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Authors: Beverly Barton
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night. She had kept waiting for him to say something, to ask her why the hell she’d run from him as if she were afraid of him. But to her surprise—and relief—he hadn’t said a word.
If he had, how would she have responded? She could have admitted that she overreacted because she’d been tired and edgy. She could have told him that she hated being forced to work with him. That would have been the truth. Just not the complete truth.
“Look for a sign that reads Old Stillwater Road,” Griff told her as he maneuvered the rented SUV through town.
“Sure.” Nic looked right and left, but avoided direct eye contact with Griff. “What time is Sheriff Touchstone meeting us?”
“He said he’d be there by twelve thirty and it’s”—Griff glanced at the Rolex on his wrist—“twelve twenty now.”
“I was a little surprised that he agreed to meet us at the scene,” Nic said. “Apparently, he intends to be as cooperative as Benny Willoughby was.”
She felt Griff glance her way, so she kept her gaze riveted to the windshield.
“Does it surprise you that local law enforcement is willing to cooperate with a private detective?” he asked.
“If that private detective was just any old PI, yes, I’d be surprised. But let’s face it—there aren’t many people who haven’t heard of the Griffin Powell.”
“My name does open a few doors for me, but as a general rule, most local lawmen don’t cross the line and give me privileged information. Once in a blue moon, somebody will offer a little more info than they should, but for the most part, I have to resort to other methods to acquire my information.”
“Illegal methods,” Nic snapped.
Griff grunted. “Rarely illegal, but I admit we bend the rules near the breaking point when necessary. And often our methods could be perceived as unethical.”
“ Perceived as unethical?” Nic harrumphed.
“Look, years ago, you and I established the fact that you do not approve of me, my agency, or our investigation tactics. And I don’t fault you for trying to be a by-the-book federal agent. I respect you, Nic, I just don’t like you personally.”
Slap! Why should she care that the high and mighty Griffin Powell didn’t like her? Heck, she should be grateful that he didn’t. What was the old saying about there being people you wouldn’t want to like you?
“We’re actually in agreement on something,” she told him. “You don’t like me and I don’t like you.”
“So it would seem. Now, the question that remains is, can we set aside our personal differences and actually work together to put a killer out of commission before he kills again? I’m man enough to do it, are you?”
Slap! Nic knew that Griff saw her as a man-eating feminist who had something to prove to every man she met. Maybe he was partially right. If there was one thing she hated, it was being told she couldn’t or shouldn’t do something because she was a woman.
“Sure,” Nic said. “I’ve got the balls, if you do.”
Griff chuckled under his breath.
Nic smiled to herself, an internal don’t-screw-with-me smile; but outwardly her facial expression remained unchanged.
“There it is—” Nic pointed to the left. “Old Stillwater Road.”
Griff slowed the SUV, and then turned left onto the two-lane country road. After going over two miles, they had seen little except open fields, probably once planted annually in cotton, but now planted in corn. The pavement, filled with potholes and covered with cracked and crumbling asphalt, needed repairs.
Nic saw two vehicles parked alongside the roadway about a quarter of a mile ahead of them. As they got closer to the truck and the Jeep, she noticed two men standing in the shade of a large maple tree near a narrow bridge. Griff pulled the SUV in behind the other two vehicles and killed the engine.
“Be nice,” Griff said. “Act like a lady and not a hard-ass FBI agent.”
Glaring at him, she made a hissing sound.
Laughing,
If he had, how would she have responded? She could have admitted that she overreacted because she’d been tired and edgy. She could have told him that she hated being forced to work with him. That would have been the truth. Just not the complete truth.
“Look for a sign that reads Old Stillwater Road,” Griff told her as he maneuvered the rented SUV through town.
“Sure.” Nic looked right and left, but avoided direct eye contact with Griff. “What time is Sheriff Touchstone meeting us?”
“He said he’d be there by twelve thirty and it’s”—Griff glanced at the Rolex on his wrist—“twelve twenty now.”
“I was a little surprised that he agreed to meet us at the scene,” Nic said. “Apparently, he intends to be as cooperative as Benny Willoughby was.”
She felt Griff glance her way, so she kept her gaze riveted to the windshield.
“Does it surprise you that local law enforcement is willing to cooperate with a private detective?” he asked.
“If that private detective was just any old PI, yes, I’d be surprised. But let’s face it—there aren’t many people who haven’t heard of the Griffin Powell.”
“My name does open a few doors for me, but as a general rule, most local lawmen don’t cross the line and give me privileged information. Once in a blue moon, somebody will offer a little more info than they should, but for the most part, I have to resort to other methods to acquire my information.”
“Illegal methods,” Nic snapped.
Griff grunted. “Rarely illegal, but I admit we bend the rules near the breaking point when necessary. And often our methods could be perceived as unethical.”
“ Perceived as unethical?” Nic harrumphed.
“Look, years ago, you and I established the fact that you do not approve of me, my agency, or our investigation tactics. And I don’t fault you for trying to be a by-the-book federal agent. I respect you, Nic, I just don’t like you personally.”
Slap! Why should she care that the high and mighty Griffin Powell didn’t like her? Heck, she should be grateful that he didn’t. What was the old saying about there being people you wouldn’t want to like you?
“We’re actually in agreement on something,” she told him. “You don’t like me and I don’t like you.”
“So it would seem. Now, the question that remains is, can we set aside our personal differences and actually work together to put a killer out of commission before he kills again? I’m man enough to do it, are you?”
Slap! Nic knew that Griff saw her as a man-eating feminist who had something to prove to every man she met. Maybe he was partially right. If there was one thing she hated, it was being told she couldn’t or shouldn’t do something because she was a woman.
“Sure,” Nic said. “I’ve got the balls, if you do.”
Griff chuckled under his breath.
Nic smiled to herself, an internal don’t-screw-with-me smile; but outwardly her facial expression remained unchanged.
“There it is—” Nic pointed to the left. “Old Stillwater Road.”
Griff slowed the SUV, and then turned left onto the two-lane country road. After going over two miles, they had seen little except open fields, probably once planted annually in cotton, but now planted in corn. The pavement, filled with potholes and covered with cracked and crumbling asphalt, needed repairs.
Nic saw two vehicles parked alongside the roadway about a quarter of a mile ahead of them. As they got closer to the truck and the Jeep, she noticed two men standing in the shade of a large maple tree near a narrow bridge. Griff pulled the SUV in behind the other two vehicles and killed the engine.
“Be nice,” Griff said. “Act like a lady and not a hard-ass FBI agent.”
Glaring at him, she made a hissing sound.
Laughing,
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