She shivered and forced her feet to move toward the entrance to the day care. But she couldn’t help it. At the door, she turned to find him still standing in place, watching her. “Thank you for the tires, Jethro.” Without waiting for his response, she opened the door and fled inside to safety.
Chapter Seven
Jethro sat back in the cold metal chair in the interrogation room, eyeing the steaming cup of truly horrendous coffee on the worn wooden table. He’d been waiting for nearly ten minutes and the crap still steamed. Finally the door opened and Detective Tate Bianchi walked inside, file folders beneath one arm and a matching coffee cup in his hand.
“Sorry about the wait,” Tate said, drawing out a chair and sitting across from him. “Where were you the nightof the murder?”
Amusement tickled Jethro’s lips into an unwilling smile. “Seriously? If that’s your angle, you can sod off, Detective.”
Tate rolled his eyes. “It’s not my angle, but I do need to look at all avenues here. Help me out, Dr. Hanson.”
“I was home with the dog, working on assignments for this semester,” Jethro said easily. “I’m sure Roscoe will provide backup, but you’d have to bribe him with a beer for him to speak.” There were cameras all around Jethro’s home, but he wasn’t going to reveal that fact unless absolutely necessary.
Tate sighed and opened a file folder, flipping through it. “You’re a professor who teaches a bunch of shit dealing with games and theories and good versus evil, and for some reason, you sometimes work with our Homeland Defense Department. Let’s start there. How did a Brit end up consulting with Angus Force, who isn’t known to play well with anybody, much less an academic from another country?”
That was a fairly perfect descriptionof Angus Force.
Jethro reached for the coffee, willing to take another stab at it. He’d come directly to the requested interview with the detective and hadn’t had a chance to fetch supper as of yet. “The first time Angus Force hunted down the serial killer known as the Surgeon, when Force was still with the FBI, he sought me out to decipher the more cryptic notes left at murder scenes.” The Surgeon had dug deep into philosophy as well as early works of obscure writers and poets. “I helped him, and when it came time to catch the Surgeon a second time, when it became apparent the psychopath wasn’t deceased as believed, I assisted again.” Jethro sipped and the truly shitty coffee hit his stomach. Grimacing, he gave up and set the cupback in place.
“I know. It sucks.” Tate glared at his coffee cup. “How did Force find you?”
“He never said and I didn’t care,” Jethro admitted. “I was teaching at Cambridge at the time, and somehow hediscovered me.”
Tate sat back. “Why make the move from Cambridge toDC University?”
Jethro had buried his mother and put his brother behind bars, and it was time for a new start. “DC made me a good offer, and I was ready to try something new. Sometimes it’s that simple.” Nothing was ever that simple.
“Huh,” Tate said, his dark gaze piercing. “Tell me about Fletcher.”
Well, now. They didn’t have that kind of time. “I don’t know who this Fletcher is, although he does seem to know me.”
Tate lifted his chin, his gaze communicating that he’d like to knock Jethro upside the head. Hard. “Don’t lie to me.”
It wasn’t a crime to lie to a local detective. So long as Jethro wasn’t telling a material falsehood to harm the case, he wasn’t interfering with the investigation. Holding back the truth might, but he’d always have the umbrella of his MI6 clearance upon which to fall back. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you any more information than that.” It was true that he hadn’t been cleared to reveal anything about Fletcher to anybody.
“What about Isla? The woman mentioned in the note?” Tate asked.
“Again, I have nothing to add to the note,” Jethro said.
Tate flattened a large hand on the table. “You’re interfering with an investigation, and you’re rapidly moving into the territory of being a possible suspect.”
Jethro flashed a smile. “You think I wrote a note to myself?”
“If you’re batshit crazy and still fucking brilliant, then why the hell not?” Tate asked, letting his tone go quiet at the end. “Work with me, Jethro. I know you’re smart, and the sight of that dead body didn’t have you doubling over to puke, so I can tell you’ve been around. Probably with Force and his team, and that’s decent training. But you have no idea what we could be dealing with here, and I need your help.”
Oh, Jethro understood exactly what they were dealing with, and the DC cops were out of their league on this one.
The door opened and a tall woman built like a model walked inside. Her suit was light green, her hair and eyes dark brown, and her chin stubborn. “Sorry I’m late.” She took the seat next to Tate and studied Jethro as if he were abug on a slide.
Tate gestured toward her. “This is my partner, Detective Buckle. Buckle, meet Dr. Jethro Hanson, who’s an expert in philosophy, game theory, a bunch of other crap, and also seems to have decided to hinder our murder investigation for some unfathomable reason.”
“Hello,” Jethrosaid smoothly.
Buckle smiled, revealing a very slightly crooked front tooth that was more adorable than out of place. “I’ve been trying to find a man named Fletcher in the serial killer world without much luck.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Jethro said. “I wish I could help you.”
Her smile slid away. “I had a friend at the State Department contact a buddy over in the UK, and you know whatI discovered?”
