Before she could ask exactly why she was here, he said, “Come on through to the back. It’s where I’m set up.”
He moved inside, and she grabbed her stuff and followed along with Ranger, admiring the dark hardwood floors and artwork on the walls—abstract and vivid, and probably original. She passed an office, a living room with two big, oatmeal-colored couches, and beyond that a dining room, which had an enormous, dark wood dining table with eight fancy wooden chairs set around it.
Even though the timber was dark, the overall effect with the large, pale floor rug and light blue-green walls was bright and welcoming. There was a wine rack in one corner along with what was probably a fridge, although it looked like a custom piece of furniture.
“Do you live here alone?” She didn’t know much about the guy, which meant those little tendrils of attraction she was feeling might be completely inappropriate if she was suddenly introduced to Mrs. Dominic Sheridan.
“Yeah.” He looked self-conscious and stuffed his good hand in his pocket. “I know it’s a little big but I wanted somewhere in the countryside but close to work. This place came on the market…” He shrugged as if that explained everything.
She saw a pool through the window, complete with a pool house and pagoda.
Holy crap, he must be loaded.
She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t intimidated. She’d grown up over a restaurant and had waited tables through college. The concept of having money, of not scraping by from paycheck to paycheck and wondering if she’d ever have enough in her bank account for the deposit on a house of her own was mind boggling.
She followed Sheridan through to a spacious kitchen with a tall granite island that had four stools lined up alongside it. It wasn’t the pretty, off-white cabinets or the top of the range appliances that caught her attention. Instead it was the laptop sitting next to a half-eaten sandwich. Sheridan moved the cursor, and an image of a man smiling at the camera filled the screen.
“Who is that?” Her teeth chattered.
Sheridan didn’t answer immediately. He went over and boosted the thermostat and then took her towel and tossed it with his into a room off the kitchen.
He walked back to where she stood beside the laptop, the tightness around his eyes indicating every step hurt.
“That,” he said slowly, “is a guy named Brian Andrews. He was my supervisor when I worked the violent crimes squad in New York. Great guy.” Sheridan’s tone was grim. “He died in a car wreck in Ohio last September.”
Ava held his stare, afraid she knew where this was going.
“While lying in my hospital bed, I started thinking about how many funerals I’d attended in the last year and decided to check out who else might have died that I didn’t know about.”
He flicked the cursor, and another image appeared. “This is Preston Daniels. He and his wife died the previous Christmas in Utah. Carbon monoxide poisoning from a faulty heater.”
“Let me guess, he also worked with you in the New York Field Office.”
Sheridan nodded.
Crap.
Another click. Another face.
“Arnold Biro died of cancer early last year—linked to his work at Ground Zero. He was living in California at the time of his death.” Another photograph. “Ira Mallic suffered a fatal heart attack on Long Island. Jamal Fidan drowned following a boating accident. They all died in the last couple of years.”
Ava’s knees started to buckle, and she sat on the nearest stool. She and Sheridan stared numbly at one another.
“You think someone is targeting FBI agents who worked at the New York Field Office same time you did?”
He rubbed the hint of stubble on his jaw. “Some of these deaths might be natural, but the rate of attrition is way above the national average, especially when we add Van and Calvin Mortimer to the list.”
“Not to mention you…”
“I’m not dead yet.”
The grin he sent her made her mouth go dry. “I suspected Van had been murdered and Calvin Mortimer obviously, but if you’re right…”
“If we’re right, the FBI is looking at a serial killer targeting agents.”
Ava’s fingers clasped one another. “You need to talk to Aldrich again.”
Sheridan looked away. “I thought we could take this information to someone higher than Aldrich.”
“Who?” Ava crossed her arms over her chest. She was so cold she felt like there was a winter storm brewing inside her. A soft, woolen blanket settled over her shoulders. Sheridan moved on as if the act of kindness meant nothing.
“I’ve made a couple of inquiries to people I know,” he said grimly.
“Aldrich isn’t all bad.” She wasn’t sure why she was defending the man. Probably because no one could have replaced Van. Aldrich had never stood a chance as her boss.
“He was an accountant,” Sheridan said like that explained everything.
“I shouldn’t have ignored his orders.”
“He suspended you after someone shot at you—”
“I know what he did!” she snapped and immediately regretted it. Sheridan’s expression turned blank.
“Sorry…” Ava began.
“Forget it.” His tone was brusque and had lost that low urgent intimacy. “What you might not know is Aldrich not only suspended you but also reported you to OPR, and if he finds out you’re still pursuing this case you will lose your job. I guess I should have spelled that out when I called you.”
Ava’s mouth opened in surprise. OPR? The Office of Professional Responsibility. Internal affairs for FBI agents. They could take her job from her in an instant, all because she was trying to get to the truth. She slumped her head onto her arms as they rested on the kitchen island.
She couldn’t lose her job. This was all she’d wanted to do since she was seven years old. “We can’t ignore the evidence—”
“We don’t have any evidence.” Sheridan’s fist clenched as he sat heavily beside her on a stool. He rested his injured arm on the granite counter. “We have a lot of dead agents and a really bad feeling and nothing but curious circumstances suggesting the cases might be related.”