She surely hadn’t received the one sent from his phone that read,At warehouse. Empty. Something wrong.Unfortunately, Simmons had in the past texted to her email address instead of her actual phone, mixing up her contact information. So that one might be legitimate.
She tapped the paper, her fingernail blunt and unpolished. “If I’d gotten that, I’d have hotfooted it down there. But I didn’t get a text.” She shook her head. “None of this is reading right.”
SSA Scott stared at her. For a moment, she thought she’d gotten through to him. Then his expression evened, and sheknew she’d lost. “I’ll need your badge and your firearm. As of right now, you’re on administrative leave pending an investigation by OPR.”
OPR—the Office of Professional Responsibility. The FBI’s internal affairs division.
“Seriously?”
“As a heart attack.” Scott waited for her to hand over her badge.
She wanted to shove it down his throat. Instead, she tossed it onto his desk. “My firearm’s in my desk.” Tucked away in a drawer when she wasn’t out in the field.
“Leave it and everything you’ve been working on. We’ll take care of things while you’re pending investigation.”
She stood, fuming, but tried to keep a lid on her temper. She was slow to rile, but once unleashed, she’d end up saying something that would get her fired. Or doing something that would get her arrested.
And God forbid she act like her hotheaded cousin.
But Jane being Jane, she couldn’t leave without a final word. She put her hands on Scott’s desk and leaned over, staring down at him. The man was lucky looks couldn’t kill.
“You’re making a huge mistake. And I’m going to prove it.”
“Leave this alone. You’re suspended until further notice.” He buzzed on his intercom for an escort to see her out of the building.
She turned on her heel, walked to the door, and yanked it open.
“Jane! Don’t impede the investigation. Do you hear me?”
She ignored him and stalked to her desk. Grabbing her jacket, she stormed out of the office, not answering anyone’s questions or waiting on security.
Jane now had a new set of objectives, which she would accomplish no matter what.
One: find Dan Simmons’ murderer.
Two: solve the problem of the Mazzuca investigation.
Three: do whatever it took to heal the cancer that was SSA Scott before he infected the entire squad.
CHAPTER TWO
Four days later,Jane had to concede that she’d need to rethink her investigation into Simmons’ murder. No one at the task force would talk to her, thanks to her suspension and Scott’s orders. Not even Jenn Sullivan or Rob Williams, and they typically skated the edges of propriety, alwaysjustobeying the letter of the law.
After only four days, she was already climbing the walls. She’d cleaned her apartment, run errands, paid bills, done laundry, and hit the gym twice a day.
She needed to dig harder into the Mazzucas. Unfortunately, she’d gotten nowhere with her usual confidential informants. Her CIs had no idea why the syndicate had up and left Seattle.
That they’d moved out from under the task force’s surveillance, limited as it had been, without anyone seeing them leave struck her as beyond impossible.
Jane’s bet—the Mazzucas had a source inside the FBI. Not the DEA, as they’d been after the crime family before the feds had joined the team, and no one had ever reported anything amiss. But how to prove it if she had to steer clear of the investigation until OPR cleared her?
She finished wiping down her kitchen for the third time that day. The tedium of cleaning up soothed her, as did the familiar comfort of home. The one-bedroom apartment in Capitol Hill served her needs well enough. She had a few plants she managed to keep alive. The floors were so clean she could see her reflection in the shiny hardwood.
The minimalist décor suited her, as did the teak wood and Scandinavian style furniture. Though she rarely watched TV, she had one streaming service. The books on her shelves had been read numerous times. Unfortunately, since being suspended, she couldn’t seem to lose herself in fiction.
Her idiot cousin liked to say that only pathologically disturbed people contented themselves with repeating comforts. However, a psychologist Jane had once interviewed relegated the reviewing to relieving anxiety.
Jane saw no problem repeating what brought her pleasure. Books couldn’t kill you. Books didn’t disappoint you.
