We waited another half hour, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
McCracken looked at Aiden. “I guess I should interview you.”
Aiden’s reply was smooth, almost casual. “You could, but I think this overlaps with my case. Franco called from near Blarney Pass, and that’s close to where we detonated the dynamite from the O’Shea robbery.”
That sounded seriously far-fetched to me.
McCracken frowned. “You think the shooter’s the same guy who planted the explosives?”
“Could be,” Aiden said again, easy but firm. “The sheriff was getting close to something. Let’s keep evidence handling consistent. I’ll coordinate with the agency and feed you updates so your paperwork stays clean.”
It was said so naturally that by the time McCracken realized he’d just been gracefully outranked, he was already nodding. “Yeah, sure thing, Devlin.”
Aiden gave him a small, respectful nod. That was very nicely done. Aiden didn’t have jurisdiction, yet he’d just taken it.
I liked that.
Finally, Patsy led us down the hallway to the rooms. When we reached Franco’s room, I hesitated in the doorway. The sheriff looked wrong. Too pale and too still. His gray hair was mussed, his skin almost the same shade as the sheets.
“Sheriff?” I asked softly, stepping closer.
“I’m fine,” he rasped. “Sit down, Albertini. You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
I obeyed, pulling a chair close. His hand was bandaged, the IV taped to the back of it. I took his good hand, careful and light. “I can’t believe somebody shot you,” I said.
“Believe it.” He gave the faintest grin. “Didn’t hit anything vital, though. Lucky shot.”
“Who was it?” Aiden asked, voice steady as a blade.
Franco’s eyes flicked toward him, then toward the rain-streaked window. “Didn’t see. Came out of nowhere. One second I’m on the radio, and the next thing, glass explodes, and I’m in the ditch firing blind.” He paused. “It felt like an ambush. Not random.”
Aiden exchanged a look with me, then leaned in slightly. “You were close to Blarney Pass?”
“Yes, just past Shanty Peak. Was looking for a poacher. A random person called it in.”
Could it have been an ambush?
McCracken shuffled his feet. “Agent Devlin thinks the shooting might be connected to the dynamite theft.”
“I’d bet on it,” Aiden said. “The ATF would like to work concurrent jurisdiction with this case.”
Franco looked from him to McCracken. “I’d like that. The shots came out of the darkness,” Franco said finally, voice rough as gravel. “I was in my Jeep, pulled over to make the call to talk to Anna.”
“Oh.” My throat closed. “It’s my fault.”
“No, it’s not.” His tone cut through mine like a command. “Whoever it was obviously followed me. I just didn’t see headlights.”
“You were out by the bend in the river?” Aiden asked, his voice low but intent.
Franco’s mouth tightened. “Yeah. That stretch right before marker nineteen. Not a place you just drive through for fun in the dark. Somebody knew the area.”
I shivered. The image formed too easily—the rain hammering down, his headlights off, and a figure hidden in the brush, waiting. “Why would someone shoot you, Sheriff?” I asked softly, not buying it had anything to do with the robbery and dynamite.
Aiden just wanted jurisdiction. He liked the sheriff, too.
Franco gave a tired half-smile. “Hell if I know. I mean, I’ve pissed off plenty of folks over the years. Comes with the badge.” He hesitated, then grinned faintly. “Could be because I’m arresting your grandma tomorrow.”
I rolled my eyes, caught between horror and affection. “I seriously doubt Nana shot you.”
