The Dying Game. Beverly Barton
stepped out into the hallway and waited for her. If there was going to be a confrontation—and there always was whenever they shared the same space—it was better for the two of them to exchange insults out of earshot of other people. Especially people with loved ones in the ICU.
She followed him into the hall. They faced each other.
“You’re not glad to see me,” Griff said.
“I’m never glad to see you,” she replied.
“I noticed you were doing some hand-holding. Is she the sister of Gale Ann Cain or just a friend?”
“I can’t order you to leave, as much as I’d like to, but I can warn you not to interfere in my investigation.” She shook her finger in his face. “Sooner or later, I’ll find out who keeps tipping you off and when I do—”
“Why can’t you get it through that thick skull of yours that we’re on the same side?” Griff understood that federal agents could be territorial, that they often had to deal with inept local law enforcement and well-meaning civilians, but he was neither.
“And why can’t you get it through your thick skull that tracking and apprehending serial killers is the bureau’s job, not a game for some know-it-all private dick?”
Griff cocked one eyebrow and gave her a blistering glare. “Where’s Special Agent Jackson?”
When the corners of Nic’s mouth lifted ever so slightly in a hint of a smile, he knew he wasn’t going to like her answer. “Curtis retired last month. Didn’t your mole in D.C. tell you?”
Shit!
Special Agent Curtis Jackson had been in charge of the Beauty Queen Killer case from the very beginning, heading up the FBI task force. He had liked and respected Jackson. A guy in his late fifties, with years of experience and a macho attitude that matched Griff’s, Jackson and he had gotten along just fine, even though the guy never shared any info with him and had warned him repeatedly to keep his nose out of federal business. Griff kept a professional profiler on the Powell Agency payroll. But despite having a likely description of their culprit, they were no closer to apprehending this monster than they had been three years ago. He suspected it was the same for the FBI.
Nicole Baxter had come in on the case as a five-year veteran of the bureau, and although she’d graduated at the top of her class at Quantico, she’d had little field experience. From the moment they first met, she and Griff had mixed like oil and water. He didn’t like women who tried to prove that they were better at everything than men were. Maybe Special Agent Baxter wasn’t a die-hard feminist, but she came close enough to filling the bill that Griff grouped her in with all the other radical, man-bashing bitches.
“If Jackson retired, does that mean you’ve taken over the Beauty Queen Killer case?” Griff knew, but he had to ask.
She nodded. “That’s right. I’m heading up the task force now.”
“Is there any way we can bury the hatchet and work together?”
“Only if I can bury it in your back.”
Griff let out a quiet yet dramatic groan. “You’re not going to give an inch, are you, honey?” He tacked on the generic endearment because he knew it would piss her off.
She glowered at him. “I can be reasonable, honey.”
“You can’t prove it by me.” He shouldn’t have mouthed off, but couldn’t help himself. She brought out the worst in him and apparently he did the same for her.
“Keep insulting me and see where that gets you.”
“I guess I should apologize.”
“That would be nice.”
Damn, she actually expected him to grovel. “All right. I apologize.”
She flopped her hand across her heart. “How sincere.”
“It’s all you’re going to get. Take it or leave it.” Griffin Powell didn’t grovel. Not for anyone. Not ever again. He’d rather die first.
“Look, if you’re willing to acknowledge that this is my case, that I’m the one who calls the shots and makes the decisions, I won’t cut your balls off and hand them to you on a silver platter.”
Go to hell, bitch had been on the tip of his tongue. “In order to safeguard my balls, what do I have to do, sign an oath in blood that I’ll stay out of your way?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Believe me, Special Agent Baxter, I would never intentionally tempt you.”
Nic groaned. “Believe me, you have nothing to worry about on that count.”
He held out his hand, offering her a truce. “Let’s agree to disagree. I’ll stop hoping for cooperation from you, and you don’t put up any roadblocks in my path.”
She stared at his hand as if it were a poisonous snake, then reluctantly shook hands with him. A quick, let’s-get-this-over-with exchange.
“If you start interfering, our deal is off. Understand?”
He nodded. He understood all right; he just wasn’t sure how long he could play nice in the sandbox with this particular she-cat.
Seemingly satisfied, Nic nodded toward the ICU waiting area. “The woman in there is Barbara Jean Hughes. She’s Gale Ann Cain’s older sister and the one who found her only moments after she was attacked and left for dead.”
Griff’s gut instincts kicked into play. “Tell me that the sister caught a glimpse of our killer.”
“I might as well tell you since I can’t stop you from talking to Barbara Jean. And you are going to talk to her, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
Frowning, Nic said reluctantly, “When Barbara Jean was entering her sister’s apartment building over on Loretta Street, she saw a man in a trench coat and sunglasses coming down the stairway.”
“Can she describe him in more detail?”
“I think she can,” Nic said. “But she’s scared to death—for herself and her sister.”
“So, even if the sister dies, we’ve still got a possible witness.”
“You’re a cold-hearted bastard, Powell. You know that, don’t you?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“One other thing, Mr. Powell—we, as in you and I, don’t have anything. I gave you the info about Barbara Jean because you’d get it anyway. But that’s it. The sister is the bureau’s eyewitness. And it will be our responsibility to protect her, if that becomes necessary. Do I make myself clear?”
Griff grinned. “Crystal clear, honey.”
Nic groaned.
Chapter 3
The old hunting lodge looked deserted, as if it hadn’t been occupied in a decade or longer. Actually, the place hadn’t been used for its original purpose in well over fifteen years, not since Judge Judson Walker IV died. Judd had not enjoyed hunting as much as his ancestors had, instead preferring polo and tennis to killing for sport. He had turned the old lodge into a weekend getaway, and as a young bachelor had hosted numerous parties for his friends; but word had it that because his bride hated the great outdoors and roughing it in the woods, Judd had closed up the place during his brief marriage.
The road leading to the lodge had never been paved and was now little more than a winding path overgrown with snow-topped grass, weeds, and dead leaves. Towering trees surrounded the drive and the old lodge itself: Ancient hardwoods, worth their weight in gold to any lumber company, their limbs bare and coated with a thin layer of ice; huge cedars shimmering with a frozen glaze; pines tipped with small, glistening snowballs.