24

GRANT

It’s not my proudest moment when the call comes in notifying us that the Peep-Toe Prowler has struck again.

“Oh, thank fuck.” I hang up the phone and reach for my jacket, pausing to make sure my gun is secure in its holster before I slip my arms through. “It’s about time.”

“Good news?” Mariah asks from where she stands in the doorway. She stopped by to update me on her continued efforts to uncover something shady in Christopher’s past, which is a nice way of saying she stopped by for no reason at all.

I’ve never had a case stall so hard before. The boys following Tara lose sight of her half the time, Christopher is keeping his nose squeaky clean and out of my way, and even Penelope hasn’t come across anything strange with her grandmother.

The calm before the storm always makes me uneasy. I like to know what kind of damage is headed my way.

“Technically? It’s bad news,” I say. “That was the NYPD. They got reports of another break-in this afternoon, and it might be the work of our prettily shod friend.”

Mariah doesn’t have to be told twice. “Where’s Tara?”

“According to Paulie’s latest report, shopping on Fifth.”

“And Leon?”

“That one I don’t know. I haven’t seen him all day. An interesting coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Do you want me to get a copy of today’s entry and exit logs from Cheryl?”

“Yes, please. Print it out, and get her to confirm it in case he decides to go in later and update the records to give himself an alibi. I’m heading to the crime scene now. I want to be there before he arrives, make sure the evidence isn’t damaged this time. I might even have a chance to ask a few questions.”

“You mean, did anyone see a man matching his description in the area? Please. What do you think this is, your birthday?”

I grin. “You never know—it could happen. I’ve never credited him with much in the way of intelligence.”

“Well, good luck.” Mariah offers me a mock salute. “Where did the Prowler hit, anyway?”

I’m already halfway out the door. “I don’t know. The home of some woman named Millie Ralph.”

* * *

“Emerson! You’re here!”

Damn. Not only has Christopher beaten me to the crime scene, but he’s elbows deep in his shoddy investigation work, leaving finger- and footprints all over the place. The victim’s house has been roped off, and a forensics team is inside snapping photos—but while they’re wearing paper booties over their shoes and gloves on their hands, Christopher is walking around at large and booming orders that have nothing to do with anything.

Covering his tracks, most likely.

“Leon.” I pause on the threshold and nod, waiting to see how he plans to play this. “What’s the story here?”

He shakes his head quickly, as though to stop me from saying more. He also gestures for me to follow him away from the building’s facade.

Intrigued and on alert, I follow.

Like most of the homes the Peep-Toe Prowler has hit, this one is impressive. The freestanding structure is rare, even for this part of town, and every detail speaks of wealth, from the wrought iron fence around the grounds to the decorative brackets along the roofline. It also appears secure, with reinforced windows and what looks like an external video feed routed through a hidden surveillance system.

Of course, none of that means anything if you know what you’re doing. Penelope could stand in this exact spot and list every access point without blinking.

We stop as soon as we reach a garden path along the north side, which I note with interest isn’t visible from the street or from the house itself. Large, leafy trees provide a secluded overhang, and at this time of day, a calm silence settles the farther along the path we go.

“Did you find footprints back here?” I ask, careful to position myself in the middle of the path. If he thinks he’s escaping here without first tackling me, he’s way off the mark. “It’s not like our Prowler to be so sloppy.”

“The perimeter has been secured,” he says. “I saw to it myself.”

“What’s been reported missing?”

“Two rings. One brooch in the shape of a peacock.” His voice is as loud as always, but there’s a clipped terseness to it that feels off. I look at him curiously. He’s not normally one for brevity. It takes him five inanities and three non sequiturs to order lunch.

“That’s new,” I say. “He usually only takes one item at a time. Estimated value?”

“The homeowner says around two hundred thousand, but that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”

“Too bad. It’s what I want to talk about.” Especially since that’s a much smaller dollar value than the last few thefts. It may be that residents are starting to take better steps to secure their valuable belongings, so he had to grab anything and everything he could get his hands on, but any variation in pattern is worth looking into. “What else do you know?”

“No sign of a break-in. No forced access. Once again, it looks like a professional job.” He’s still acting odd, and this time, he lowers his voice to a discreet murmur. “Listen, have you seen your wife today?”

All thoughts of investigation stop, anger taking over before I have a chance to control it. My jaw clenches so tightly, it could crack, and my right hand forms a natural fist at my side, but I’m happy to find that my voice is level as I ask, “I beg your pardon?”

“Penelope. Your wife. Have you seen or talked to her?”

That’s none of his goddamned business, and I tell him in the most polite terms I’m able to muster. So…not polite at all.

“I often see her and talk to her. That’s the point of being married.” Since he doesn’t look convinced, I add, “And she’s spending the day with her grandmother, in case you’re wondering about her whereabouts. She has nothing to do with this.”

He forces a laugh that feels tense and uncomfortable even from my distance. “Of course not. If you say she’s trustworthy, she’s trustworthy. One hundred percent.”

My other hand curls into a fist, too. “Before you take another step down that road, let me remind you that any attempts you make to get to my wife will have to go through me first.”

I mean it as nothing more than a warning, some friendly advice that any plans he has to involve Penelope will be met with extreme and unyielding force, but he doesn’t back down. He does put his hands up in conciliation, though.

“I know you ignored my email to the ADD,” he says. “And I know you don’t like the idea. It’s just that…”

I wait, watching as Christopher swallows heavily and tries again.

“We may need to start considering the possibility that she has information that could help our case. Out of respect for you, I could do it off the books, meet her somewhere later tonight. At this point, no one needs to know she’s involved.”

Every muscle in my body tenses. So this is it, then. Late-night, clandestine meetings and threats of exposure, a plan to pull her in without the protection of regular FBI protocol.

“No,” I say, for what I hope will be the final time. “And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t ask again.”

I prepare to return to the house.

“Wait, where are you going?” Christopher calls after me.

“To the crime scene. I’d like to take a look at the video surveillance while the burglar might still be in the immediate area.”

“The video?” he echoes. “Emerson, wait a second. How do you know there’s video?”

Because, unlike him, I noticed the electrical box on the exterior panel near the side window as I approached. Except homes like these don’t have visible electrical boxes—not if they can help it. They pay a lot of money for the power companies to hide them. My guess is it’s not electric at all, and that there’s a series of wireless cameras all over the grounds transmitting to that box.

Surveillance footage is the one thing we’ve been missing since the start. And based on the panic in Christopher’s voice, it sounds as though my fearless leader had no idea this house was being watched.

“Emerson. Stop. How do you know there’s video?”

My heartbeat kicks up a notch. In fact, it sounds as though my fearless leader knows he’s about to be caught red-handed. This could finally be it—the break I’ve been waiting for.

Unfortunately, the telltale swish of a gun being pulled from its holster causes my accelerated heart rate to stop cold. “Don’t take another step,” Christopher says, his voice not panicked now so much as on the edge. “I mean it.”

Even though I know it behooves me to tread warily, I can’t help laughing at the sight of his gun pointed straight at me. He wouldn’t dare. In the broad light of day? With a full team of agents standing a few feet away?

“I mean it, Emerson,” Christopher says. His words are even, but I notice the tip of his gun shake. “You can’t pull that video feed.”

“Or what?” I ask. “You’ll kill me?”

“Just head back to the field office, okay? I’ll handle things from here. That’s an order.”

I laugh again, but there’s no humor in it. No way am I walking away from this now, not when he’s all but admitted I’m going to find his face on that surveillance camera. Finally—finally—I’ve got the proof I need to put a stop to this thing.

“Put the gun away,” I say coldly and turn on my heel. “You can’t shoot me; the house is full of agents. You’ve been caught. It’s time you faced up to the consequences of your actions.”

I’ll never know which part of that decision was my biggest mistake—taunting him or turning away—but I have a strong suspicion it’s the latter. I showed him my back. Never show a coward your back.

“Emerson, you can’t—”

Either he doesn’t finish that statement or the blast of gunpowder covers the sound, because I don’t hear it. My senses are too tied up in the blinding pain of a bullet—a real one this time—tearing through my torso at lightning speed, searing me from the inside out.

Christopher fucking Leon.

As my body seizes up in pain and I’m sent sprawling to the dirt, my only thought is that I can’t believe I didn’t see this one coming.