“Sure.” He tugged a pair of blue gloves from his back pocket. “No problem.”
As Fia reached out, the white gold of her signet ring picked up the light from a spot lamp and the reflection from the precious metal caught the young man directly in the eye.
The paramedic blinked, startled, stepped back, and then walked away.
Smart move, Fia thought as she slipped her hand into a glove.
“What is this? The Special Agent Kahill all-request hot line?”
“Sir?” Fia was barely in Ed Jarrell’s office before he was grumbling at her.
Jarrell was the Philadelphia Field Office ASAC, assistant special agent in charge. He had held one of the two ASAC positions as long as Fia had been at the Philadelphia office on Arch Street. He’d been in that chair at least five years before then, maybe longer. For all Fia knew, the office had been built around him.
Jarrell was an okay guy. Most of the agents didn’t think he had much of a sense of humor, but Fia thought he was pretty funny. Usually when he wasn’t trying to be, like now. He wasn’t a bad boss. She’d seen men and women better suited to be a supervisor, but she’d certainly seen worse. The thing that annoyed her most about him was that he always seemed irritated when a new case came in, as if the violent crimes and dope sales taking place on the streets around them were somehow getting in the way of his paperwork.
“Door.” He pointed.
Fia lifted her polished black Cole Haan boot and pushed the door shut behind her with her heel.
“I just got a call from Senator Malley’s office in D.C. You know Malley? Ways and Means. Senator Big Fish from the little Delaware pond.”
Fia slid her hands into her pants pockets, having absolutely no clue where this conversation was going, but it was often that way with Jarrell until the very last second. “Yes, sir. I grew up in Delaware,” she said carefully. “I think he was first elected in the early seventies.” She saw no reason to tell him they were related.
Jarrell glanced over the top edge of his black, military-style horn-rimmed glasses. “There’s been a homicide in Kent County and the senator has specifically requested that you be assigned to the case.”
Fia’s first impulse was to say “Me?” and tap her chest like some teenaged dope, but she managed to keep her hands securely in her pockets. “Delaware is in Baltimore’s jurisdiction. Sometimes they get touchy about this sort of thing.”
“Well, duh,” he intoned. “Tell me about it.”
Fia tried hard not to smile as she thought about the office joke that ASAC stood for Asshole Special Agent in Charge.
Jarrell reached for a blue file under two red ones. He had some kind of system with the colored files known only to him, his secretary, and God. “I have a call in to Baltimore, but the Senator’s office tells us jump, we all ask how high.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stay a few nights if you need to. Get a pay chit.”
“Yes, sir.” Fia pressed her lips together. “I’ve got some prelims on that case I was sent on this morning in Lansdowne—”
“Let it sit or pass it on to someone else.” He opened the blue file and then glanced across his desk, in search of something. Spotting a small note pad, he ripped the top page off and offered it to her. He was already looking at the file again.
Fia accepted the sheet of paper and read the address. A chill rippled through her as she read it again, thinking her eyes were playing tricks on her. She had, after all, been up all night.
“This…this says the homicide took place in the post office in Clare Point.”
“Yup.” He scribbled something in the file, not really paying attention.
“I…I grew up in Clare Point, sir.”
“Yup.”
She started to speak again, but stopped when he frowned at her. “Look, Kahill. I don’t like it any better than you do, but when Senator Malley’s office calls—”
“I know,” she interrupted. “How high?” She pulled open the door and walked out of the office. Bobby McCathal dead?
It was impossible.
Literally.
Chapter 2
The cell phone on the car seat beside her rang, but Fia didn’t pick it up. The little screen identified the caller as máthair. It was the fifth call from her mother in the last two hours. One of her brothers had also called, as had her uncle. She hadn’t even known Uncle Sean had her number; he probably hadn’t, until her mother gave it to him.
The phone stopped ringing, was quiet for a moment, then chirped accusingly, signaling that yet another message had been left. The screen flashed. Seven messages. “Fine,” she muttered. “Perfect.”
Fia downshifted hard, engine-braking the BMW down the exit ramp off Route 1 before stomping on the gas pedal out of the curve. She had decided it would be better that she not speak to her mother, or her uncle, or anyone from Clare Point until she saw the crime scene. Her first loyalty had to be to the Bureau. She knew some family members wouldn’t understand, but if she was going to find out what happened to Bobby McCathal, she had to be an FBI agent first, Kahill sept member second. She had to follow investigative protocol, and that meant not allowing her mother to cloud her thinking with any doomsday proclamations, or her uncle with his armchair Discovery Channel police procedures.
As Fia left the interstate behind, the terrain changed quickly from soy beans, corn, and sorghum to pine and hardwood forest. The road surface morphed from pale cement to shiny blacktop, then crumbling blacktop as the woods crept closer until it surrounded her. She flew past a state sign marking the west boundary of the Clare Point Wildlife Preserve. The needle on the speedometer slipped up over eighty-five. Littering in the preserve was a three-hundred-dollar fine. Speeding was practically a Kahill birthright.
Fia turned up the air-conditioning in the
