is the most subtle hint of casualness in his otherwise professional demeanor. “Quite a day, huh, Michael?” It’s the third time since we’ve met that he’s said my name, which I have to admit sets off my radar. As my old crim law professor once explained, name repetition is the first trick negotiators use to establish an initial level of intimacy. The second trick is physical contact. I look down at his hand on my shoulder.
He pulls it away, removes his glove, and offers up a handshake. “Michael, I’m Randall Adenauer, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit.”
His title catches me off guard. “You think she was murdered?”
“That’s getting a little ahead of ourselves, don’t you think?”he asks with a laugh that’s even more forced than the way he buttons his shirt. “Far as we can tell right now, it looks like a simple heart attack—autopsy’ll tell for sure. Now, you’re the one who found her, aren’t you?”
I nod.
“How long before you called it in?”
“Soon as I realized she was dead.”
“And when you found her, she was exactly like that? Nothing moved?”
“Her head was down when I walked in. But when I shook her and saw her eyes—the way they are now—the way she looks back at you. That’s when I crashed into the wall.”
“So you knocked the picture over?”
“I’m pretty sure. I didn’t expect to see her like—”
“I’m not blaming you, Michael.”
He’s right, I tell myself. There’s no reason to get defensive.
“And the phone on the floor . . . ?” he asks.
“The whole room was spinning—I sat down to catch my breath. In a panic, I pulled it off the desk to call for help.”
As I explain what happened, I realize he’s not writing anything down. He just sort of stares my way, his sharp blue eyes barely focused on me. The way he’s watching—if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was reading cartoon word balloons just above my head. No matter how hard I try to get his attention, our eyes never meet. Finally, from his pants pocket, he pulls out a roll of butterscotch Life Savers and offers me one.
I shake my head.
“Suit yourself.” He puts the top of the pack in his mouth and bites one off. “I’m telling you, I think I’m addicted to these things. I’m up to a pack a day.”
“Better than smoking,” I say, motioning to one of the many ashtrays in Caroline’s office.
He nods and looks back at the word balloons. The smalltalk’s over. “So when you found her, what were you coming to see her about?”
Over his shoulder, I spot the small stack of red file folders that are still on Caroline’s desk. “Just some work-related stuff.”
“Any of it personal?”
“Not really. Why?”
He looks down at the pack of Life Savers he’s holding and pretends to be nonchalant. “Just trying to figure out why she had your file.”
Adenauer is no dummy. He set me up for that one.
“Now you want to tell me what’s really going on?” he asks.
“I swear to you, it was nothing. We were just going over a conflict of interest. She’s the ethics officer; that’s what she works on. I’m sure she pulled my file to check things out.” Unsure if he’s buying it, I point to Caroline’s desk. “Look for yourself—she’s got other files besides mine.”
Before he can answer, the Asian agent in the light blue shirt approaches us. “Chief, did the uniformed guys leave you the combination to the—”
“Here you go,” Adenauer says. He reaches into his jacket pocket and hands her a yellow sheet of paper.
Taking the combination, she starts working on the safe behind Caroline’s desk.
When the distraction’s over, Adenauer turns my way and stares me down. I lean back on the couch, trying to look unconcerned. Behind the desk, there’s a loud thunk. The woman opens the safe.
“Michael, I understand why you want to be as far away from this as possible—I know how it works here. But I’m not accusing you of anything.
He pulls it away, removes his glove, and offers up a handshake. “Michael, I’m Randall Adenauer, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit.”
His title catches me off guard. “You think she was murdered?”
“That’s getting a little ahead of ourselves, don’t you think?”he asks with a laugh that’s even more forced than the way he buttons his shirt. “Far as we can tell right now, it looks like a simple heart attack—autopsy’ll tell for sure. Now, you’re the one who found her, aren’t you?”
I nod.
“How long before you called it in?”
“Soon as I realized she was dead.”
“And when you found her, she was exactly like that? Nothing moved?”
“Her head was down when I walked in. But when I shook her and saw her eyes—the way they are now—the way she looks back at you. That’s when I crashed into the wall.”
“So you knocked the picture over?”
“I’m pretty sure. I didn’t expect to see her like—”
“I’m not blaming you, Michael.”
He’s right, I tell myself. There’s no reason to get defensive.
“And the phone on the floor . . . ?” he asks.
“The whole room was spinning—I sat down to catch my breath. In a panic, I pulled it off the desk to call for help.”
As I explain what happened, I realize he’s not writing anything down. He just sort of stares my way, his sharp blue eyes barely focused on me. The way he’s watching—if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was reading cartoon word balloons just above my head. No matter how hard I try to get his attention, our eyes never meet. Finally, from his pants pocket, he pulls out a roll of butterscotch Life Savers and offers me one.
I shake my head.
“Suit yourself.” He puts the top of the pack in his mouth and bites one off. “I’m telling you, I think I’m addicted to these things. I’m up to a pack a day.”
“Better than smoking,” I say, motioning to one of the many ashtrays in Caroline’s office.
He nods and looks back at the word balloons. The smalltalk’s over. “So when you found her, what were you coming to see her about?”
Over his shoulder, I spot the small stack of red file folders that are still on Caroline’s desk. “Just some work-related stuff.”
“Any of it personal?”
“Not really. Why?”
He looks down at the pack of Life Savers he’s holding and pretends to be nonchalant. “Just trying to figure out why she had your file.”
Adenauer is no dummy. He set me up for that one.
“Now you want to tell me what’s really going on?” he asks.
“I swear to you, it was nothing. We were just going over a conflict of interest. She’s the ethics officer; that’s what she works on. I’m sure she pulled my file to check things out.” Unsure if he’s buying it, I point to Caroline’s desk. “Look for yourself—she’s got other files besides mine.”
Before he can answer, the Asian agent in the light blue shirt approaches us. “Chief, did the uniformed guys leave you the combination to the—”
“Here you go,” Adenauer says. He reaches into his jacket pocket and hands her a yellow sheet of paper.
Taking the combination, she starts working on the safe behind Caroline’s desk.
When the distraction’s over, Adenauer turns my way and stares me down. I lean back on the couch, trying to look unconcerned. Behind the desk, there’s a loud thunk. The woman opens the safe.
“Michael, I understand why you want to be as far away from this as possible—I know how it works here. But I’m not accusing you of anything.
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