“I'm sorry, Miss Fleming,” Gretchen Latrell said, turning her back on me. “I can't talk to you.”
“Deputy,” I growled between clenched teeth, doing my best not to let my redheaded temper out into the light while it begged me for freedom. “Deputy Fleming.”
The facility manager shrugged, circling her desk and heading for her chair, her small but well-appointed office cluttered with files, riding gear and heavy with the scent of saddle soap and horses. “Doctor,” she said, stressing her own title. Now, I had, admittedly, addressed her as Ms. Latrell, so my bad. Still. Want to firmly annoy me and ensure we’re never going to be friends? Throw my mistake back in my face and treat me like I’m intruding when I’m only doing my job.
Growl.
“Regardless of your employment status,” she said, crisp, official, her broad shoulders shrugging as she sank her tall, muscular body into the leather seat, hands folding across her stomach while she rested her elbows on the armrests, “I'll wait for Deputy Wagner or Agent Michaud.” Said in a tone that screamed she didn’t believe I was a real police officer so why should she bother? And her cycle of making me her enemy for life continued. “Was there anything else?”
There was. A whole heaping pile of other things I wanted to say, scream, throw around the room while I had an epic temper tantrum and let out all of the frustration that had been building the last hour I'd managed to receive this self-same response from every single person I'd attempted to question.
Every. Single. One.
Because despite her attitude and attempt to make me go ballistic over something she couldn’t have known was giving me a serious case of the frauds (yes, carrying the badge left a queasy feeling in my stomach along with a deeply penetrating knowing I shouldn’t be here, asking her questions, pretending to be a cop when it was all a show to keep me from getting arrested for B&E), I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to be held behind a solid wall of hell no, though, right? After all, when I'd passed through the gates with Liz and Jill, sighing over the fact there was a wedding celebration going on not so far away—and maybe I could sneak off now that I had permission just to get a glimpse because that wasn't a conflict of interest or anything, right? —I was almost immediately stonewalled.
First person to do so? Geoffrey Jenkins, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, those two hired guns at his side hulking their threatening personages behind him, just inside the main gate.
Jill immediately presented the court order which Geoffrey took his good old time reviewing before handing it back to the deputy with a smug look on his face.
“We will, of course, follow the letter of the law,” he said. “Miss Fleming—”
“Deputy Fleming,” I said, half of me liking the sound of that, the other (more reasonable and logical) part of me internally cringing at the fact I had the audacity to play this role at all.
“—may investigate this crime. However, she is to be restricted to this immediate area.” He gestured around himself like he expected me to stand in one tiny spot and not move a muscle.
Right, that was going to happen. Silenced my inner critic, sure did. Because he clearly understood what investigating a murder required. As in, moving around? Poking my nose into places previously unwelcome? And likely still unwelcome, but too bad, so sad, not in the mood for games right now.
And carrying a damned badge, so snap.
Jill's scowl told me she was on board with my line of thought—the line that wanted me to be a cop, thanks. The reasonable voice who thought I should just go home and be grateful I wasn’t in a cell with the Pattersons pressing charges? She could suck it. “The court order states Deputy Fleming,” nice of her to stress the title like that, girl had my back, “is permitted access to the facility, Mr. Jenkins.” Wow. Jill called me deputy. She thought I was authentic, had to. Jill would be the first one to ask me to please be reasonable if she didn’t think I should be here. Right?
Sure, Fee. Keep telling yourself the stories you need to hear in order to not pursue the art of minding your own business.
“And she has access,” he said. “To this spot.”
Was he freaking kidding me?
Liz's turn, apparently. She slowly removed her sunglasses, all super smooth special agent that made me shiver with holy crap how awesome was she while she tucked back the front of her jacket so Geoffrey could see her gun, her badge. She didn't hurry, slipping her sunnies into her interior blazer pocket, seemingly taking her time getting them squared away before she spoke in the coolest, calmest voice ever.
“Letter of the law or not,” she said, “Deputy Fleming is on this case, Mr. Jenkins.” Shiver. FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Michaud called me deputy, too. Did that make it official? Could the internal fraud police stand down? “Now, step aside or I'll arrest you for obstruction.”
The two black-clad bullies flexed. I saw them do it, at exactly the same time. As if to threaten the small, stunning agent with their bulky muscles and big guns strapped to their tree-trunk thighs, their impressive heights and broad shoulders making me a bit nervous and think about maybe going home after all, now that I considered things carefully, no harm, no foul.
Liz? Yeah, she'd clearly dealt with their type before. Instead of saying a thing, she stood there, still Miss Casual Freaking Superhero FBI agent, one eyebrow cocked, looking back and forth between the hired guns a long moment before—I kid you not—they both backed down.
Oh my god. If Crew backed out of our relationship for some insane reason, I was going to marry her. Or at least make her teach me how the hell she did that. Because, whoa.
Who me, go home? After that show of confident support that should win her an Oscar and a Nobel Peace Prize and status as Queen of the World who owned their collective security grunt butts?
Never. I’d rather die than let that awesome show of woman power go to waste.
Liz returned her attention to Geoffrey who looked suddenly less confident. Man had a brain, I’d give him that. “Now, if you would please allow us to do our job,” she said. “I'm sure we'll have this whole sad affair wrapped up in short order.” She turned to Jill, to me, and nodded. “Officers. Shall we?” She didn't wait to find out if Geoffrey was going to protest, if his security bullies would argue. Instead, she spun and strode off, as if expecting the entire world to deliver to her exactly what she asked for, right now, no waiting, hell yeah.
I needed more Liz in my life.
We split up at that point, Jill staying behind to talk to Geoffrey and ask him questions. I heard her mention the guest list and knew the Pattersons would be suitably distracted by her request, hopefully enough to give Liz and me the time we needed to investigate before they found another way to interfere.
Liz slowed as I hurried after her, enough that it felt like she hadn't done it on purpose, that we'd meant for this to unfold the way it had and I resisted the urge to hug her for her amazingness.
“Let's split up the suspects,” she said, “tackle more in less time.” She glanced over her shoulder, still at ease but tension in her voice. “I know that type, Fee. He's going to get in the way again. So if we can do as much as possible now, it'll save us arguments later.” So she wasn't as inwardly confident as she seemed on the outside? Gave me hope I could actually maybe master that cool awesome she walked around in. Though it also made me wonder if I was overestimating what she could accomplish.
Forget that. She was a hero in my books.
“Funny,” she said as we divvied up the list and prepared to head our separate ways. She glanced one more time at Geoffrey and the black-clad boys who stared at us like we were prey, target practice. “Why ever would a wedding require that kind of firepower?”
I didn't comment, had a twinge of guilt yet again about not telling her everything, especially in light of the fact Crew wanted me to fill her in on the treasure. And that I now trusted her completely, as I knew he did. But informing her about the Pattersons, about my suspicions that had zero real proof or merit, all rumor, innuendo, speculation and personal anecdotes, would take far too long and was better delivered over a cold beer with our feet up rather than in the middle of a suspicious death investigation.
So later then. And we'd see if telling Liz everything got me new insights or more problems.
Speaking of problems, my first appeared almost immediately after I knocked on Violet Perry's door and tried to ask her questions. She clammed up, slammed the door in my face and forced me to pound on it and make a general insistent pain in the rear end of myself before she'd open it again.
When she did, the snarky little creature tossed her hair, now down around her shoulders, her tiny body sheathed in the most current and expensive yoga gear known to woman.
“I don't have to talk to a fake cop,” she said. “Send a real one.” And, with that, she slammed the door once more while I fumed on the other side and considered my options.
I could freak out, lose my temper, knock down her door and kick her butt. I could walk away, go question someone else. Or I could go home.
Yeah. Temper, temper. And not leaving. Guess which one I picked?
Except, as I did my best to circulate through the four names Liz assigned me, Jimmy Hogan and Alphonse Brunbaugh among them, I was met with more refusal, flat out disdain and, in the case of Gretchen, understanding of the real reason I was being stonewalled.
The Pattersons. Clearly, Geoffrey had spoken to them first, informing them to keep quiet and not tell me a thing. So, I might have won the battle with Olivia's little court order, and the struggle with Liz at my side, her FBI presence enough to get me past the gatekeepers, but I was on my own when it came to cajoling uncooperative suspects.
***