She saluted the coffin with a sad smile. “Don’t worry, Van. I’ve got your back.”

He’d tell her to keep digging until everything began to make sense—and right now nothing made sense. Not Van’s supposed suicide, not the shooter at his funeral, not the seeming indifference of his fellow agents, especially the one with intriguing dark blue eyes.

*

The Chief Negotiator of the FBI and his immediate boss, Unit Chief Quentin Savage, looked up from the report he was reading when Dominic walked into his office late that afternoon.

“Heard about the shooting.” Savage’s gaze was thorough and assessing. “Did you know the victim?”

Dominic sat heavily and rested his elbows on his knees. He’d showered and changed into a spare shirt and suit he kept in his go-bag. He’d thrown the bloodstained clothes in the garbage. “We were friends at the New York Field Office. The guy was married with kids.”

“I’m sorry.” Savage leaned back in his chair. “Do they have any idea as to the shooter’s identity or motive?”

Dominic shook his head. So far, they had a big fat zero. “I’d like permission to work the case.”

“Denied.”

Dominic looked up. “But—”

“I need you here, Dominic. We’re already overstretched, and you’re one of our best negotiators. Let the street agents deal with the murder investigation and if they need our services, they’ll call.”