“Dammit, Alex! How many times do I have to apologize? I feel like shit about what happened last summer. I’m upset that we couldn’t get Rykov, but more than anything I’m furious that you were hung out to dry by the department.”
“It’s my own fault,” she said. “I agreed with Hooper that it was best to keep the FBI out of it. If they have a chance to stop that bastard, I don’t want to get in the way.”
“You were nearly killed.”
“That’s on my partner,” she said flatly, “and he’s in jail.”
“Then why haven’t you talked to me in eight months?”
“Why would I? It’s not like we’re friends.”
“That’s not true. Alex—we are friends. At least, I thought we were.”
Maybe I don’t want to be friends.
“It was my decision and my responsibility.” She really didn’t blame Matt, but seeing him hurt. It reminded her of that difficult time. Working undercover. Lying to Jim and her friends. Getting shot. Losing her job.
She was going to start feeling sorry for herself again. Before Matt could say anything else, she turned the conversation back to the shooting. “I think his legislative aide or consultant or whatever—Eric Huang—was the intended target. I analyzed the angle the shooter had, and Hart was blocked by a display of flowers. Good snipers want a clear shot. If he moved five feet to the right or left, the angle would have been completely different and he’d have had a clear shot of Hart. But from where he was, at the time he fired, Hart was blocked and Huang was visible. I told Jim all this and I’m sure he’ll look into it.” Except, she didn’t think he agreed with her.
She put her empty beer bottle down on the coffee table and got up. Matt stared at her. “Sit down, Alex.”
“Don’t order me around.”
“Sit.”
She stared at him. He stared back. She really wanted to get out of this room. With all this talk, these damn, conflicted feelings resurfaced.
“Please,” he said quietly.
She sat on the edge of the ottoman.
“I didn’t think that it would take the FBI this long to build a case against Rykov. If I had I would never have urged you to agree to keep the real motive quiet. I thought the FBI had more than it did. So did Dean. Dean feels like shit, too, and he tried to make it right—but you turned him down.”
“You mean the job in Washington?” She shook her head. “It wasn’t me. It was like I was running away. Though now ... I probably should have taken it. At least then I’d have a job.”
“Except your family is here.”
She nodded. Matt did understand. He was close to his sister; she was close to her dad, her grandma, her brothers. Taking a position so far away felt more like a punishment than a reward.
“It’s still there for you, if you want it.” He paused. “To be selfish, I’m glad you didn’t take it. I don’t want you three thousand miles away.”
Alex didn’t know what to say. She could scarcely comprehend what Matt was saying.
I don’t want you three thousand miles away.
What did that mean?
“Talk to me,” Matt said.
“I—” She had nothing to say. She was stunned into silence.
Matt rose from his seat and walked over to her. He reached out to touch her and she turned her face away. Intellectually, she realized that he might have felt something of what she’d felt when they’d worked together last year. The attraction. The raw lust. But emotionally, she wasn’t ready for any of this.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she found herself saying. “I need to sleep on this.”
“Okay.” He hesitated, as if waiting for her to say something. She didn’t know what to tell him. She was so physically and emotionally exhausted all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for twelve hours.
Finally, he said, “I’ll let myself out.”
She watched him leave, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Chapter Six
Jim Perry sat at his desk Monday night finishing up his report.
There wasn’t much to go on.
The video surveillance in the hotel covered the entire lobby, the elevators, the staircases, and each entrance. They had a few shots of the shooter coming and going, but nothing showed him standing at the railing. They determined that he’d come in through the convention center entrance at 11:35 and used the far staircase—the same staircase Alex had used fifteen minutes later—to go up to the second floor. At 11:53, immediately after the shooting, cameras caught him exiting via the door to the parking garage. Alex was less than a minute behind him. But he gained speed running down the staircase to the street. The only image they caught after that was a glimpse from a 12th and K Street security camera.
The coverage didn’t extend much beyond that, and while they suspected he’d crossed J Street, they couldn’t determine which way he’d gone, even after canvassing the neighborhood.
The shooter could have had a car, a getaway driver, changed his clothes, hopped a bus, or gone into a house for all anyone knew.