extras from the cabinet.
As they headed for the door, he smacked her rear lightly. “I’ll look for you again.”
Her head turned sharply, not liking his presumption, but he was already disappearing into the swirling darkness of the dance floor.
She caught a cab back to her apartment. In the cool dark of the backseat, wrapped in the cover of the silk trench she’d worn over her outfit, Marcella took inventory.
She felt wonderfully relaxed. A little loose in the knees, even. She’d be able to sleep tonight after the horrors of the day. She’d called the shots; she’d gotten what she ordered, like getting a good workout. She wished she could lose the last bit of Catholic guilt and the even larger bit that wondered how the hell she’d ever look Kamuela in the eye again.
At home she took a shower and had the best sleep she’d had in days.
“All right, let’s review.” Waxman sat at the head of the FBI’s gleaming conference table asserting dominance. The rest of the investigative team lined the table, and Marcella braced herself internally for the inevitable. He liked to make her write notes for the group on the whiteboard-lined walls. She was convinced that he liked to have her ass as visual entertainment for the rest of the group.
She was sick of it, but cooperating with his little humiliations kept her off his radar. She’d seen what he did when he really had an agent on his shit list—and doing secretary duty was the least of it. Besides, maybe this time he’d ask someone else…Marcella thought of her defiant friend Lei and wondered how she’d handle this situation. Maybe Lei wasn’t right for the Bureau after all—she might be too much of a loose cannon to fit into the hierarchical structure of the FBI, where massaging male egos was a full-time job.
“Agent Scott, will you keep us organized?”
Dammit. “Yes, sir.”
She stood up, picked out several colored markers. She’d chosen her baggiest black pants and a plain white blouse that morning when she heard there was a briefing. Worried she’d see Kamuela again, she’d wanted to feel very covered up. There was still some hope he didn’t know who she was, though she was probably fooling herself. The guy was a detective, after all. But as long as they pretended…maybe they could meet again.
The thought brought a rush of blood to her cheeks.
Marcella turned to the whiteboard, uncapping a marker, spotting Kamuela enter the boardroom out of the corner of her eye. Too weird, she thought. This couldn’t end well. There was just no way it could. Her stomach tightened with a cramp.
“In case you haven’t met her—this is Agent Sophie Ang, from Information Technology,” Waxman said. Marcella turned to face the doorway—good, she wasn’t the only female after all. The striking brown-skinned woman, with her cap of short-cropped hair, nodded to the room at large. Rumor had it Ang was one of Waxman’s pets. “Sophie’s going to be primary on the tech aspects of this case, which are considerable, and has pulled together some reports for us. Let’s start with the Pettigrew murder. Agent Scott, let’s keep that on one wall, and begin with the Moku murder on the other.”
“Oh, was she pronounced?” Marcella asked. “At the scene we didn’t think it was a suicide, but I didn’t know Dr. Fukushima had had time to make a ruling.”
“Dr. Fukushima pronounced Cindy Moku a homicide this morning,” Waxman said. “She was strangled with the rope, then hung from the fan. The note wasn’t signed, so we think the killer composed it afterward. Keyboard was wiped clean, something Cindy wouldn’t have done.”
Marcella started a heading, Moku Murder: and noted both details. Sorrow about Cindy’s death made it an effort to push the squeaky marker across the board to form the letters. She kept her eyes away from where Kamuela sat, directly across from her.
“So we have a lot of reports here from various departments.” Waxman gestured to a
As they headed for the door, he smacked her rear lightly. “I’ll look for you again.”
Her head turned sharply, not liking his presumption, but he was already disappearing into the swirling darkness of the dance floor.
She caught a cab back to her apartment. In the cool dark of the backseat, wrapped in the cover of the silk trench she’d worn over her outfit, Marcella took inventory.
She felt wonderfully relaxed. A little loose in the knees, even. She’d be able to sleep tonight after the horrors of the day. She’d called the shots; she’d gotten what she ordered, like getting a good workout. She wished she could lose the last bit of Catholic guilt and the even larger bit that wondered how the hell she’d ever look Kamuela in the eye again.
At home she took a shower and had the best sleep she’d had in days.
“All right, let’s review.” Waxman sat at the head of the FBI’s gleaming conference table asserting dominance. The rest of the investigative team lined the table, and Marcella braced herself internally for the inevitable. He liked to make her write notes for the group on the whiteboard-lined walls. She was convinced that he liked to have her ass as visual entertainment for the rest of the group.
She was sick of it, but cooperating with his little humiliations kept her off his radar. She’d seen what he did when he really had an agent on his shit list—and doing secretary duty was the least of it. Besides, maybe this time he’d ask someone else…Marcella thought of her defiant friend Lei and wondered how she’d handle this situation. Maybe Lei wasn’t right for the Bureau after all—she might be too much of a loose cannon to fit into the hierarchical structure of the FBI, where massaging male egos was a full-time job.
“Agent Scott, will you keep us organized?”
Dammit. “Yes, sir.”
She stood up, picked out several colored markers. She’d chosen her baggiest black pants and a plain white blouse that morning when she heard there was a briefing. Worried she’d see Kamuela again, she’d wanted to feel very covered up. There was still some hope he didn’t know who she was, though she was probably fooling herself. The guy was a detective, after all. But as long as they pretended…maybe they could meet again.
The thought brought a rush of blood to her cheeks.
Marcella turned to the whiteboard, uncapping a marker, spotting Kamuela enter the boardroom out of the corner of her eye. Too weird, she thought. This couldn’t end well. There was just no way it could. Her stomach tightened with a cramp.
“In case you haven’t met her—this is Agent Sophie Ang, from Information Technology,” Waxman said. Marcella turned to face the doorway—good, she wasn’t the only female after all. The striking brown-skinned woman, with her cap of short-cropped hair, nodded to the room at large. Rumor had it Ang was one of Waxman’s pets. “Sophie’s going to be primary on the tech aspects of this case, which are considerable, and has pulled together some reports for us. Let’s start with the Pettigrew murder. Agent Scott, let’s keep that on one wall, and begin with the Moku murder on the other.”
“Oh, was she pronounced?” Marcella asked. “At the scene we didn’t think it was a suicide, but I didn’t know Dr. Fukushima had had time to make a ruling.”
“Dr. Fukushima pronounced Cindy Moku a homicide this morning,” Waxman said. “She was strangled with the rope, then hung from the fan. The note wasn’t signed, so we think the killer composed it afterward. Keyboard was wiped clean, something Cindy wouldn’t have done.”
Marcella started a heading, Moku Murder: and noted both details. Sorrow about Cindy’s death made it an effort to push the squeaky marker across the board to form the letters. She kept her eyes away from where Kamuela sat, directly across from her.
“So we have a lot of reports here from various departments.” Waxman gestured to a
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