35

Windermere played a hunch and let Alex Kent walk. “Had to do it,” she told Davis. “We don’t have enough to hold him, anyway.”

“Accessory to murder?” said Davis. “He rented a car for a killer.”

Windermere shook her head. “Identity theft. Kent doesn’t know a damn thing about any murders.”

“Your case,” Davis said, shrugging. “Hope it doesn’t come back to bite you.”

Me, too, Windermere thought. “Don’t make me an asshole,” she told Kent as she dropped him outside his house. “Stick around. We might need to bring you back in for more questioning. Got it?”

The guy practically tore the door off the car. “Thank you,” he told Windermere, scrambling out to the sidewalk. “No problem. Thank you.”

To his credit, Davis didn’t suggest any more tours of Chicago—or anything else, for that matter. He drove Windermere and Mathers back to O’Hare in silence, and it was only as he dropped them at the United terminal that he spoke.

“You’re making a mistake,” he said. “That guy was a suspect. You should have charged him with something and let him stew on it.”

“He’s a history teacher, Davis,” said Windermere. “Anyway, soon as he called a lawyer he’d have been gone. There’s something else going on here. Something bigger than Kent.”

Davis shook his head. “Good to see you again, Agent. Next time maybe we’ll actually do something.”

“Look forward to it.” Windermere slammed the door closed. Mathers climbed out to the sidewalk beside her.

“So what happens next, Supercop?” he asked her.

Windermere watched Davis’s big SUV pull away from the curb. “The hell if I know,” she said, sighing. “I guess we go home.”

IT WAS LONG AFTER DARK by the time the agents’ flight landed at Minneapolis–Saint Paul. Windermere followed Mathers off the small plane, and they walked together out to the parking garage. Windermere’s car was closer, her daddy’s prize Chevelle, and Mathers lingered beside it as she unlocked the door. “Grab a bite somewhere?”

Windermere stiffened. She looked back at Mathers, who watched her, a grin on his face. She felt something inside her like panic. “What’d you say?”

The junior agent shrugged. “Just asked if you were hungry,” he said. “We could get eats. Talk this thing over.”

Windermere stared at him over the car. He was cute, definitely. Tall and slender and handsome, and there was a pleasing hint of muscle beneath his baby blue shirt. It had been more than two years since Mark had walked out, and Windermere had caught herself eyeing Mathers across the office a couple of times. She wasn’t averse to the idea. Still, something made her hesitate, and she was pretty sure she knew what it was.

Stevens. She didn’t even like Stevens that way—she’d better not, anyway, not with Nancy around—but they’d always had chemistry. Never acted on it, either of them, but it still somehow felt weird to Windermere, picking up with somebody new. Another cop, especially, after all the bullshit she and Stevens had been through.

It felt, she realized, a little bit like cheating.

Absurd. Still, she shook her head. Gave Mathers an apologetic smile. “I’m pretty beat, partner,” she said. “I’d better just go home.”

Mathers’s smile didn’t waver. “No problem,” he said. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He shot her a wave and ambled off across the parking garage. Windermere watched him go, and when he was gone, she opened the Chevelle’s door and slid in behind the wheel. She sighed and sat there, unmoving, for a minute or two, examining her reflection in the mirror. What’s wrong with you? she thought. The kid’s harmless. It’s just dinner.

She let the question hang there for a moment. Then she started the engine. Nothing’s wrong. You’re just tired. She backed out of the parking stall and peeled out of the garage.