Sting

Speaking more softly, the marshal said, “Off the record. Woman to woman.”

“Nothing,” she said huskily. “Nothing happened.”

Gwen knew she was lying and looked at her with something akin to pity. “He was only doing his job.”

“I know.” She went into the room and shut the door, leaning back against it and whispering, “And he’s very good at it.” Tears that had threatened earlier now spilled over her lower lids.

Angrily, she wiped them away. She would not cry over him.

Pushing herself away from the door, she headed for the bathroom only to be brought up short by a familiar sound—the distinctive buzz of a vibrating cell phone.

A cell phone? Hers was still in the FBI’s possession. Hickam had last used it to call Shaw’s burner when he staged his big reveal.

The sound persisted. She followed it over to the bureau where she’d stacked the items her office personnel ha

d sent. Swiftly she checked the contents of padded envelopes and pushed lids off boxes until she found a box of printed invitations. She noticed now that the shipping label bore a company name she didn’t recognize. She dumped out shrink-wrapped parcels of invitations, envelopes, and reply cards.

The box continued to vibrate.

She dug into a corner of it and lifted out the false bottom. There lay the phone, shimmying against the white pasteboard. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to get this phone to her.

Instinctually, she snatched it up and answered. “Hello?”

“Jordie?”

Her heart clutched.

They already had Linda Meeker seated in a chair in the hallway outside the interrogation room when Morrow stalked through the door of his office, pushing Shaw along in front of him.

The young woman was hunched over, crying softly, her shoulders shaking, but she looked up, startled, when Morrow shoved Shaw into a chair diagonally across from the one in which she sat. He produced a pair of metal handcuffs and clicked one around Shaw’s right wrist and the other around the leg of the chair, rattling them menacingly against the chrome to make certain they were secure.

“Your lawyer had better show up soon or I’m putting you in lock-up. And get that stupid hood off your head.” He pushed back the hood of Shaw’s sweatshirt, then turned away and headed toward his office, pausing when he drew even with the girl. In a much gentler voice, he asked, “Anything I can get you, miss?”

She shook her head.

“Your folks should be here soon.” He started to move away, then glanced back at Shaw. “You. Don’t bother her.”

Shaw flipped him off with his free hand and pulled the hood back up to cover his head. Morrow scowled but said nothing else before returning to his office and pushing the door closed.

Shaw muttered several cuss words, then let his gaze drift from Morrow’s office door to the girl, who was regarding him warily. He stared back for several moments, then said in a low voice, “Lighten up, kid. No matter what they brought you in for, you’ll probably get off doing community service. Maybe some time in juvie, and it ain’t that bad.”

She immediately looked down.

Shaw rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes, but left them slitted so he could watch her.

She continued to stare into her lap where her hands were clasped but restless. She’d picked at a loose cuticle on her thumb until it had bled. One minute passed, then another thirty seconds or so. Shaw was beginning to think that his plan wasn’t going to work, when she shyly looked across at him again.

“Are you sick?”

He kept his head against the wall but rolled it to the side and tipped down the sunglasses to peer at her over the frames. “Not exactly. They pulled me outta the hospital on an assault warrant.”

“You were in the hospital?”

“Till about an hour ago.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Got stabbed.” With his free hand he raised his shirttail to show her the bandage.