He experienced a frisson of delight at the thought of them being anus, much less havinga thing. Then he castigated himself for feeling anything.
“Just trying to make up for my poor showing ofStar Warsknowledge the first time we met. I wouldn’t want you thinking I’m slow on the uptake.”
“I just assumed you were a superhero fan instead of a space opera fan.” When he frowned, she nodded to his T-shirt. Printed on the front was a picture of Groot holding a cassette tape. “Marvel movies, right?” she asked.
He shrugged. “What can I say? I like a good antihero.”
“Deadpoolmust be your favorite then.”
He blinked at her accuracy. Although, he didn’t know why he was surprised. He’d never met anyone as observant as Julia O’Toole. Which, undoubtedly, was why she was already a senior agent at the tender age of…what? Thirty? Thirty-one?
It was hard to guess since her diminutive stature made her appear younger than her years. And the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose screamed preteen.
“Not that I’m not enjoying this little tête-à-tête,” Agent Douglas spoke up. “But the heat coming off this blacktop could fry an egg. And it’s making my shoulder ache like a bad tooth.”
“Right.” Britt stepped back to admit the feds.
Did he notice Agent O’Toole smelled festive and warm, like cherries and almonds and sweet vanilla, as she breezed by him?
No he did not.
Okay, so maybe he did. But he didn’t let it sink in. Because if he let it sink in, he’d have to concentrate on not thinking about her fragrance like he’d had to concentrate on not thinking abouther.
Five minutes later, the two FBI agents had been shown to the conference table in the War Room. And all the current Black Knights, as well as Boss, Becky, and Ozzie, had gathered around.
In typical Eliza fashion, carafes of coffee had been provided along with a tray of fresh chocolate croissants, blueberry muffins, and bite-sized goat cheese quiches.
Fisher had been using Mardi Gras as a distraction. Eliza? She’d been baking like her life depended on it.
Not that Britt was complaining. He’d enjoyed three muffins with his coffee earlier.
Agent Douglas—who looked a little pale and drawn thanks to his recent stint in the hospital—had shaken his head when the tray passed his way. But Julia? She’d loaded her napkin with two croissants and three mini quiches.
She was busy chewing a quiche now as she turned to Eliza to say around a mouthful, “I’m sure your father will call soon to tell you we have our man. Or, rather wewillhave our man here in…” The little blond checked her watch and swallowed. “About fifteen minutes. Once our colleagues in Washington make the arrest. But I wanted to stop by and give you the news in person. Figured after everything you’ve been through, you deserve it.”
“So who was it?” Fisher demanded, ignoring the irritated look Eliza shot him when he didn’t wait for her to speak first.
“Chuck Reynolds,” O’Toole answered before popping another quiche into her mouth.
For such a little thing, she could really put away the food.
“Why does that name ring a bell?” Boss asked at the same time Becky slid him a root beer-flavored Dum Dum.
“He’s the minority senate leader,” O’Toole said around the goat cheese pastry.
“And he’s made headlines recently,” Douglas added. “He was accused of flying to a private island to sexually assault an underage boy.”
Britt blanched at the foul notion. All those around the table cursed in disgust or shifted uncomfortably. Agent O’Toole dropped her third quiche and pushed the napkin away like she’d suddenly lost her appetite.
“Is that why John McClean called together those folks on the committee?” Eliza was finally able to get a word in edgewise. “To talk about Senator Reynolds’s depravity?”
“That’s what we thought.” O’Toole nodded. “When we first suspected it might be Reynolds behind the plot. But come to find out—and I won’t bore you with the long, convoluted details onhowwe found this out—Senator McClean actually had proof Chuck Reynolds has been doing a little insider trading. And bya little,I meana lot. The man has enriched himself to the tune of twenty million dollars through illegal investments over the last ten years. McClean found the proof, and it appeared he had every intention of sharing that proof with the committee at the cocktail party.”
“Why share it at a cocktail party?” This from Becky. She had her own Dum Dum shoved into her cheek. “Why not call a committee meeting the next time congress is in session and make it official?”
“From what we can gather, McClean caught wind that someone in his office was slipping information to someone working in Reynolds’s office. So he threw the cocktail party as a way to hold a committee meeting without, you know, actually holding a committee meeting. It was too late, though. Reynolds had already discovered what McClean had planned, and he decided to kill all the birds with one stone. Or…one gunman, as it turns out.”
“Yeah.” Britt frowned. “What the hell—excuse my French—did Reynolds have over on McClean’s chef that would make the guy commit mass murder?”
