Page 35 of Trace of Doubt
He read the card and eyed me. “Someone is messin’ with her head.”
“Her past indicates a propensity to depression.”
The sheriff stood and arched his shoulders. He might be small in stature, but his countenance emitted power. “Are you justifying a crime by stating you stole the card to protect her from herself?”
“Guess so.”
“Why? Looks to me like you’d be the agent on record if she spilled her guts or if she killed herself, you’d have no money trail.”
“Probably both.”
“Our line of work means gathering evidence, but this is low. Unethical.”
I rubbed my palm on the side of my pants. “I’m beginning to think she has no knowledge of the money.”
“That means a lot of your years down the drain. What about your gaining access to her cabin? What’s the motivation there?”
“None. I’m guilty.”
He sat and laid the card between us. “What do you expect to accomplish by coming to my office?”
“Two things—help to discover if she knows the money’s whereabouts and why someone wants her dead.”
“Why would I?” He glared at me, a technique I’d used during interrogations of suspected criminals.
“I was hoping you’d pay her a visit, a follow-up about what happened last week. Tell her I gave you my purpose in befriending her and claimed not to have made the calls.”
He rolled his chair back and walked to the door. Grabbing the knob, he studied me. “Agent McClure, I don’t need the FBItelling me how to do my job. I’ll talk to Ms. Pearce because she’s the victim here—more than once. But let’s get a few things straight. If you step over the line again, your rear’s in jail. And if she finds out about your breaking and entering into her home and presses charges, your rear’s in jail. If I contact the FBI about your actions, they’ll put your rear in jail. In the meantime, I’m talking to Houston FBI about them sending you and not consulting me. Undercover or no undercover, you’re not in charge. I’m the law in this town.”
“My apologies for taking advantage of you and the community.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Shelby Pearce is a personal project from your rookie days, and you’re a poor loser. Also looks like you’re trying to be a hero. Makes me wonder if you two are taking lessons from each other.”
Stupidity slapped me in the face with my unorthodox actions. “I’d like the card to run prints and analyze the handwriting.”
“Nope. The evidence is mine. I’m capable of conducting an investigation.”
“Will you let me know the results?”
“Depends on the findings and my conversation with Houston FBI.”
I’d done a great job of making myself look like a rogue FBI agent in a bad movie. But Houston had assigned me to the case and knew where I was living. “Are you going to give Shelby the card?”
“Haven’t decided. In the meantime, don’t leave town. You’re a person of interest in Ms. Pearce’s case. Conversation ended.”
23
SHELBY
In the past, I knew what my predators wanted. Not so much now. I’d stabbed my finger twice with an awl while twisting wire and working with a tissue wrapped over the cut proved cumbersome. I’d add safety gloves to my next supply order. Hard to focus on designing new pieces with the counseling session fresh on my mind and on the heels of what I’d learned about Denton.
My dealings with most men blurred my vision in shades of gray and black. Dad and I used to be pals, and I’d loved Travis like a brother. Many years had trickled by since then. Denton had shoved a little green into my life, offering hope and healing for a few hours. Rats, focusing on him solved nothing. I was doomed for a colorless existence.
Like a child needing comfort, I sat on the sofa and held Joy. She snuggled close to me.
The fixings for an omelet took over, and I concentrated ondicing bell pepper and onion. The familiar sound of crunching gravel drew my attention to the window. Sheriff Wendall parked and walked to the cabin. Now what? He knocked in rhythm to my knees. I prayed before I opened the door.
“Evening, Shelby. Hope you don’t mind me using your first name.”
