Dreaming Death (Krewe of Hunters #32) - Heather Graham Page 0,42
early when they reached her apartment, still just six thirty.
There was a woman at the entry to the apartment when they reached it. She looked to be in her midfifties, small and a bit stocky. She looked disapproving as Keenan stood by Stacey, who’d had her key out, ready, before the door had opened for them.
“I was worried!” the woman said to Stacey. She eyed Keenan. “Working all night?” she asked skeptically.
“You know I work all hours, Marty. This is my partner, Keenan Wallace. Keenan, Marty has the other ground-floor apartment here.”
Marty offered him her hand. “All I have to say is this—when you work all night, work all night here, please! Two FBI agents in the building would make me happy.”
“We just never know where work takes us,” Keenan told her. Implication had been rich in the woman’s voice. He didn’t care. He smiled. Too bad it hadn’t been what the woman had been thinking.
“We need to get moving,” he said quietly.
“Hmph!” Marty said. “I have students, too.” She eyed Keenan judgmentally. He wasn’t sure where he came out in her mind.
He didn’t really care. He didn’t want to add complications for Stacey.
“Well, I’ll be in the car,” he said. “Marty, nice to meet you.”
“And you! Nice, big guy. Seriously, please, work here.”
He didn’t respond; he lifted a hand and walked back to the car.
He slid into the driver’s seat. While he waited, he’d go over his notes. Tedious as it might be, you never knew when you might see something that began to make more sense or pointed in a direction not yet taken.
He’d been there deep in concentration for maybe ten minutes, when a postal delivery truck pulled in just ahead of him. The young postman gave him a friendly wave and headed toward the house.
There were four simple mailboxes to one side of the porch; the postman had a bundle of mail, which he sorted for each box.
One of the items he carried was a small brown-paper-wrapped package that looked to be stained on one corner.
Keenan couldn’t see the mailboxes from where he was, but something about the small package bothered him. He exited the car again, heading for the mailboxes.
“Sir, excuse me, who is that package for?” he asked as the young man opened the first mailbox.
The young postman jumped back, looking up to Keenan. The postman was only about five-nine, so he had to crane his neck. “Sir, the delivery of the mail is private. Interfering with a postal worker is against the law, as is opening or tampering with another person’s private correspondence.” He was stammering slightly, apparently trying to remember exactly what he should be saying.
Keenan produced his credentials, explaining, “I’m not trying to tamper with anything. I’m disturbed by a package that seemed to have leaked a substance and might be dangerous.”
“Leaked?” the young man said with dismay, looking at the package—and then trying to determine if anything had leaked on him. He looked like a schoolkid who feared he might have cooties as he stood there.
Then he looked at Keenan, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. You may be FBI, but I can’t let you see another person’s mail—”
The door to the house opened, and Stacey stepped out, dressed in black pants and a beige leather jacket, hair brushed, minimal makeup in perfect, professional mode.
She frowned, looking from the mailman to Keenan.
“Is the package for Stacey Hanson?” he asked the postman.
“Yes, uh, yes, it is.”
“Stacey, show the nice man your ID,” Keenan said.
She did so, looking at Keenan with a curious frown.
“Then...here, miss,” the postman said. He handed the package and a few letters to Stacey and quickly finished stuffing the other three mailboxes. He looked at them both, anxious to move on.
Keenan stepped in front of him, not wanting to physically waylay the man.
“I need your name, please.”
The postman’s eyes widened with unease. He stared at them both. “I didn’t do anything; I’m a postal carrier. I do my job right—”
“No one is saying that you didn’t. In fact, you’re commendable at your job. But we may need to trace that package.”
“Right. Please,” Stacey muttered, glancing at Keenan with her frown of confusion deepening.
“Eric Bolton,” the postman said. “My supervisor is Gene Estrella.”
“Thank you,” Keenan said, stepping aside to let him go on his way.
Eric Bolton hurried down the path to his vehicle but then stopped, turning back.
“What do you think is in that package?” he asked.
“Not sure. Thank you,” Keenan said.
The postman hurried on again—his mail wagon jerking out to the