Sting

“Gentlemen, no need for hostility,” Dupaw said. He turned to Shaw and added under his breath, “I told you that I should come in first to neutralize the situation, but did you listen?”

Joe Wiley stepped around the table. Shaw could practically see smoke coming from his ears, and, frankly, he didn’t blame him. “If you’re FBI, I’m a Chinaman.”

“I caught ’em on a slow day.” If Shaw had felt better, he might have grinned. But he couldn’t muster the energy.

The woman beside Jordie had righted her chair and took her elbow in an attempt to guide her back into it. Jordie shook her off and remained standing. Shaw had only ever seen her in the jeans and top she’d worn into the bar. Today she was dressed for business in a navy pants suit with a pink scooped-neck top underneath the jacket.

But he was less interested in her wardrobe than in her facial expressions, which had evolved from dismay upon seeing him, to absolute fury upon learning how he had misled her, big-time.

He didn’t blame her, either.

Wiley propped his hands on his hips. “Badge?”

“Can’t carry one. But if you want to call Atlanta and check me out, I can give you a password.”

“Do that.”

Shaw gave him his code, the number to call, and the individual to ask for. The super-stud agent pecked the phone number into his cell and stepped out of the room to make the call.

Joe Wiley still regarded Shaw with blatant mistrust. “You work out of the Atlanta office?”

“When I work out of an office at all.”

“I can vouch for him,” Xavier Dupaw said with overblown self-importance. “I was about to indict him for that double murder. NOPD, you and Agent Hickam, everybody in Orleans Parish was pressuring me to do so.”

“I was wasting time in jail,” Shaw said to Wiley. “I had to tell him.” He nodded toward the prosecutor.

Dupaw said, “Mr. Kinnard revealed himself to be a covert operative.” The last two words were spoken in a stage whisper.

Wiley, frowning, grumbled, “We were sure you’d killed those two guys.”

“I did,” Shaw said. “They got wise to a DEA officer who was working the same case. To protect him…” He raised a shoulder.

Dupaw placed his right hand over his heart and said to Wiley, “I would have liked to share all this with you, but only I and the DA were entrusted with the classified information.”

Wiley gave a snort of distaste over the prosecutor’s condescension.

The other agent reentered the room. “He checks out.” He looked none too happy about it.

Shaw turned to Xavier Dupaw. “You can go now.”

The prosecutor blustered. “This is the thanks I get for coming to your rescue? If it weren’t for me, you would still be chained to your hospital bed.”

“Thanks. But you’ve served your purpose.”

“This case is far from over.”

“But it’s not your show. It’s federal. Crimes against the state were committed in another parish and outside your jurisdiction.” Shaw motioned him toward the door.

Dupaw sputtered, but eventually shot his cuffs and stalked out, peevishly banging the door shut behind himself.

Shaw looked at Wiley. “Mind if I sit?”

He was woozy and didn’t want to ruin his dramatic entrance by falling flat on his face in a dead faint. Wiley pointed him into a chair across the table from Jordie. Live coals didn’t smolder as hot as she was. Her rigid posture, the stern set of her lips, her glare, all attested to her barely controlled wrath as she sat down.

Shaw expelled a long breath. “Look. Jordie. I know I put you through a meat grinder. But I was—”

“‘Son of a bitch’ doesn’t come close to characterizing you.” She practically spat the words at him, then turned her head aside as if the very sight of him sickened her.