“That was the perfect execution. One of the choppers in the air caught it on camera.”
“Yeah? I’d like to see that sometime.” She ran her hands over Ranger’s silky head.
“We’re going to use it in training—proof not all Feds are dummies.”
She laughed even though apprehension was crawling through her chest. “Sergeant out of Portland PD drummed that maneuver into me a hundred times. I better send him a copy of that tape to prove I was paying attention.”
“Portland PD, huh?” He looked her up and down, assessing her physical attributes like a coach checking out an athlete. “You enjoy being an agent?” The question in his eyes suggested he’d thought about the transition himself.
“Yeah, I do, but less so when my colleagues are involved in car wrecks.” She swallowed the nausea that swirled as the fire service did their thing. “That’s a friend of mine in there. Negotiator out of Quantico.” Most cops liked negotiators—they weren’t glory seekers. Her hands went to her throat. “Can you tell me how he’s doing?”
The officer rested his hands on his equipment belt. “Let’s go see.”
Less than three years ago, she’d been walking around with one of those heavy, cumbersome belts strapped around her waist. The worst thing had been figuring out what to do with it whenever she needed the restroom. She didn’t miss it. And thinking about her former life as a police officer was much better than worrying about Dominic Sheridan.
A flurry of activity around the Lexus had Ava and the police officer pushing forward to see if Sheridan—it had to be Sheridan—was alive or not.
She spotted his bleached features covered in blood. “Oh hell.” For a moment her knees went weak, and the uniform supported her with an arm around the waist.
“Don’t faint on me now. He was unconscious when I got here, but he was breathing.”
“Jesus.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Did someone run him off the road?”
“Nah. I was following him as he swerved all over the place. Probably got tanked—”
“Did you smell any alcohol on his breath?” she demanded, pulling away.
The cop slowly shook his head. “Now you mention it, no, ma’am. It could have been a brain aneurysm.”
Oh, God. The idea punched her in the throat. She didn’t want Sheridan to be hurt or to die and didn’t want to examine why it upset her so much.
“Or drugs…maybe it would be best for him if the doctors don’t take a blood sample straight away—”
“No way.” Ava shook her head. “There is no way Dominic Sheridan did drugs.” Suddenly the bar fight occurring out of nowhere and the guy with a girlfriend whom he said didn’t exist took on a different meaning… “Get the medics to take a blood sample right now.”
The trooper reared back on his heels. Tilted his head. “If he did take—”
“He didn’t.” She didn’t know why she was so sure. Because Van had believed in the guy? Because of what she’d seen in the short time she’d known him? “Either it’s a medical emergency,” the idea was also terrifying, “or it’s possible someone spiked his water when we were at a bar earlier. I want him tested straight away for roofies.” If Sheridan had done drugs or secretly drunk alcohol then he’d have to pay the consequences like everyone else. But she didn’t believe it. The guy was a straight arrow. Serious and dedicated.
Ava excused herself and called the FBI switchboard. She asked to be put through to the CNU in Quantico, hoping against hope someone was still there. The agent who answered the phone sounded pissed she’d interrupted his evening.
“You need to get down here ASAP.” She gave him directions. “One of your people, Dominic Sheridan, has been in a car wreck.” Ava watched the fire service ease Sheridan into a neck brace and then onto a hard stretcher. The only good news was he was still breathing. “He’s alive, but it looks bad.”
*
Excitement was like a drug through her blood. The flashing yellow and red lights made the scene of the accident look like a dance party. The car was jagged, twisted metal, ripped open and glittering like a tin can. Blood covered one of the airbags.
Well, that didn’t look good.
Suppressing a grin so as not to rouse the attention of the patrol cop wasn’t easy. But nothing worthwhile ever was. Bernie was going to be very, very happy.
Chapter Nine
It was nearly two AM when Ava knocked on the door of the neat little craftsman tucked into a quiet bay about a quarter of a mile from the Mule & Pitcher. She’d barely stopped shaking since watching Sheridan carted away in the back of an ambulance. One of the firefighters had assured her that although he was unconscious, all his vitals were good, and he hadn’t suffered any obvious injuries aside from a possible broken shoulder. Didn’t mean he hadn’t suffered some sort of head injury or brain damage or internal injury—
She shut down that train of thought. Dominic Sheridan was in good hands, and her time was better spent trying to figure out what had happened this evening. Something about the bar fight no longer rang true, and her cop instincts had been aroused.
She eyed the big black truck in the driveway. Even though it was walking distance from the bar, Ava had a feeling Karl Feldman hadn’t used his feet.
She knocked on the door again, and a light went on inside. She held up her badge to the peephole. She also wore her raid jacket because she didn’t want anyone in any doubt that she was here in her official capacity.
“Mr. Feldman? This is FBI Special Agent Kanas. We met earlier tonight. I need to talk to you about what happened in the bar.”