Smokies Special Agent. Lena Diaz

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      She gave him a crisp nod. “Thank you.”

      He waved toward the sling. “While I wouldn’t have changed the actions I took this morning, I do regret that you got hurt. What did the doctor say about your shoulder?”

      She hesitated, the wary expression she’d given Lee firmly back in place. “The EMT rotated it into the socket. It’s fine.”

      He waited, but when she didn’t elaborate, he asked, “You were taken to the hospital, right? You were seen by a doctor?”

      “All a doctor would have done was tell me to schedule an appointment with a physical therapist. I had the EMT treat me in the back of the ambulance, and told him I didn’t want to go to the hospital.”

      She didn’t want to go? She shouldn’t have been given a choice. She was under arrest, her well-being the responsibility of the National Park Service while in their custody. McAlister and Grady should have made her go to the hospital, with them as her armed escorts.

      “What did the EMT give you for pain?” He didn’t want her to suffer. But equally important, he didn’t want a defense attorney down the road having her statement tossed out on the basis that she was heavily medicated, which affected her mental state and her ability to understand her rights.

      “I haven’t had a chance to take anything,” she said. “My purse is locked in the trunk of my car at the trailhead. I don’t have any pills with me here.”

      “I’ve got some ibuprofen in my desk if you want.”

      She frowned as if puzzled by his offer. Had she expected him to chain her to a chair and allow her only bread and water?

      “I’d appreciate that. The shoulder does ache a bit.”

      “If you prefer to go to the hospital for an MRI—which I strongly recommend—and to get a prescription for the pain—”

      “Over-the-counter pills will be fine.”

      Visions of future defense attorneys were still dancing in his head. She really should go to the hospital. But it was her shoulder, after all. Not a head injury. And she’d been given medical treatment by the EMT. It was probably safe to take her statement.

      “I’ll be right back.”

      “Special Agent McKenzie?”

      “If I’m calling you Remi then you have to call me Duncan.” He added a smile that he was far from feeling. But keeping things friendly would make the interview go much more smoothly. Orders from her boss to cooperate would go only so far if she had something to hide about why she was in the mountains with a gun. He’d start out playing good cop and see how things went.

      She gestured toward the side of his head. “Duncan. I really am sorry about everything that happened. I hope that doesn’t hurt too much.”

      It took him a second to realize she was talking about punching him. His grin was genuine this time. “You’ve got a wicked left hook.”

      Her answering smile seemed reluctant, but also genuine. “I’m right-handed. You got lucky.”

      He laughed. “So I did. No worries. We’ll talk everything out and then decide where to go from there. Okay?”

      She blew out a shuddering breath, her face relaxing with relief. “Sounds good.”

      When he reached his desk, he pulled his laptop from the bottom drawer just as his cell phone buzzed. He took it out of his pocket and checked the screen. It was Lee. A quick glance toward the open door of the conference room confirmed that Remi was still standing at the window, looking out. Duncan plopped his laptop on the desk and sat down to take the call.

      “Hey, boss. Did you shove Grady into a snowbank yet to shut him up?” he teased.

      “Have you started interviewing Special Agent Jordan yet?”

      The terseness of Lee’s tone immediately had Duncan on alert. “About to. Why?”

      “Johnson had his assistant send me an email. I forwarded it to you. It makes for some interesting reading. Skim it before you talk to her.”

      “Why?”

      “Humor me.” The line clicked.

      Duncan sighed and flipped open the laptop. There were fifteen unread emails since just this morning. Most had to do with the case he was in the process of closing, a string of vehicle break-ins and vandalism he’d been working for the past four months. The small band of local teens behind the crimes was in jail. Now it was just a matter of paperwork and testimony once the trials were underway—assuming they even went to trial.

      None of the kids had criminal records. And knowing his friend Clay Perry, the district attorney, Duncan figured he’d likely plead them out. Clay was a father of five and had a seemingly endless supply of patience and empathy for kids—whether they deserved it or not.

      Their parents would pay hefty fines and the little hoodlums would soon be back on the streets. And Duncan would have to arrest them all over again a few months down the road when they started up again, or turned to other types of crimes. It was an endless cycle, one that he and Clay often debated over cold beers, sizzling steaks and friendly poker games.

      Not seeing anything particularly urgent in the subject lines of the emails, he clicked on the one from his boss. The message was brief, simply telling Duncan to read the attachment.

      It took half a minute for the memory-hogging document to load on his screen. When it did, he frowned. Why would Remi’s boss feel it was necessary to send this? And why would Lee want Duncan to read it prior to the interview? How could this possibly be relevant to the shooting?

      He let out a long breath and dutifully clicked through several pages, quickly scanning the headings of each section. He began to wonder whether he’d missed the punch line to an inside joke. Then, five pages in, he quit scanning. He leaned closer to the monitor and read every single word. Then he went back to the beginning and read it all again.

       Chapter Five

      Remi’s fingers tightened against the windowsill as she watched the snow falling even harder outside the conference room window. She was trying to find her center, calm her nerves in anticipation of the upcoming inquisition. But so far it wasn’t working. She’d interviewed suspects dozens of times over the years. But she’d never once been on the other side of the table. And she wasn’t looking forward to the experience. Especially since she couldn’t even explain to herself what had happened this morning.

      She was sick at the thought that she could have shot an unarmed man. But every time she replayed the confrontation in her mind, the memories ticked through like the frames of a movie, replaying exactly the same way that she remembered, never changing.

       Scuffling sounded behind her.

       She turned, gun in hand, finger on the frame, not the trigger.

       A man in camouflage, a look of such СКАЧАТЬ