“What did you find?” he asked.
Standing, I dusted off my hands and gave a super-casual shrug. “Nothing of interest. Stone’s cracked all the way through, that’s all.” And you batted potency away! I turned a circle in pretense of investigating. “There’s nothing out here. Maybe the house has something that might connect to your case?” Anything to divert his attention from the node.
An unsuccessful effort, as it turned out. Pellini’s gaze remained heavy on me, mouth pursed in an expression I’d seen him use on suspects who were feeding him a line of bullshit. “Maybe,” he finally said. He looked toward the center of the gazebo. “But I have a feeling there’s more to be found here.”
Crap. Good guy or bad guy, I didn’t want him anywhere near the node. No way would I have brought him this close if I’d known about his potential talent.
His phone dinged with a text message, and I silently thanked the universe for the brief reprieve. Pellini read the text then scowled in either frustration or disappointment. “Boudreaux’s at the gate and needs to see me now.”
“No problem,” I replied, being very understanding and accommodating of whatever would get us the fuck away from this spot.
Pellini remained silent as we returned up the long driveway. When we neared the gate I could see Boudreaux pacing in front of his car and smoking a cigarette with sharp, quick motions.
After exiting the gate, Pellini parked next to the agent’s Crown Vic, then signed out on the crime scene log before heading over to his partner. Boudreaux’s gaze snapped to me as I got out of the car. His face flushed red, and his hand tightened on a paper he clutched. I offered him a light smile then pointedly looked away and walked over to the agent. I refused to get worked up over Boudreaux’s open hostility, especially considering that he’d never been remotely friendly with me in the past.
“You must be bored out of your mind with this,” I said to Agent Square Jaw as I took the scene log.
His stern expression melted into a friendly smile. “Gives me plenty of time to study,” he said and waved a hand toward a stack of textbooks on the front seat of his vehicle with titles like Mock Trial Case Files and Problems and Question and Answers: Torts. His phone buzzed, and he murmured an apology before turning to answer it.
Clipboard in hand, I signed out, then paused at the sight of Ryan’s name near the top of the page—signing in this morning at 1003 hours and out at 1034.
After a glance to make sure the agent was still on his phone, I flipped through the old pages. Agent Ryan Kristoff had been at the plantation every day since the investigation began and, with the exception of today, for anywhere from three to eight hours.
Which, of course, signified absolutely nothing. After all, there was a shitload to go through on a very large plantation. I handed the clipboard to Agent Square-Jawed Law Student and strolled back to Pellini’s car, glancing at him and Boudreaux in time to see the latter again glare daggers at me. I returned a bland look.
Boudreaux shoved the piece of paper at Pellini. “Why is she here?” he snarled, gesturing my way with a sharp slash of his hand. Without waiting for an answer, he reached through his car window to grab a folder then stormed toward me, teeth bared.
I instinctively shifted into a defensive stance. This was way more than his usual Kara-you-suck attitude.
“What the fuck did you have to do with all of this?” he demanded and swept his arm up to indicate the plantation. “What did you do?”
Son of a bitch. “Back off, asshole,” I shot back. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Boudreaux flipped open the folder to reveal an enlarged copy of the photo Pellini had shown me in the restaurant. “That!” He jabbed a finger at blurry me behind McDunn. “You were here, not three feet from Mr. Farouche.”
I scoffed. “Seriously? That’s not me dude.” Admit nothing, deny everything. “Don’t know who it is, but just because I’m kinda female-shaped doesn’t mean I’m every female.”
His expression hardened as he pulled a sheet from beneath the photo and slapped it on top. “Fuck. You.”
Fuck me is right. It was a computer-aided police artist sketch of a woman who looked an awful lot like one Kara Gillian. I fought to channel my shock and dismay into a wrongfully accused and pissed reaction.
Boudreaux shook the folder at me. “That’s a little more clear than ‘kinda female shaped.’” Anger sharpened his tone. “Tell me!”
I pygahed then lowered my voice. “Boudreaux, it’s not me,” I said, calm and insistent. “I don’t know what’s going on here.”