it back? It would be a good opportunity to speak to Zackâs parents again.
The feeling of being observed suddenly prickled up her spine. She turned her head toward the woods. Leaning against a large ponderosa was a tall, lean man, his gray suit and burgundy tie distinctly out of place amid the trampled grass and gnarled trees. His arms were folded authoritatively across his chest. His dark eyes regarded her with suspicion.
âWho are you?â he demanded.
5
SAM stood up. â Youâre the one who scared me to death. I get to ask the questions. Who are you ?â
Something glinted in his eyes. Annoyance? Amusement? He reached into his breast pocket and extracted a leather wallet. Stepping toward her, he flicked it open. âFBI.â
A gold-toned badge on top. Photo ID on the bottom. She grasped the wallet and compared the photograph with the man. Good-looking picture, although a trifle severe. Better-looking man. Raven hair, a square jaw with the blue-black sheen of whiskers lurking under just the bronze skin. Deep brown eyes, not the dense hue of chocolate, but a dark clear brown. Like a potent tea, or maybe an expensive brandy.
âSpecial Agent Chase J. Perez,â she read aloud.
He pulled the wallet from her grasp and snapped it closed. âOkay, now we both know who I am. Who are you ?â
âSummer Westin.â
He returned the wallet to his breast pocket, traded it for a pen, and pulled a small notepad from a rear pants pocket. âHow do you spell that?â
âSummer?â
His lips twitched, but he kept his gaze focused on the pen point he had pressed to the page. She had to give him credit for poise. âThe whole thing.â
She spelled it.
âMiddle name?â
It took her a second to come up with it. âAlicia.â
He looked up from the notepad.
âI never use it,â she explained.
His expression was skeptical. âID?â
âYouâre kidding, right?â
âNo. But firstââhe dug into a pocket inside his suit coat, brought out a plastic zipper-lock bag, and held it openââthe toy.â
Feeling like a shoplifter caught in the act, she dropped it into the bag.
âNow,â he said, zipping the bag, âthe ID.â
Disgusted, she exhaled loudly. âItâs in the car.â She stomped the fifty yards across grass and gravel to the vehicle, slid into the front seat, dug through her knapsack for her billfold. Through the windshield she observed Perez watching her. His right hand had disappeared under his suit coat. Probably resting on a pistol in a belt holster, just in case she emerged with a weapon.
She took him her Washington State driverâs license. He jotted down her license number and birth date, flipped the laminated card over and back again, then scrutinized the photo, compared it with her face.
âYou shaking down everyone in the park?â she asked.
Again, the hint of a smile. He pressed his lips together briefly before responding. âOnly women from Bellingham, Washington, who are making off with certain toy trucks.â He handed back the license.
âI was not âmaking offâ with it. I was going to return it.â
âThis is a crime scene. You shouldnât be touching anything.â
âReally? You should have gotten here earlier to tell that to the other hundred people who tramped through here today, Special Agent Perez.â
The scowl that darkened the FBI manâs face made her regret her sarcasm. Kent was right, she was a wiseass.
The crunch of gravel distracted them both. A park-issue truck pulled up behind her car, and a familiar lanky form emerged. Kent strode over, distinctly cleaner than earlier in the day. Shaking hands with Perez, he said, âRanger Kent Bergstrom. Sorry it took me so long.â He scrunched up his nose and flapped a hand in her direction. âWhew, Sam, is that you?â
Her face flushed at the reminder of
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