Tell your superiors you gave it the college try and I’m not budging. So.” His hands clenched and unclenched on the knob of his cane, an outward sign of his flagging patience. “Catch me up.”
Cleve smoothed a hand over his short hair. It was more gray than brown now, but his pale brown eyes were covered by the same style gold wire-framed glasses he’d favored eight years ago. His build was still slim, but the intervening years had left their stamp on the man’s face. Adam didn’t want to consider what showed on his own.
“We’ve got more agencies than we can handle jockeying for position in this investigation.”
“I imagine that kind of juggling comes with the job.”
The assistant director grimaced. “You have no idea. But in this case it means doling out pieces of the case to teams comprised of agents, and members from DHS, USMS, the DC police department . . . and now you.”
“Nice to know I’m not crowding the field.” Adam wasn’t without sympathy for the man’s position. But the emotion didn’t run deeply enough to have him bowing out and making it easier for Hedgelin or the agency. He’d made a promise to Jo. She’d done her part. She’d gotten him placed on the investigation. He had no illusions; it would have been her connections—and Byron’s—that had landed him here. Despite his past in the agency—or perhaps because of it—his presence would make them uneasy. His last case for the FBI had nearly killed him. Although he didn’t care about such things, to some it had made him a hero. But because he’d chosen to cut his ties with his former job, the bureau might regard him much differently.
That part didn’t matter. The investigation did.
“You’ll be partnered with two of our seasoned agents. I believe you know both from your time here. And Lieutenant Frank Griega will be your liaison from the DCPD.” Hedgelin dropped into his high-backed leather desk chair and shot Adam a small smile. “Given that our best guys in the Behavioral Analysis Unit were actually instructed by you, we’d be interested in any profile of the offender you put together.”
Adam inclined his head. Since he hadn’t made a point to keep up with many from the bureau once he’d left it, he had no idea who was still left in the BAU. But Cleve was right. Profiling had been a specialty of his while he’d been an agent. Now it was his employees at Raiker Forensics who received his tutelage. “Of course.” His pause was laden with meaning. “But it’d help to get some background on the case first.”
The agent leaned forward and stabbed at a button on his desk phone with the stump that remained of his right index finger. Adam wasn’t the only one who bore old injuries from the last case they’d worked. He rarely considered his own. When it came to human nature, it was only the scars on the inside that were worth noting.
Moments later the door to the office opened and a man and woman entered. With a glance, Adam determined that Cleve was right. He did know the agents. His gut clenched tightly once before he shoved the response aside with sheer force of will. He’d had recent dealings with Special Agent Tom Shepherd, as well as knowing him slightly when they’d both been with the bureau.
But his reaction had nothing to do with Shepherd.
“You recall Special Agents Shepherd and Marlowe?”
“Of course.” He gave them a curt nod.
Shepherd’s broad smile complemented his aging Hollywood golden-boy looks. “You’re looking a sight better than you did a few months ago in the Philly CCU. I’ve been hearing the doctors took to calling you the miracle man.”
Her voice and face devoid of expression, Jaid Marlowe raised a brow at him. “Just a word of advice—you aren’t actually bulletproof. Next time you have an assassin after you, try Kevlar.”
“Now that I’ve discovered bullets don’t bounce off me, I may have to.” His tone was as mild as her own. No one would suspect that only a few short months ago Jaid had sat at his bedside clutching his hand, silent and pale, her wide brown eyes drenched in tears. In a medicated fog at the time, he might have thought she was an image produced by his subconscious. She’d taken up permanent residence there eight years ago, like a determined ghost refusing to be banished.
Cleve stood, taking three oversized brown folders from a pile on his desk and leaning