Keep Her Safe(109)

“Did you find anything in that motel room yet?” I ask, changing gears.

“Dried blood behind the strips of wallpaper, like I expected. We’ll have to test it. See if we can get a match. Thanks for that, by the way.” He nods to my arm, where a specialist drew blood earlier, at the FBI office. A familial sample to compare DNA markers against. The next best thing to having my dad’s blood, they said. I want to help, but still, it feels strange to know that federal agents now have my DNA on record.

“And if it does match?”

For the first time, Kristian’s face shows signs of concern, of doubt. “We have a long way to go before we have anything to tie a person to your father’s death, Grace. If we ever do.”

“I know that,” I admit grudgingly. I’ll never accept it, though.

His mood shifts again, and he’s back to his typical indifferent self. “Who knows, though? Mantis pulling you two over yesterday was one thing. But what Stapley did today was stupid and reckless, and that tells me he’s worried.” He studies the lit end of his cigarette for a long moment, the ember glowing like a firefly in the dusk. “I like it when guilty people are worried. They make a lot of fucking dumb mistakes, and that’s how I nail them.”

I hug myself against the evening chill. “At least now everyone thinks my dad was innocent.”

“Right . . . That was quite a show Canning put on.”

“It works for me. And for my dad.”

“It’ll probably work for Canning, too, that arrogant son of a bitch.”

Pot and kettle. “You still think he’s behind this?” Maybe my judgment is clouded by his words on the TV not long ago, by the way Canning seems so vested in clearing my father’s name, because I don’t see it.

“If I were him and I were involved in this? I’d be looking for a way to clear your dad’s name to get you off my back, while making sure someone other than my star guys take the fall. Someone who can’t defend themself anymore.”

“Jackie Marshall.”

“Jackie Marshall.” He takes a long puff of his cigarette and a tendril of smoke curls out his lips. “That spectacle on the news back there? That wasn’t for your father. That was for Canning. He figured he’d get out ahead of this and put himself in the public eye as the man who uncovered the scandal. That’s what he wants the public to remember. My boss’s boss has been fielding calls from everyone right up to the governor of Texas since this morning, demanding the APD be involved in the investigation. Who do you think was behind that?”

“Canning?”

“Canning.”

“Wouldn’t it be better for him to stay far away from this?”

“If there’s anyone who knows how to kick a hornet’s nest and not get stung, I’m guessing it’s him.”

Kristian’s painting quite the picture of George Canning. I’m wondering how accurate it is, or if this agent is just the most suspicious man I’ve ever met. The Canning I saw on TV—ruddy-faced and grandfatherly; a man who’d pull off a Santa Claus suit better than most—doesn’t look like a master manipulator. Maybe that’s his angle, though. What is this George Canning really like?

I’d love to find out.

Another thought strikes me; a worry. “Isn’t it a bad idea to have the APD involved, given who Mantis is?” I’d think the head of Internal Affairs is connected.

Klein smirks. “Depends who you ask.”

I groan. “God, you are infuriating! Why do you even bother telling me anything?”

“Imagine what I’m not telling you.” Kristian puts his cigarette out on the patio stone. “How old are you again?”

“Way too young for you,” I throw back without missing a beat. I’m not oblivious—I’ve caught the looks he has cast my way. I’ve also caught the glares he’s earned from Noah because of them. Noah’s jealous of the FBI agent. That shouldn’t make me giddy.

It shouldn’t, but it does.

Kristian chuckles. “Have you ever thought about a career in law enforcement?”

“What? No!” That was unexpected.

He stands, stretching his arms over his head. “You’re sharp. You’ve got the right head for this kind of thing. Who knows? You may want to follow in your father’s footsteps.”

“So I can be murdered and framed, too? No thanks,” I mutter dryly.

His gaze drifts over the fence line again. “Austin’s my home. I grew up here, before I went away to college. In ‘a good part’ of Austin. That’s what my mom calls it. A place where you can borrow a cup of sugar from your neighbor when you run out. Where your kids can run up and down the sidewalk. No random home invasions, but you lock your doors all the same.

“One night I was in the kitchen, getting something to eat. It was late. And I saw Mr. Monroe—the same neighbor who’d had us over for a barbecue the week before—beating the hell out of his wife in their backyard. Like a man possessed, like he wanted to kill her.

“So I called the cops and then I hopped over that fence and threw myself at him, trying to stop him before he did something to her that the doctors couldn’t fix. But Mr. Monroe was tipping the scales at two-fifty, at least, and I was a scrawny sixteen-year-old . . . I got banged up. Might have ended worse, had the cops not shown up so quickly.” Kristian’s steely eyes flicker over to me. “One of the officers was your dad.”