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“Great.” She’d been on the SEDSCAM case for almost four weeks and finally felt as if they were making progress. “Ned, what about the bank in Atlanta? Any luck?”
“None yet,” he said. He propped his shoulder against the wall. “We do know the UNSUB didn’t clear out Manchester’s accounts with a stolen check the way he did with Bryson. If there’s a hole in the bank’s software, give me enough time and I’ll have it for you.”
“What about an Internet transfer?” Georgia suggested, gathering up her printouts and reports.
“First place I looked,” Ned told her. “Neither Manchester’s personal nor business accounts were set up for Internet banking. Doesn’t eliminate a hack job, but banks are required to report security breaches so don’t hold your breath.”
“Did you tell Mac about the check?” Georgia asked Ned, lifting the stack of papers to the chair.
Ned stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark trousers. “Bryson’s bank finally released the original check the UNSUB forged to clear out her account.”
Sunny glanced down at the still quiet phone. “That’s progress.”
“You were unavailable for consultation.” Ned cleared his throat before continuing. “I hope it’s okay, but I went ahead and asked Milken over in check fraud to give us his opinion on the Bryson check.”
“No, that’s good,” Sunny told him, hiding a smile when Ned stood just a tad straighter under her praise. “Don’t be afraid to ask the other divisions for assistance when you need it.”
“Ah, here it is,” Georgia said suddenly. She stood, a sheaf of papers clutched in her hand.
“How would you like to get out of the office tomorrow?” Sunny asked her.
“I’d love a change of scenery. What do you need?”
“Accompany the sketch artist to Wilder’s tomorrow. Take notes of anything else she might recall,” Sunny instructed. “If those warrants come through, Ned and I will be hanging out with the techno jocks at the gallery and theater.”
Georgia’s smile turned sly as she handed a set of documents to Sunny and Ned. “This caused production to grind to a halt in word processing.”
A warming blush heated Sunny’s cheeks as she scanned the cover sheet of Margo Wilder’s recorded statement. “No doubt,” she muttered, grateful she’d used a tape recorder rather than a video camera. “This was quick.”
“It’s the weekly supply of Krispy Kremes she feeds them,” Ned said with a quiet laugh, flipping through the statement.
“Works like a charm,” Georgia agreed good-naturedly.
“Good God,” Ned blurted. He pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against and gave the knot of his tie a tug. “People actually do this kind of thing?”
Georgia burst out laughing. “If you have to ask, then you’re spending way too much time with computers.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Sunny warned gently. “Georgia, why don’t you try the clerk’s office again.”
“Will do. But first tell me who is the hunk?”
Sunny frowned. “Hunk?” she hedged.
“Chamberlain,” Georgia clarified. “The man has a voice that could melt granite. That spells hunk in my fantasies, not short, fat and bald.”
“I’m gone,” Ned announced and quickly gathered up the notes and files he’d brought with him. “Maybe Milken has something for us.” He practically jogged for the door.
Sunny waited until she and Georgia were alone. “How’d you hear his voice?” she asked in a hushed tone.
She hadn’t dared replay the session herself, afraid of what she might hear—like her own heavy breathing. When she’d arrived at the office, she’d turned the tape over to word processing as a rush job. Not that she was eager to relive the fantasy she’d conjured during the interview, but she did need to thoroughly dissect Wilder’s statement for clues.
Georgia sat on the edge of the chair and leaned forward, resting her arms on Sunny’s desk. “My cubicle’s next to word processing,” she said, keeping her voice low. “When all the gasping and giggling started, I got curious.”
“Oh God.” Sunny closed her eyes and groaned. “They were playing the tape aloud?”
Georgia’s grin widened. “There wasn’t a headset in use. So? Is he as good-looking as he sounds?”
Sunny bit her bottom lip, then shook her head. “We’re federal agents, Georgia.”
“Statistics show that more and more couples are meeting on the job. We’re agents, Mac, and women. With the hours we put in, where else are we going to find a man?”
Georgia did have a point. Hadn’t Sunny just been bemoaning how long it’d been since she’d found a guy who could hold her interest? Duncan certainly had done that…and more.
“So?” Georgia prompted when Sunny remained silent. “Is he or isn’t he?”
Sunny looked toward the door to make certain they wouldn’t be overheard. “That voice,” she whispered, looking back at Georgia, “isn’t all that could melt granite.”
They giggled. Like women, not agents.
“He has these bluish-gray eyes, and they are so intense,” Sunny said once they stopped laughing. “When he looks at you, it’s like he really sees you.”
“Unlike cleavage crawlers,” Georgia said with distaste. “You know the type. They never look you in the eye because they’re too busy staring at your chest.”
Sunny wrinkled her nose. “How would they feel if we stared at their crotches?”
“Like we’re speaking their language. So, is he tall? Short, what?”
“A little over six foot.”
“Hair?”
“Wavy. Black.”
“Ass?”
Sunny grinned. “The nicest I’ve seen in a while.”
“Oh, it’s not fair.” Georgia let out a sigh. “Such luck. Beauty and brains, too.”
Sunny pushed out of her chair and walked to the filing cabinet. “How does a nice ass equal brains?” She pulled open the top drawer for the bottled water she kept on hand.
“Well, he’s not stupid. He made an interesting point when he said if we’re going to nail the UNSUB, we need—” The phone on Sunny’s rang and Georgia automatically reached for it. “It’s probably the clerk’s office.”
Sunny handed Georgia a bottle before she twisted the cap off her own and took a drink. “Need to know his habits,” she said quietly, recalling Duncan’s words during the interview. “His quirks.”
“Special Agent MacGregor’s office,” Georgia said into the receiver.
UNSUB. CID.
How many more terms did he use that she couldn’t immediately recall? And was Duncan’s use of Bureau slang nothing more than a coincidence? He could’ve picked up the terminology from hanging around law-enforcement personnel. Except when he spoke, it’d been…unconscious. Natural.
“Yes, she’s here.” Georgia shook her head, signaling the call wasn’t from the clerk’s office.
Sunny had one of the most powerful databases at her disposal. In a few keystrokes, she could easily satisfy her curiosity. Was it an invasion of privacy if the party wasn’t aware they’d been invaded? she wondered.
“One moment, Agent Caruso.”
Sunny frowned and took the handset from Georgia. “Mac, here.” The only reason any of the agents assigned surveillance of the Wilder estate would call is if something had happened at the scene. The UNSUB was no doubt long gone, so the call probably was nothing more urgent than an eager reporter caught trying to sneak onto the estate or claiming she’d given him permission.
“You gotta see what Quantico is teaching these new kids to do with a laptop and a cell phone. This Eggbert stuff ain’t half bad.”
“Is there a point to this call, Jack?”
“Not really, Mac. Just called to see how it’s hanging.” His gravelly voice was drenched in sarcasm. “You know, in between pissing in the bushes and sweating like a friggin’ pig out here on the hottest day of the year. Hell yes, I have a point. Weidman pulled up something on your boy and I thought you should know about it.”
She wasn’t sure she appreciated Agent Weidman’s checking up on her UNSUB or his aggressiveness. A lead was still a lead, and considering her current level of progress, she’d withhold judgment for the time being. “My apologies, Jack. What’d he find?”
“The kid ran a basic background check. Chamberlain has an impressive résumé with a ton of high-end experience as an investigator.”
“Chamberlain?” As in Duncan Chamberlain, the hottie capable of melting granite and a whole lot more. Not the UNSUB as she’d mistakenly assumed.
Dread crept up her spine and settled in her shoulders. A knot of tension formed at the base of her skull and began to throb in a slow, steady rhythm.
“You wanna take a shot at where he got his training?”
Sunny briefly closed her eyes. “Where?” she asked, even though she had a good idea of the answer.
“Quantico, Virginia, Mac.” Jack’s tone sobered. “The son of a bitch is FBI.”
4
SUNNY APPROACHED THE young, pretty brunette seated at the reception desk of Chamberlain Recovery and Investigations and flashed her ID. “Special Agent MacGregor,” she said, her tone brusque. “FBI. Is Mr. Chamberlain in?”
The receptionist’s wide-set brown eyes filled with caution. “I’ll see if he’s available.”
Sunny tucked her ID back inside the pocket of her linen blazer. “You do that,” she said. “And tell Mr. Chamberlain he’d be smart to make himself available.”
The girl deserted her post and took off around the corner, leaving Sunny alone. She walked toward a pair of navy padded chairs, but she was too restless to sit. What she really wanted to do was kick something. Hard. She considered the brass planter with a thick potted palm in the corner as a possible target, then decided she’d rather unleash her anger on a certain someone, with seductive eyes and a kiss-me smile who’d made her look like an incompetent moron in front Caruso and Weidman.
The minute she’d hung up the phone with Jack, she’d accessed the Bureau’s personnel directory. The slow simmer of anger had silenced her disbelief the moment Duncan’s image had loaded on the screen of her monitor. Her temper still hadn’t cooled, even on the drive across town to his office.
The personnel file hadn’t provided her with a scrap of useful data other than to confirm Weidman’s findings and Duncan’s dates of service with the Bureau. No reference whatsoever to the reason behind his termination. A resignation? Perhaps, but to her “relieved of duty” sounded as if he’d been canned. Without the appropriate clearance level, though, she had no hope of verifying her suspicions, leaving her with no choice but to go directly to the source and demand answers.
Any number of reasons could result in a security classification of an agent’s service record. The need for clearance didn’t necessarily mean Duncan’s personnel file contained information on sensitive national security issues or even the whereabouts of a material witness to a crime. The medical findings of his last physical could’ve easily garnered the tag.
She blew out a stream of breath. Irritation made a fine companion to anger. She wanted answers, and was determined to have them, one way or another, along with whatever other information he may be keeping from her. He’d ignored her warning not to try to play her once. If he refused to take her seriously, then she’d simply confiscate his files related to SEDSCAM and ban him from the Wilder estate until the conclusion of her investigation.
The receptionist returned with a pleasant smile and an armload of files, which she placed on the center of her desk. “Mr. Chamberlain can see you now,” she said amiably.
Guilt nipped Sunny’s conscience for coming off as a hard-ass with the girl. Before she could formulate an appropriate apology, they’d reached the end of the short corridor and the receptionist ushered Sunny into Duncan’s office, closing the door quietly as she left.
He stood behind his desk, a cordless phone edged between his shoulder and ear as he flipped through a binder lying open on the desk. His tie was gone, and the khakis were not pressed so neatly now as they’d been that morning. All that thick, black hair was tousled, as if he’d been ramming his fingers through the wavy mass. Rumpled and sexy, she thought again. And still a damn fine specimen of massive sex appeal, no matter how much he’d ticked her off.
He glanced up and their eyes met. As if he were happy to see her, those incredible lips tipped upward in a smile, making her heart beat in an erratic rhythm. Did his office qualify as his place?
Only on a technicality, she decided. Not that it made a difference. She’d come for answers, not a little afternoon delight.
He motioned for her to sit while he finished his phone call, indicating the navy armchair across from his desk. The chaotic atmosphere was so arbitrary to her impression of Duncan. But what did she know? She hadn’t exactly been a shining example of sound judgment on that subject considering the enlightening phone call from Caruso. She never should’ve allowed him onto the estate without having him checked out first. She didn’t know what she’d been thinking, but a plea of lust-on-the brain made for a pathetically thin defense.
Ignoring the offer to sit, she clasped her hands behind her back and took in his surroundings. The cool blues, deep wines and creamy whites of the color scheme would have been more soothing if nearly every available surface of the heavy furnishings weren’t a cautionary tale in the hazards of disorganization. Several stacks of files threatened to topple from the edge of the monstrous oak desk. The matching credenza parked beneath the window was no improvement, nor were the trio of lateral oak file cabinets along the wall. She caught sight of a pair of silver picture frames on the center file cabinet, but the photographs were obscured by a landscape of documents bound together with thick rubber bands.
She strolled over to an imposing armoire pulling double duty as a bookcase. In reality, the piece acted as a catch-all for more files and banded documents. A row of bulky binders were crammed to overflowing with papers, while the shelf directly above held a line of books, oddly arranged by height in a neat, organized row, ranging in topic from the federal penal code to rules of evidence along with several investigation trade manuals and journals. Taped to the interior of the open doors of the armoire, in no observable cohesive order she could determine, were brightly colored squares of paper with varying handwriting.
“I’ll get back to you once I review the police reports,” Duncan said to his caller. “Monday at the latest.” He paused. “I’ll talk to you then.”
She turned to face him as he set the phone on the desk. He wrote something down on another square of paper, then taped it to the armoire with the others. His to-do list? she wondered.
He set the tape dispenser on a tower of files. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked. The files threatened to spill, but he caught them before they toppled to the floor, shoving them back in place. The chaotic disorder didn’t seem to faze him. She, on the other hand, was overcome with an urge to organize.
She reminded herself not to fall for his charm again. Or that impossible-to-resist tilt of his mouth. The pure male interest simmering in his eyes as he swept his gaze down her length didn’t affect her in the least. She just wished her nipples hadn’t tightened. Or her tummy hadn’t flipped.
Straightening her shoulders, she attempted a hard glare. Somewhere between the reception area and his office, her anger had cooled, so she settled for one filled with minor annoyance instead.
“I’m not here for pleasure.”
His expression turned downright wicked. “Too bad.”
Maybe his charm wasn’t her problem, but those recurring fantasies that kept playing hell with her resolve not to let him get to her. “You lied to me,” she accused, pretending to ignore the pImages** of tangled sheets and entwined limbs taunting her.
A single dark eyebrow winged upward. “I did?”
She moved to the chair and braced her hands over the back. “I warned you not to play me. You should have told me you were with the Bureau.”
“I’m not with the Bureau,” he said with calm emphasis. “Past tense.”
She narrowed her eyes at that innocent-of-all-charges expression on his too-handsome face. The guy was cool, she’d give him that much. Her reprimand elicited no remorse from him. “I don’t appreciate being lied to. Even by omission.”
He tucked his hands in the front pockets of trousers. “I never lied to you, Sunny.”
She let out a sigh. “Then why not tell me about it?” she asked, wanting to believe him.
“It’s no big deal. Besides, the subject of my past employment never came up.”
“It is a big deal,” she argued. “You’re a former agent, connected to a case under the Bureau’s jurisdiction. You of all people should know procedure. How am I supposed to know you’re not hoping for an opportunity to sabotage the investigation?”
His expression became tolerant. “Oh, come on,” he said with a wry chuckle. “That’s a stretch.”
Maybe she was overstating, but he should’ve told her. Because it could have an effect on her investigation? Or because if he was terminated for cause, she could kiss any hope of turning that tangled-sheet fantasy into reality goodbye?
