The Isis Collar

4

Since I’m a glutton for punishment I went straight from the school to the police station. I mean, really, why not make a day of it? I pulled into the covered parking garage attached to the Santa Maria de Luna PD, cruising around and around until I found the spot I was looking for right across from the little white Toyota belonging to none other than Detective Alexander. If Jamisyn’s good-luck wish worked, she should be getting off-shift soon. If not, well, I was in a dark, cool, quiet place that was ever so much better for my headache.

I only had to wait an hour.

“Oh, shit. It’s you.”

“Gee, Heather. You’d think you weren’t happy to see me or something.” I was mostly being sarcastic. Still, a little part of me was hurt that she had been ducking my calls and was obviously unhappy to see me. We might not be close, but we’d always been friendly.

“What do you want?” she snapped. She tried to walk around me, but I stepped back in her way.

“Were there bombs in more than just the one school?”

“Damn it, Graves!”

Wow, not even “Celia” anymore. This was serious. “What?”

She ran fingers through her hair and let out a frustrated breath. “You keep doing this. You keep putting me in the hot seat, asking me to do things I can’t, wanting me to tell you things you’re not supposed to know. Do you have any idea how much trouble you get me into? You want information? Why come to me? Why not ask Rizzoli?”

I took a step back, my hands coming up in a defensive gesture. Alex was practically snarling at me. This was way more attitude than usual. More than the situation deserved. I was about to say so, to ask what had her so hot under the collar, when she winked at me, her eyes flickering in the direction of a camera I’d seen posted in a nearby corner.

Aha. Okay, so she wasn’t really pissed off. Which was good. But she also couldn’t talk. Still, she’d managed to pass on one important kernel of information. Rizzoli is Special Agent Dominic Rizzoli, FBI. Who wouldn’t be involved if this were just a local matter. Which meant that somehow, somewhere … this had crossed state lines. Holy crap.

“Heather…”

“Don’t you ‘Heather’ me,” she snarled. “You were Vicki’s friend, not mine. Vicki’s dead. Don’t think you can use her memory to make me forget my duty. ’Cause that’s not going to happen.”

The words stung. Even if I’d read the wink right, that we were putting on a show for the cameras, it still hurt. Mainly because I still missed Vicki. Maybe just as much as Alex did.

“Fine. I won’t bother you at work again.”

“Good. Don’t.”