pounding. She couldnât deny it. She was worried.
Hiding what she, Danny and Julie had been up to from Declan and Kevin had proved easier than she had thought it would.
But she was dreading the next day and her time with the FBI agent with the dark hair and deep smoky voice and those light eyes that seemed to look into her with the power of an X-ray machine.
* * *
Craig Frasier sat in the office in the near dark, alone except for the skeleton night staff. Heâd made Mike go home, knowing that he was being obsessive and not wanting to drag his partner into the pit after him.
He simply didnât believe that they had caught the thieves they most needed to catch: the ones who killed.
The thieves themselves denied it, and their guns had been fake.
But he understood the desire in law enforcement to believe a case was closed, and a lot of people simply didnât want to accept the idea that there could be copycats out thereâcopycats whose MO was so perfect in every detail...except that the guns they carried were real. The prevailing belief was that there was only one set of thieves who, having established that they were willing to kill to get what they wanted, no longer felt the need to carry real guns and had switched to fakes in order to create confusion and make a case for a lighter sentence if they were caught.
The NYPD had made the arrest. The charges would be up to the district attorneyâs office. Somewhere the powers that be, whose influence went far beyond his own, were arguing about that right now.
They wouldnât ask his opinion.
But that didnât matter. What did matter was whether there were still killers out thereâand he was willing to bet cash money that there were.
He leaned back, rubbing his eyes. He thought about the way things might have endedâand how that too-attractive-for-his-own-good redhead had actually had the sense to do something other than scream and expect the world to save her.
Sheâd saved his assâor would have, had the gun been real.
He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking about her. She hadnât wanted any attention from the press; in fact, she had paled at the very mention of it. Strange. Most beautiful womenâno, she wasnât just beautiful; she was stunningâwelcomed attention. As gorgeous as she was, she could have been hitting the stage or a runway somewhere, a tall, blue-eyed redhead with legs that stretched forever. But instead...
He reached into his pocket for the card she had given him. Fuller and Miro. He knew the names; they and their employees were often called in as consultants. The Behavioral Science Unit of the bureau was in Virginia, and they were called in on the most puzzling or unusual cases, especially when local police asked for help. Otherwise, the New York office often looked to local talent to untangle the psychology of a captured killer or profile one who was still at large.
Therapist. And bartender.
Quite an intriguing combination.
For someone who had such talentsâand had saved both his ass and her ownâshe had acted very strangely.
Almost as if she were...guilty herself.
He mulled over the thought. Then, standing up, he stretched and walked to the coffee machine in the break room. He needed to go home and go to sleep, but he could use a cup to get that far. The coffee here was wretched; they kept a regular pot instead of investing in pods. But that was all right. Wretched coffee was still better than no coffee.
He lifted the cup to his lips and realized that in the midst of the fray, sheâd reminded him of someone.
Of Caroline.
He smiled at the thought.
Caroline had been blessed with that same ability to think on the spot, to behave rationally and, most important, to know when to holdâand when to fight back like blue blazes.
He hadnât really thought about her in years now. And truthfully, she had been nothing like Kieran Finnegan. Caroline had been a petite blonde
Hiding what she, Danny and Julie had been up to from Declan and Kevin had proved easier than she had thought it would.
But she was dreading the next day and her time with the FBI agent with the dark hair and deep smoky voice and those light eyes that seemed to look into her with the power of an X-ray machine.
* * *
Craig Frasier sat in the office in the near dark, alone except for the skeleton night staff. Heâd made Mike go home, knowing that he was being obsessive and not wanting to drag his partner into the pit after him.
He simply didnât believe that they had caught the thieves they most needed to catch: the ones who killed.
The thieves themselves denied it, and their guns had been fake.
But he understood the desire in law enforcement to believe a case was closed, and a lot of people simply didnât want to accept the idea that there could be copycats out thereâcopycats whose MO was so perfect in every detail...except that the guns they carried were real. The prevailing belief was that there was only one set of thieves who, having established that they were willing to kill to get what they wanted, no longer felt the need to carry real guns and had switched to fakes in order to create confusion and make a case for a lighter sentence if they were caught.
The NYPD had made the arrest. The charges would be up to the district attorneyâs office. Somewhere the powers that be, whose influence went far beyond his own, were arguing about that right now.
They wouldnât ask his opinion.
But that didnât matter. What did matter was whether there were still killers out thereâand he was willing to bet cash money that there were.
He leaned back, rubbing his eyes. He thought about the way things might have endedâand how that too-attractive-for-his-own-good redhead had actually had the sense to do something other than scream and expect the world to save her.
Sheâd saved his assâor would have, had the gun been real.
He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking about her. She hadnât wanted any attention from the press; in fact, she had paled at the very mention of it. Strange. Most beautiful womenâno, she wasnât just beautiful; she was stunningâwelcomed attention. As gorgeous as she was, she could have been hitting the stage or a runway somewhere, a tall, blue-eyed redhead with legs that stretched forever. But instead...
He reached into his pocket for the card she had given him. Fuller and Miro. He knew the names; they and their employees were often called in as consultants. The Behavioral Science Unit of the bureau was in Virginia, and they were called in on the most puzzling or unusual cases, especially when local police asked for help. Otherwise, the New York office often looked to local talent to untangle the psychology of a captured killer or profile one who was still at large.
Therapist. And bartender.
Quite an intriguing combination.
For someone who had such talentsâand had saved both his ass and her ownâshe had acted very strangely.
Almost as if she were...guilty herself.
He mulled over the thought. Then, standing up, he stretched and walked to the coffee machine in the break room. He needed to go home and go to sleep, but he could use a cup to get that far. The coffee here was wretched; they kept a regular pot instead of investing in pods. But that was all right. Wretched coffee was still better than no coffee.
He lifted the cup to his lips and realized that in the midst of the fray, sheâd reminded him of someone.
Of Caroline.
He smiled at the thought.
Caroline had been blessed with that same ability to think on the spot, to behave rationally and, most important, to know when to holdâand when to fight back like blue blazes.
He hadnât really thought about her in years now. And truthfully, she had been nothing like Kieran Finnegan. Caroline had been a petite blonde
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