“I don’t want to interfere at all.” Monica shifted on the sofa. “But the buzz around town is that you and Brock are serious. I’ve never seen him look at anybody like he does you, and as his friend, I hope you give him another chance.” She finished her coffee. “I learned the hard way that you have to fight for love, and you have a really good chance with Brock. He’s a good man, Ophelia. Loyal to a fault—even with friends. Please just say you’ll consider it.”
“I will,” Ophelia meant it but she feared that Hank’s death would always be between them, if she discovered his killer…or ifshe couldn’t. The truth lurked somewhere, in plain sight, hiding behind familiar faces and friendly smiles. “Thank you.”
Monica perked up. “Oh. Speaking of buzz around town, I heard you’re looking for a vehicle to buy or rent.”
Ophelia placed her mug down on a coaster on the coffee table and straightened. “I do. Please tell me you have something.”
“I have an older Jeep that we just don’t need, and I planned to wait until spring to sell it, but it’s yours if you want it.”
“I want it.” Ophelia finally relaxed. She needed to pursue the investigation herself and now had a different theory that finally clicked the obscure facts into place…and led her right down the path she’d already been pursuing. But now she might know thewhy, if not the who. “Is that Jeep ready to go?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Jeep needed new snow tires, so Ophelia kept her speed slow as she maneuvered from Monica’s toward town. The icy road shimmered beneath the thin midday sun, and even with four-wheel drive, the ride felt precarious. Brock had definitely been irritated when she’d secured her own transportation.
She could still picture the way his jaw had tightened, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wanted to protect her from whoever kept taking potshots at her. Sweet, sure—but also frustrating. She was a trained federal agent. She didn’t need anyone, not even Brock Osprey, playing bodyguard. She knew how to return fire, and she still had his spare weapon on her.
Besides, the guy seemed like a bit of a control freak. While that made things dangerously attractive between the sheets, she couldn’t let it interfere with her job. She had a duty to the case, not to him. Especially since she almost had enough to arrest Ace on suspicion of murder. Maybe. She needed somehow to tie him to the crime scene first. Another thing to talk to Amka about. Perhaps she’d seen Ace that morning.
Even so, Ophelia’s body flushed at the memory of the night she’d shared with Brock. The way his voice deepened whenhe murmured her name. The way he moved, deliberate and unrelenting.
“Get it together, Spilazi,” she muttered, forcing herself to focus as she dialed a number with one hand, her other hand steady on the wheel. After navigating several layers of bureaucracy, she finally reached FBI Assistant Director Bill Burrington.
“Find Hank’s killer?” Burrington’s familiar gruff voice barked through the line.
“No, sir,” Ophelia said, sitting straighter against the worn leather seat. “But I think I’m close. I’ve got nothing solid on the Tammy Randsom murder, and the body in the woods…well, it disappeared.”
Burrington sighed, the weight of disappointment hanging in the silence. “Sounds like sending you to Alaska was a waste of time.”
Ophelia’s grip on the phone tightened. “I said I’m close, sir. The warrant to take Wyatt Yankovich into custody as a material witness finally came through, and I’m on the way to serve it. For now, I’d like a search warrant for the EVE facility. Even though I believe I’ve found a different avenue to pursue for Hank’s murder, I can tie all three of my current cases to EVE. My research request hasn’t even gone through yet.”
Burrington chuckled—low, dry, and unimpressed. “You want a warrant to search a private facility located in the middle of nowhere that has top-secret governmental contracts?”
When he put it like that…
“Yes,” she said, determination thick in her voice. “They’re just studying the ionosphere, right?”
“You’d be surprised what the ionosphere can do,” he replied. “You don’t have enough for a warrant to search a public restroom, much less a now private installation with governmental contracts. And trust me—I hit brick walls tryingto dig up more intel on that place. You need to let it go. Get me Hank’s killer by the weekend, or I’m pulling you home where you can quietly retire. He was my friend, and I want justice for him. Find Hank’s murderer. Understand?”
Darn it. “Yes, sir. Also, would you mind requesting a warrant for Jarod Teller’s financial records and one from the Alaska Division of Insurance Regulators regarding a fire that took place last May here in Knife’s Edge? I feel like you’ll get a faster response than I did with the Wyatt Yankovich warrant.”
“Fine. I’ll get somebody on it.” The line clicked, cutting her off.
Ophelia’s heart sank. One mistake—sleeping with a co-worker who turned out to be a self-serving jackass—and her career had been dangling by a thread ever since. The only way to redeem herself was to bring home a win.
The hollow silence in the Jeep felt louder than the wind outside.
She pulled into the parking lot of the doctor’s office, wondering if she could take months of icy winter with little light. Gingerly, she stepped out of the vehicle, the icy air immediately stinging her cheeks. She looked around instinctively, scanning for any sign she’d been followed. Nothing. Satisfied, she ducked her head against the frigid wind and hurried toward the entrance. At least the snow had stopped.
Even so, it was nearly noon, and darkness would be creeping back within a couple of hours.
So different from D.C. But at least in July, it would be light all day and night. Just think of what she could accomplish with endless sunlight.
She pushed open the door to the doctor’s office and stepped into the warmth. A young man sat behind the reception desk, his eyes fixed on a computer screen. The waiting area held deep green leather chairs, scattered toys, and a mounted televisionplaying a daytime soap. The place looked more like someone’s cozy living room than a medical clinic.
The man behind the desk looked up, his eyes dark and sharp against his pale skin. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two. His AC/DC T-shirt seemed out of place in such a quiet setting. He hadn’t been on duty last time she’d been here since it’d been so early, probably.
“Hi. You must be Agent Spilazi. I’m Lance. How can I help you?”
