Driving home from the bar, Ava had initially turned the police scanner on for company, but the need to hear her mother’s voice overwhelmed her. Ava lived in an apartment above an antique store close to the Rappahannock River. The biggest noise pollution was the clopping of shod hooves on a Saturday morning when the horse-drawn carriages full of tourists drove by.
It was wonderfully quiet.
On nights like this, however, quiet turned to lonesome and combined with the quiet desperation she was feeling over Van’s death, lonesome became unbearable. To remind herself she had people she loved, who loved her in return, she picked up the phone.
“Hey, Momma.”
“Ava. Sweetheart. How are you? When are you coming home?”
Her mother wasn’t talking about a visit.
Ava ignored that. “Christmas. I told you already.”
“It’s late. Are you just leaving work?” Her mother thought she worked too hard. This from a woman who’d run a restaurant six nights a week while single-handedly raising three kids. “Did you eat?”
Greek parents liked to feed their kids like guppies, until they burst.
“I was out.”
“On a date?” Her mother was always trying to pair her off. Her younger sister had married her high school sweetheart a few years ago now and had already popped out two kids, taking the pressure off a little. Ava loved her niece and nephew but wasn’t ready for kids. Not to mention the whole lack of a partner thing.
“Someone from work.” It wasn’t a lie but it was misleading as hell. That’s how pathetic she was.
“Is he Greek?”
“No, Momma, he isn’t Greek.” Were all parents like this?
“Is he good-looking?”
“He’s a colleague, Momma.”
“So, he is good-looking. Is he married?”
“Let’s pretend he is.”
“So, he’s good-looking, and single. Is he rich?”
Ava didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She hadn’t called to talk about Dominic Sheridan with her mom—more to stop thinking about the man. “Is rich more important than kind?”
Her mother stopped laughing. “No, Ava, but I know you wouldn’t be with anyone who was cruel.”
Suddenly Ava’s eyes stung. They’d both learned to avoid evil men, unless she was slapping handcuffs on them. “I’m not with him. We were working.”
“You work too hard…” The nagging resumed.
Ava tuned her out. Something on the police scanner caught her attention and she turned it up. A black Lexus had crashed into a telephone pole on Route 17.
A fluttery feeling stole through her stomach. “I gotta go, Momma. I’ll call you again on the weekend. Love you.”
It couldn’t be Dominic Sheridan. That didn’t prevent her from swinging the car around and heading back to check it out for herself.
It took twenty minutes to reach the scene of the accident. She slowed to a crawl. Two police cruisers, a firetruck and an ambulance were already pulled up on the side of the road. Amber, blue and red lights swept the area, lighting it up like a war zone. A patrolman directing traffic waved her through. She rolled down the window as she drove by, telling herself that although it was the same make of car Sheridan owned, it couldn’t be him.
Then she saw the dog being held on a leash by another officer, and she swerved onto the side of the road.
“Get back in the car and move along, ma’am,” the patrolman yelled at her.
“FBI.” She flashed her creds at the cop. “What happened?”
He blinked in surprise. She was still in her stakeout clothes from that morning. Ripped jeans and graphic tee hardly screamed “federal agent.”
He stared at her badge, clearly dubious. “Looks like a DUI. Guy crashed into a pole.”
“Is he alive?” She held her breath for the answer, her lungs hurting.
“Banged up pretty bad, but he’s alive.”
She exhaled. Thank god. How badly was he hurt? “Can I see him?”
The sound of a saw sent dread racing through her. The firemen had the jaws of life on the side of the car and were opening that sucker up like a tin can.
“Why? Who is he?” The cop eyed her suspiciously.
“He’s a fed. Supervisory Special Agent with the Crisis Negotiation Unit.”
“Might not be a Fed much longer. Guy crashes into a pole on a nice day on a clear highway he’s probably drunk.”
She shook her head. “He wasn’t drinking. I was with him all night. He drank nothing except water.”
The patrolman shrugged and looked at her with a knowing glint in his eyes. He’d assumed the same thing her mother had, that they’d been out on a date. “Drugs then.”
No way did Sheridan take drugs.
“Can I see him?” She lifted her chin in challenge as she waited. She didn’t need his permission, but she believed in working with the cops. Sheridan had been fine at the bar. “I’ll take his dog to get checked out at the vet,” she added.
The patrolman’s lips thinned. “Fine.” It was obvious the cops here had already reached their own conclusions as to the cause of the crash. Either that or this guy didn’t like Feds.
She walked past him, reminding herself what it was like to work this sort of scene day in and day out. She headed over to the officer holding Sheridan’s dog, flashing her badge. She craned her neck, but it was impossible to see past the emergency personnel. She squashed the desire to push through and see for herself. She’d only get in the way.
“Hey, buddy.” She sank to her haunches to hug the poor disoriented dog, ignoring the wet grass soaking her jeans, absorbing the soft fur against her cheek. She looked up. “How is he?”
“Seems fine. He was secured so he’s mainly just shaken and scared with no obvious injuries. Hey.” The man holding the leash narrowed his eyes. “Aren’t you the agent who pulled the PIT maneuver on the escaped prisoner this morning?” He passed her the dog’s lead as she rose to her feet.
It felt like a million years ago since she’d arrested Jimmy Taylor. She held out her free hand to shake his. “Yes, sir. Name’s Kanas out of the Fredericksburg office.”
“That was the perfect execution. One of the choppers in the air caught it on camera.”
“Yeah? I’d like to see that sometime.” She ran her hands over Ranger’s silky head.
“We’re going to use it in training—proof not all Feds are dummies.”
She laughed even though apprehension was crawling through her chest. “Sergeant out of Portland PD drummed that maneuver into me a hundred times. I better send him a copy of that tape to prove I was paying attention.”
“Portland PD, huh?” He looked her up and down, assessing her physical attributes like a coach checking out an athlete. “You enjoy being an agent?” The question in his eyes suggested he’d thought about the transition himself.
“Yeah, I do, but less so when my colleagues are involved in car wrecks.” She swallowed the nausea that swirled as the fire service did their thing. “That’s a friend of mine in there. Negotiator out of Quantico.” Most cops liked negotiators—they weren’t glory seekers. Her hands went to her throat. “Can you tell me how he’s doing?”
The officer rested his hands on his equipment belt. “Let’s go see.”
Less than three years ago, she’d been walking around with one of those heavy, cumbersome belts strapped around her waist. The worst thing had been figuring out what to do with it whenever she needed the restroom. She didn’t miss it. And thinking about her former life as a police officer was much better than worrying about Dominic Sheridan.
A flurry of activity around the Lexus had Ava and the police officer pushing forward to see if Sheridan—it had to be Sheridan—was alive or not.
She spotted his bleached features covered in blood. “Oh hell.” For a moment her knees went weak, and the uniform supported her with an arm around the waist.
“Don’t faint on me now. He was unconscious when I got here, but he was breathing.”
“Jesus.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Did someone run him off the road?”
“Nah. I was following him as he swerved all over the place. Probably got tanked—”
“Did you smell any alcohol on his breath?” she demanded, pulling away.
The cop slowly shook his head. “Now you mention it, no, ma’am. It could have been a brain aneurysm.”
Oh, God. The idea punched her in the throat. She didn’t want Sheridan to be hurt or to die and didn’t want to examine why it upset her so much.
“Or drugs…maybe it would be best for him if the doctors don’t take a blood sample straight away—”
“No way.” Ava shook her head. “There is no way Dominic Sheridan did drugs.” Suddenly the bar fight occurring out of nowhere and the guy with a girlfriend whom he said didn’t exist took on a different meaning… “Get the medics to take a blood sample right now.”
The trooper reared back on his heels. Tilted his head. “If he did take—”
“He didn’t.” She didn’t know why she was so sure. Because Van had believed in the guy? Because of what she’d seen in the short time she’d known him? “Either it’s a medical emergency,” the idea was also terrifying, “or it’s possible someone spiked his water when we were at a bar earlier. I want him tested straight away for roofies.” If Sheridan had done drugs or secretly drunk alcohol then he’d have to pay the consequences like everyone else. But she didn’t believe it. The guy was a straight arrow. Serious and dedicated.
Ava excused herself and called the FBI switchboard. She asked to be put through to the CNU in Quantico, hoping against hope someone was still there. The agent who answered the phone sounded pissed she’d interrupted his evening.
“You need to get down here ASAP.” She gave him directions. “One of your people, Dominic Sheridan, has been in a car wreck.” Ava watched the fire service ease Sheridan into a neck brace and then onto a hard stretcher. The only good news was he was still breathing. “He’s alive, but it looks bad.”
* * *
Excitement was like a drug through her blood. The flashing yellow and red lights made the scene of the accident look like a dance party. The car was jagged, twisted metal, ripped open and glittering like a tin can. Blood covered one of the airbags.
Well, that didn’t look good.
Suppressing a grin so as not to rouse the attention of the patrol cop wasn’t easy. But nothing worthwhile ever was. Bernie was going to be very, very happy.