A Face to Die For (Forensic Instincts 6)

The FI team was gathered around the meeting room, sipping their coffee and chatting. The entire room was warm and inviting, from the soft cream walls to the clusters of buttery leather caramel tub chairs and matching sofas. The sideboard— with its JURA Professional coffee station and built-in fridge and wine cooler—was a rich cherry wood, as was its matching coffee table.

Casey walked in with a wave of her hand and headed for her usual tub chair, positioned directly across from the doorway, where she could watch the client from entry to departure and interpret his or her body language throughout the meeting.

“Good morning, Casey,” greeted a computerized voice that seemed to emanate from every part of the room. “I’ve programmed the appropriate video and audio configuration for your meeting. It’s available in the usual way.”

“Thank you, Yoda.” Even though Casey was still in awe of Ryan’s omniscient artificial intelligence system, she’d actively started thinking of it as a team member—one who was almost as human as the rest of them.

“Will there be anything else?” Yoda inquired as Casey put her folder and iPad Pro on the side table to the right of her chair. “Otherwise, I’ll be on standby.”

“Standby is fine, Yoda.” Casey went over to make herself a cup of coffee. “Hey, guys,” she said, returning to her chair. “We’ve got a few minutes to discuss the prospective client, and a few minutes to redistribute responsibilities, given our reduced staff.”

Casey was referring to the fact that her right-hand man, Marc Devereaux, former Navy SEAL and former FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit agent, was on his honeymoon. And Patrick Lynch, retired FBI special agent and security specialist was with his wife, Adele, at their daughter’s college graduation in Virginia.

So the team was down to five, counting Hero.

“Both Marc and Patrick have said they’re available if necessary,” Casey continued. “But it won’t be necessary. We’ll handle whatever’s thrown at us. They deserve this time away.”

“Given their reasons for being away, I’d opt for Marc’s scenario any day of the week,” Ryan said, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his fingers behind his head. “Two weeks in Aruba trumps two weeks in Virginia and DC. Not that I believe for a minute that Marc and Madeline are spending much time on the beach.” One dark eyebrow rose. “Which reminds me, boss…”

“Don’t even think of going there.” Casey shot him down before he’d even gotten started. “You won’t like my reaction.”

“Gotcha.” Ryan had the good sense to look sheepish. That was rarely the case. His ego matched his genius, at least when it came to his strategic skills and hacking abilities. But the rest? He gave little credence to his magnetic Black Irish looks and well-muscled body, the former being a happenstance of birth and the latter being a product of his gym rat tendencies. And frankly, though he had a healthy sexual appetite, women who stared longingly at him and looked ready to jump his bones irked the shit out of him.

He preferred a challenge.

At that thought, his gaze shifted to the willowy blonde sitting two chairs away. Talk about polar opposites. Claire Hedgleigh, or Claire-voyant as Ryan called her just to piss her off, was his one-eighty. He was all about facts and strategic thinking. She was all about auras and insights and whatever the hell claircognizants or psychics—or whatever you called them—used as their core database. He couldn’t argue with Claire’s success ratio, not that that made him a believer. What he also couldn’t argue with was the way she fired him up—on all fronts—in a way that no one ever had. It was more than a little unsettling.

The object of his thoughts spoke up. “If what Brianna Mullen said on the phone is true, then this is a dangerous, predatory situation.” Claire tucked a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear, looking at Casey and opening the dialogue about their potential client. “I realize that stalking is far from uncommon, but what she’s describing is dark and obsessive, with the potential for physical harm.”

Casey nodded. “Let’s just remember that we don’t have all the facts yet. Brianna gave us only pieces of information.”

“That’s because she was hysterical.”

“I know. But she didn’t even give us the name of her stalker. Does she know him? It sure sounded like she did. Is he an ex? A grad school classmate? Or is he a stranger? I want to hear her full story in person.” Casey took a sip of coffee. “That’s the only way we can make a judgement about whether or not she’s reading the situation clearly, and how serious the risks are.”

“Can I stay for the whole meeting?” Emma Stirling interrupted.

As always, Emma’s enthusiasm made Casey smile. At twenty-two, Emma was the team’s newest and youngest member. But what she lacked in years, she made up for in life experience. She’d been orphaned when she was young and had been in and out of foster care for years, often living on the streets. She’d survived because she’d used her cunning mind—together with the fact that she looked like an innocent Alice in Wonderland—to hone her pickpocketing skills until she rivaled the Artful Dodger.

That life had grown old.

She’d joined FI, reformed and eager, and her street smarts had already proved her an invaluable team member. Not to mention, she had guts. She’d been instrumental in solving FI’s last case, putting her own life at risk to do it.

Emma had more than proven her loyalty. She’d joined FI as the receptionist. But she’d turned into so much more.

“Of course you’re staying,” Casey replied. “Just do your thing out front when the doorbell rings, and then join Ms. Mullen when you show her in.”

“Cool.” Emma grinned, immensely pleased with Casey’s response. “As long as I’m part of the investigative team, I don’t mind getting coffee, managing schedules, and answering telephones and doors.”

“Nice to know, since that’s what you were hired to do,” Ryan said with teasing sarcasm. He had a lot of respect for Emma. The kid was a firecracker.

“I got a promotion, remember?” she shot back.

“Would you let us forget?” Now Claire was laughing.

Casey met Emma’s gaze. “Correction: you didn’t get a promotion. You earned one. We’re proud of you. Now do as good a job on this case as you did on the last one—without scaring us to death this time.”

“Will do,” Emma said, a shadow of memory crossing her face. But just as quickly, it was gone. That nightmare was over. She was healing with time—and the support of her teammates.