That was all for now, or so they had decided. Okay, so they hadn’t really even talked about it. Things were at a comfortable level. She liked talking to him as much as she liked the silence of being with him. Sometimes when they sat in her backyard watching Harvey and Ben’s dog, Digger, play, Maggie caught herself thinking, “This could be a family.” The four of them seemed to fill voids in each other’s lives.
Yes, comfortable. She liked that. Except that lately she felt an annoying tingle every time he touched her. That’s when she reminded herself that both their lives were already complicated and their personal baggage sometimes untenable. Their schedules constantly conflicted. Especially the last three to four months.
So “friends” was a comfortable place to be for now, though decided by default rather than consensus. Still, she caught herself checking her cell phone: waiting, expecting, hoping for a message from him. She hadn’t seen him since he’d spent two weeks in Afghanistan. Only short phone conversations or text messages.
Now he was gone again. Somewhere in Florida. She wasn’t used to them not being able to share. That was one of the things that had brought them closer, talking about their various cases: hers usually profiling a killer; his identifying or controlling some infectious disease. A couple of times they had worked on a case together when the FBI and USAMRIID (United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases—pronounced U-SAM-RID) were both involved. But Afghanistan and this trip were, in Ben’s words, “classified missions” in “undisclosed locations.” In Maggie’s mind, she added “dangerous.”
She fed Harvey while tossing a salad for herself and listening to “breaking news” at the top of the hour:
“Gas prices are up and will continue to soar because of the tropical storms and hurricanes that have ravaged the Gulf this summer. And another one, Hurricane Isaac is predicted to sweep across Jamaica tonight. The category-4 storm with sustained winds of 145 miles per hour is expected to pick up steam when it enters the Gulf in the next couple of days.”
Her cell phone rang and she jumped, startled enough to spill salad dressing on the counter. Okay, so having a killer’s blood and brains splattered all over her had unnerved her more than she was willing to admit.
She grabbed for the phone. Checked the number, disappointed that she didn’t recognize it.
“This is Maggie O’Dell.”
“Hey, cherie,” a smooth, baritone voice said.
There was only one person who got away with using that New Orleans charm on her.
“Hello, Charlie. And to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Maggie and Charlie Wurth had spent last Thanksgiving weekend sorting through a bombing at Mall of America and trying to prevent another before the weekend was over. In a case where she couldn’t even trust her new boss, AD Raymond Kunze, Charlie Wurth had been a godsend. For six months now the deputy director of the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) had been trying to woo her over to his side of the fence at the Justice Department.
“I’m headed on a road trip,” Charlie continued. “And I know you won’t be able to say no to joining me. Think sunny Florida. Emerald-green waters. Sugar-white sands.”
Every once in a while Charlie Wurth called just to dangle another of his outrageous proposals. It had become a game with them. She couldn’t remember why she hadn’t entertained the idea of leaving the FBI and working for DHS. She swiped her fingers through her hair, thinking about the blood and brain matter from earlier. Maybe she should consider a switch.
“Sounds wonderful.” Maggie played along. “What’s the catch?”
“Just a small one. It appears we most likely will be in the projected path of Hurricane Isaac.”
“Tell me again why I’d be interested in going along?”
“Actually you’d be doing me a big favor.” Charlie’s voice turned serious. “I was already on my way down because of the hurricane. Got a bit of a distraction, though. Coast Guard found a fishing cooler in the Gulf.”
He left a pause inviting her to finish.
“Let me guess. It wasn’t filled with fish.”
“Exactly. Local law enforcement has its hands full with hurricane preps. Coast Guard makes it DHS, but I’m thinking the assortment of body parts throws it over to FBI. I just checked with AD Kunze to see if I can borrow you.”
“You talked to Kunze? Today?”
“Yep. Just a few minutes ago. He seemed to think it’d be a good idea.”
She wasn’t surprised that her boss wanted to send her into the eye of a hurricane.
CHAPTER 3
NAVAL AIR STATION (NAS)
PENSACOLA, FLORIDA
Colonel Benjamin Platt didn’t recognize this part of the base, though he’d been here once before. Usually he was in and out of these places too quickly to become familiar with any of them.
“It’s gorgeous,” he said, looking out at Pensacola Bay.
His escort, Captain Carl Ganz, seemed caught off guard by the comment, turning around to see just what Platt was pointing out. Their driver slowed as if to assist his captain’s view.
“Oh yes, definitely. Guess we take it for granted,” Captain Ganz said. “Pensacola is one of the prettiest places I’ve been stationed. Just getting back from Kabul, I’m sure this looks especially gorgeous.”
“You’re right about that.”