listening devices.” Grayson’s tone reveals he’s more pissed than happy about my silence.
I find a parking space at the very back of the lot. Once I have the engine shut down and my game face on, I exit my car. I barely make it two steps away when my approach of the back exit of The Dungeon is stopped by a face I’ve seen hanging on a wall more than in person.
Special Agent Phillipa Russell props her hip onto the rear quarter panel of my car before draping back her knee-length coat to display the badge on her hip, wordlessly announcing she’s on the job.
“Do you regularly conduct surveillance on fellow officers, Agent McGee?” She overemphasis my surname to ensure I can’t miss it. “Or just the pretty ones?”
I play it cool even with my eyelid dying to twitch out. “Surveillance? I’m off the clock. I heard this place makes good margaritas. Thought I’d test the authenticity of the claim.”
“Margaritas? Right.” She drags her eyes down my frozen frame, taking in my designer shirt, brand name jeans, and boots that cost more than most agents make in a month. “I heard you were more a whiskey type of man.”
“Depends on the occasion. Tonight isn’t really a whiskey kind of night.” I scrub my hand across my jaw, curious as to why Grayson is noticeably quiet. Usually, I can’t shut him up, but he hasn’t even whistled in a breath since Agent Russell joined our duo. “Is that all, Agent Russell? I’d like to enjoy the remainder of my night off before I’m back on the field.”
“Just one final thing.” She clicks her fingers at a second agent I didn’t notice lingering in the shadows until now. He hands her a single sheet of paper before once again becoming one with the late hour. “How’d you manage to tamper with evidence before you joined the Bureau?”
What the fuck is she on about? “I’ve never tampered with evidence.” I can say that with the utmost honesty. I’ve conducted private investigations and hacked into files I shouldn’t have access to, but I’d never meddle with evidence.
“Oh. Then how did Crombie’s prints end up on a candle that was never logged into evidence?”
When Agent Russell slides the sheet of paper across the boot of my car, my eyes drop to it. It’s as she states. The candle Crombie’s prints were found on isn’t in the evidence log she photographed. There’s no mention of anything flammable. Not even the hairspray found in the cab of Crombie’s truck.
“Fire accelerant was sprayed on Melody’s curtains—”
“I’m not disputing that,” Agent Russell interrupts, her tone surprisingly calm for how snappy mine is. “But that doesn’t mean Crombie was the man responsible for it.”
“He was found guilty by a jury of his peers! He was served a twelve-year sentence for his crime.”
She steps closer to me, engulfing me with her honeysuckle smell. For how strong it is, I’d say it’s in both her shampoo and body wash. “On fabricated evidence. The candle was never submitted to forensics, Brandon. There’s no record it was ever dusted for prints, and not a single member of the forensic team from that case recalls seeing it.”
I want to argue with her, I want to tell her to get her facts straight before spurting lies, but I’m too stumped to speak. She’s not giving off the vibes of a liar. She isn’t sweating like I am, and the only person I can hear scratching their face is Grayson in the earpiece in my ear.
“Choose your friends wisely, Brandon, because more times than not, they’re looking out for no one but themselves.” After lowering her eyes to the printout I’m strangling with a death-grip, Agent Russell says, “You can keep that. I have extra copies.”
I watch her walk to a black Navigator with my fists opening and closing and my jaw tight. Once she’s joined inside by the agent hiding in the shadows, they exit the parking lot as quickly as I entered it.
I wait all of two seconds for the dust of their tires to settle before projecting the rage tearing through me onto the trunk of my BMW. I just got painted as a rogue agent, and the man responsible for it is sitting on the other end of the wire in my ear as silent as a church mouse.
The blood on my knuckles drips onto my jeans when I rip off the camera button from my shirt and hold it out in front