entered the garage.
Cece stopped abruptly. Blain looked toward where the security personnel had been a few moments before. Gone. He inhaled deeply, his heart pounding to the point that he could see his shirt move in rhythm to the beat.
“Took him away,” Cece said, sounding far less out of breath than Blain.
They had. A lone security guard stood talking to Jeff Burks, crew chief of the number twenty-one car.
“We can go talk to Jeff,” Blain said, setting off again.
But Cece didn’t follow. He stopped, turned. Her hair had collected drops of rain like blades of grass, the team jacket she wore darker on the shoulders. Her chest barely rose and fell.
“You coming?” he asked.
“No.”
His puzzled eyes must have asked the question he didn’t.
“I shouldn’t reveal my presence here,” she answered.
He looked as confused as he felt because she said, “I know I ran down here like I was, but in hindsight, announcing the fact that I’m an FBI agent might not be such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because my boss doesn’t want people to know I’m here. And because this is still just an investigation. If I go around questioning people, it’ll raise flags.”
“So raise them.”
She reached out and touched Blain’s arm. He hadn’t put on a jacket, so it was bare and wet, and her palm was so warm it startled him.
“I was told to keep a low profile, Blain. Flashing my badge around is not low profile.”
He gazed at her in frustration.
“Look,” she said. “I sincerely doubt a bad guy would tinker with a race car in full view of race fans and television cameras.”
Blain turned back to where said bad guy had stood. Jeff laughed at something the security guard had just said and it made Blain irritated with the whole situation all over again. Man, this uncertainty drove him nuts.
“They took the guy into custody, Blain. I’ll get someone to call security and ask what all it was about, but not right now. I’d rather be more subtle.”
“Fine,” he said, glancing back at Jeff and the security guard. They were walking away, the crew apparently satisfied that all was well.
“I’ll call my office and fill them in on what just happened.”
He nodded.
She touched him again. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Blain. I just don’t want to answer the inevitable questions that’ll be raised if word gets out that an FBI agent is snooping around the racetrack.”
And as much as he wanted her to do the exact opposite of what she suggested, Blain found himself saying, “Fine.”
She released his arm. “It’s probably nothing.”
He wiped a hand over his face, rain dripping off the edge of his palm. It probably was.
Damn, but he wished he could believe that.
“Let me make some calls and we’ll find out for sure.”
A ND SHE’D BEEN RIGHT. Turned out some overzealous race fan had wanted to stuff a good luck sock into the frame of the car.
A sock.
Ridiculous, but not unheard of, and as Blain returned to his hotel room later that night, he found himself grateful that Cece had kept her head, that she’d been the calmer of the two, and that she’d been subtle in her handling of the situation. She’d impressed him. And she’d also made him think that maybe, just maybe, the feds were right. This was all a wild-goose chase.
He hoped so, he thought as he knocked on her hotel room door.
“Hey,” she said in a tired voice after the door swung wide.
“Here’s the information you wanted.”
“Thanks.” She took the papers from him as she leaned against the door frame. She looked beat. Exhausted. As if she’d worked nonstop since coming back to the hotel.
She probably had.
“Did you find out anything more about that guy?”
She nodded. “Nothing more than a race fan, complete with car-tire coffee table at home.”
Blain’s shoulders loosened. Maybe it was time to let it go. Maybe he had been overreacting.
“You finished working?”
She shook her head. “Looks like
Cece stopped abruptly. Blain looked toward where the security personnel had been a few moments before. Gone. He inhaled deeply, his heart pounding to the point that he could see his shirt move in rhythm to the beat.
“Took him away,” Cece said, sounding far less out of breath than Blain.
They had. A lone security guard stood talking to Jeff Burks, crew chief of the number twenty-one car.
“We can go talk to Jeff,” Blain said, setting off again.
But Cece didn’t follow. He stopped, turned. Her hair had collected drops of rain like blades of grass, the team jacket she wore darker on the shoulders. Her chest barely rose and fell.
“You coming?” he asked.
“No.”
His puzzled eyes must have asked the question he didn’t.
“I shouldn’t reveal my presence here,” she answered.
He looked as confused as he felt because she said, “I know I ran down here like I was, but in hindsight, announcing the fact that I’m an FBI agent might not be such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because my boss doesn’t want people to know I’m here. And because this is still just an investigation. If I go around questioning people, it’ll raise flags.”
“So raise them.”
She reached out and touched Blain’s arm. He hadn’t put on a jacket, so it was bare and wet, and her palm was so warm it startled him.
“I was told to keep a low profile, Blain. Flashing my badge around is not low profile.”
He gazed at her in frustration.
“Look,” she said. “I sincerely doubt a bad guy would tinker with a race car in full view of race fans and television cameras.”
Blain turned back to where said bad guy had stood. Jeff laughed at something the security guard had just said and it made Blain irritated with the whole situation all over again. Man, this uncertainty drove him nuts.
“They took the guy into custody, Blain. I’ll get someone to call security and ask what all it was about, but not right now. I’d rather be more subtle.”
“Fine,” he said, glancing back at Jeff and the security guard. They were walking away, the crew apparently satisfied that all was well.
“I’ll call my office and fill them in on what just happened.”
He nodded.
She touched him again. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Blain. I just don’t want to answer the inevitable questions that’ll be raised if word gets out that an FBI agent is snooping around the racetrack.”
And as much as he wanted her to do the exact opposite of what she suggested, Blain found himself saying, “Fine.”
She released his arm. “It’s probably nothing.”
He wiped a hand over his face, rain dripping off the edge of his palm. It probably was.
Damn, but he wished he could believe that.
“Let me make some calls and we’ll find out for sure.”
A ND SHE’D BEEN RIGHT. Turned out some overzealous race fan had wanted to stuff a good luck sock into the frame of the car.
A sock.
Ridiculous, but not unheard of, and as Blain returned to his hotel room later that night, he found himself grateful that Cece had kept her head, that she’d been the calmer of the two, and that she’d been subtle in her handling of the situation. She’d impressed him. And she’d also made him think that maybe, just maybe, the feds were right. This was all a wild-goose chase.
He hoped so, he thought as he knocked on her hotel room door.
“Hey,” she said in a tired voice after the door swung wide.
“Here’s the information you wanted.”
“Thanks.” She took the papers from him as she leaned against the door frame. She looked beat. Exhausted. As if she’d worked nonstop since coming back to the hotel.
She probably had.
“Did you find out anything more about that guy?”
She nodded. “Nothing more than a race fan, complete with car-tire coffee table at home.”
Blain’s shoulders loosened. Maybe it was time to let it go. Maybe he had been overreacting.
“You finished working?”
She shook her head. “Looks like
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