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Agent Miller walked to the back corner of the room and leaned against the concrete brick wall, never taking her eyes off him. “I can see it on your face. You believe my hunch that something is going down. Some shady people have their eyes on this particular piece of history. They think it’s important. Don’t you agree?”

“I do.”

She moved back to the table and sank back into the chair. “Then put in a good word with SSA Turner and let me help with the investigation into the statue.”

“That’s above my pay grade. And you’re still on medical restrictions. From what I can tell, you’re doing amazing work in linguistics. Your translation skills far surpass everyone else’s.” He suspected most translators wouldn’t have connected the dots that Agent Miller had, not to mention follow up with a mini off-the-books investigation of their own. He stood and moved toward the door. “I’ll get this cleared up with the officers. You need to lie low. Like I said, let’s meet on Monday and we can talk some more. I need time to do a little digging.”

Bryce found the officer in charge and explained why Agent Miller had been at the gallery. He left out the part where her investigation wasn’t sanctioned. The officer relented. They’d checked the security footage and had caught an image of the man she had described, corroborating her story. Bryce asked for copies of the videos and still footage of the suspect.

He walked back into the room where Agent Miller waited, impatience written all over her face, and sat across from her. “I’ve vouched for you and explained your presence at the gallery. They’re releasing you after you give your statement. And we’d like you to review some recent photos of known Russian mobsters to see if you can match them to the suspect at the gallery.”

She nodded. “Okay. I will do that. Thanks.”

The police detective entered, and Bryce took the chance to leave. “I’ll see you on Monday, Agent Miller. We will meet with your boss at the downtown office.”

“Please, call me Kira. And I’ll be there.”

“We can drop the formalities then. Call me Bryce.”

A ripple of excitement pulsed through his veins. His fascination with Kira trumped the logical part of his brain, and he’d like to see more of her. What was he getting himself into? She was so clearly an impulsive woman. Bryce didn’t have a spontaneous bone in his body. Slow and steady, armed with tons of research before he made any kind of decision or acted. That’s how he operated.

Plus, he wasn’t interested in a relationship, not after his marriage had crashed and burned. That ship had sailed . . . and sunk. But Kira Miller might be a solid asset in his investigation. She seemed unstoppable, like the type that might kick down the door until she got what she wanted.

And that made him like her more.

2

KIRA SAT ON THE CAFÉ PATIO, a free woman. After countless interviews and working with the sketch artist, the police finally released her. And she did what any newly released prisoner would do. She got a few hours of sleep, then rallied support and headed for food.

She and her roommates Violet Bancroft and Everly Harlowe had a standing Sunday lunch meetup. They’d all met in Quantico and formed their own team as friends and agents who watched out for each other.

“I can’t believe Bryce Lambert had to pick you up from the police station.” Violet Bancroft’s Southern accent made that statement sound even more dramatic. “Although, if I wound up in jail, I’d want a hunky man coming to my rescue. It could have been worse.”

Kira couldn’t argue that the agent was handsome. Any woman in a twenty-mile radius would notice his rugged jawline, the close-shaven beard, forest-green eyes, and wavy—although a tad too long—brown hair with some hints of silver around the hairline. His attitude and posture screamed by the book, but his hair suggested a hint of rebellion, which she liked. A lot. He was probably a little older than her age of thirty-three. She’d guess mid-thirties.

“I wasn’t in jail, Vi. I just got detained for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And I never even heard of Bryce Lambert until this morning.”

Violet dipped her chip in the thick, chunky salsa, blond curls swaying around her shoulders. “I met Agent Lambert once. The guy is as straitlaced and by the book as they come. The complete opposite of you. But he’s one of the most eligible FBI bachelors. All the ladies adore him, but he’s perpetually single for some reason.”

“He’s so not my type.” Memories of her ex-boyfriend popped up unbidden, and she shoved the thoughts aside. It’s not like she was interested in the man, not after her last failed relationship with a coworker. Work and romance were a volatile mixture.

But why did she feel the need to justify that she didn’t like Bryce Lambert? The man might be good-looking, but her assignment took precedence over the equivalent of a fleeting middle school crush.

Everly cut into her oversized burrito and took a bite, closing her eyes, savoring the flavors. The three took their Mexican food as seriously as they took their friendship. Violet attended church on Sundays, and Kira and Everly always met her afterward for lunch, despite Violet’s open-ended invitation to join her for the service.

“Why were you there anyway?” Everly asked. “That doesn’t sound like your thing. I see you more at a Harley museum than a pretentious art gallery.” Everly’s straight black shoulder-length hair contrasted with her light blue eyes. The oversized, burgundy-rimmed glasses added to her nerdy vibe. At least she’d lost the purple-striped hair from last month.

“I thought I had a lead on something big. Something that everyone seemed to ignore.”

“Well, you found it.” Violet took a bite of her chicken and spinach enchilada. “You walked right into a murder scene.”

Kira frowned. “At least Agent Lambert believes me. That’s one good thing he has going for him. He didn’t reject my theory. Something is going down and it involves that rabbit statue. I just hope there’s some evidence that backs up my hunch and I can be part of the investigation. I can’t handle another day chained to a desk, listening to recorded conversations. It’s important work, but I just . . . ugh.”

“Believe me, fieldwork isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” Violet might be the definition of a fish out of water as a rookie Special Agent. People underestimated the woman because of her petite size, blond hair, and thick Southern accent, but she was an excellent agent. “I have a temporary partner. Joe Brindleman.”

“Brindleman? Why does that name sound familiar?” Everly’s eyes darted left and right as she ran the name through the database in her head. The twenty-five-year-old was off-the-chart genius, with an eidetic memory and a knack for all things high tech. The woman had more of a social life online than in real life and rarely left their apartment other than to go to the office and meet for lunch once a week. Even in the office, she kept to herself.

“Got it,” Everly said. “Is Brindleman the old New Yorker that smells like a deli? I met him once.”