Agent Walter Smudgeon hitched his belt up over his belly, wishing he’d worn a different suit this morning. Or that he’d had a clean and pressed suit to wear. His head still ached from his cold, and acid rolled up his esophagus from the burrito he’d eaten for breakfast. One that had tons of fats and bad shit in it. The stuff his doctor told him he had to avoid if he wanted to live another ten years.
Sometimes he wasn’t sure he did.
But as he stood near the doorway of Dr. Christine Franklin’s surprisingly comfortable home in the ritzy subdivision, he wondered. The place smelled like her. Like fancy, but subtle, perfume. The kind from Paris that was spendy and made with organic ingredients.
She made her way efficiently through the home, turning off appliances and organizing as she went. Now she was in her bedroom packing her things. What was her bedroom like?
The living room held a white sofa with calm teal pillows that invited a guy to flop down and take a nap. The home was feminine and kind of sweet, attributes the impressive doctor hid a little bit. Could somebody like her ever be interested in a guy like him? If he cleaned up his act, lost some weight, and stood taller again?
He’d gotten divorced a while back and hadn’t recovered. He was punishing himself still. He missed her.
Enough of that crap. He glanced at his trusted watch. “We need to get a move on, Doctor.” His gun felt heavy in his shoulder holster. They’d leave the subdivision and he’d impress her with his counter-surveillance maneuvers. Sure, the experts in Seattle would do the same thing, but it didn’t hurt to cut the tail from her now, if the guy was watching.
Christine emerged from the bedroom dressed in jeans and a copper-colored sweater that matched her eyes. She’d placed a bulging laptop bag on top of a suitcase she rolled toward him, efficient and brisk.
Man, she was pretty. He wanted to ask her age but didn’t want to be unprofessional. He was probably only five to eight years older than her. Some smart women liked cops.
Did she?
He straightened his shoulders and reached for the rolling suitcase. “I’ve got this.”
“Thank you.” She moved to the kitchen counter for her purse, which she tugged over one shoulder. “I just need my winter coat from the closet, and we can go. I think I’ve taken care of everything.” She looked around, for the first time appearing lost. Scared. Vulnerable.
“You have,” he assured her. “If not, you give me a call, and I’ll come take care of it for you.” There were no pets or plants, so he was safe.
Her smile made him feel ten years younger. “That’s kind of you, Agent Smudgeon.” She’d remembered his name.
His chest expanded two sizes. “You bet. Do you have any lights on timers we should start?”
“No.” She moved gracefully to a lamp near the kitchen. “When I’m out of town, I just keep this on. You can’t really tell where it’s located from outside, and this subdivision is pretty safe and gated, anyway.” Then she moved toward him.
He smiled and the movement felt rare. When was the last time he’d truly been happy? “I think you’re being very brave.”
She paused and a light flush covered her cheekbones. “I’m scared, to be honest.” Then she glanced at the very full laptop bag. “At least now I can finally get some of that paperwork done. Sometimes I can’t remember why I fought so hard for this promotion.” Her smile now was rueful and yet still beautiful.
He couldn’t think of a thing to say. So he opened the door for her, wondering if there was a way he could be put on the protection detail. If they spent time together, he could figure her out. Perhaps show her a card trick or two. When was the last time he’d even done a card trick?
Sound echoed and he halted and focused a second too late. A body rushed straight into him and gunfire popped several times. Confusion blew through his head, fuzzing his vision. That was gunfire. Somebody had shot a gun.
Pain exploded in his abdomen and he fell back, not understanding what had just happened. A woman screamed from far away and then something hard imploded on his cheekbone as he hit the cold tile in the entryway. A figure jumped over him and he caught sight of somebody wearing black socks and boots. Panic rippled through him and he tried to grab the ankle, but his arm wouldn’t work.
The woman screamed again and the smell of copper filled his nostrils. His body seized and his nervous system misfired.
Heat and then freezing cold burst through his gut.
Then he felt nothing.
Chapter Nineteen
Laurel didn’t enjoy driving but was feeling warmly amused by Huck’s displeasure at being in the passenger seat. The man did have control issues, but he seemed to have them under control. She barely kept back a laugh at her own joke.
Most people didn’t think she was funny, and they were probably correct.
His phone buzzed. He pulled it free of his pocket and glanced at the screen before hitting the speaker button. “Hey, Monty. You’re on speaker with Laurel and me. You okay?”
“There are reports of shots fired at the Forest Ridge subdivision and units are headed that way right now,” Monty said, his voice high and thready.
“Any idea of which house?” Huck asked, motioning for Laurel to turn the vehicle around.
