Cold & Deadly (Cold Justice: Crossfire #1)(22)

These footprints could have nothing to do with Van’s death and everything to do with people’s obsession with the macabre. But the question kept tugging at him. What if Kanas was right? What if someone had murdered Van and then used his death to target another FBI agent? And what if they’d done it before?





Chapter Seven





Ava snagged a booth for her and Sheridan at the back of a bar called the Mule & Pitcher on the outskirts of Fredericksburg not far from where she’d taken down Jimmy Taylor. A friend of hers in the RA had let her sneak a look at Van’s case file earlier. Bank records showed he’d had dinner in this bar. Then he’d gone home and, according to most people in her organization, had accidentally blown his brains out.

She peeled the foil from her bottle of beer with her thumb and tapped the fingers of her other hand on her thigh as she waited for Sheridan to join her. She was surprised he’d called her, but grateful.

She glanced around. She’d never been here before. She preferred Netflix to nightclubs. Except for the occasional night out with the guys after work she tended to spend her spare time in the gym or at the firing range. The last time she’d gone on a date, months ago—to the movies, she remembered now—she’d spotted some loser ripping someone off at an ATM and had chased the sonofabitch four blocks until she’d caught and cuffed him. Her date had been long gone by the time she’d gone back. He’d never called her again.

Van had told her she could be a little intimidating, but she wasn’t going to pretend to be something she wasn’t. She wasn’t about to let somebody get attacked and not do anything about it because her date couldn’t handle it.

She ignored the glances she was getting from a few of the guys in the place. There were still plenty of men who thought a woman alone in a bar meant she was hoping to hook up. She took another swallow of beer and let her expression dispel the notion.

The joint was hopping. Didn’t people know it was a Tuesday night? Surely some of them had to work the next day? Ava winced as one woman fell off her chair and started laughing where she lay on the floor. So, did all her girlfriends. Ava was about to get up and assist when the lady rolled onto her side and heaved herself up.

Good times.

The bar itself was off to the right against the back wall with a small dance floor tucked in near the window. Thankfully no one was dancing and so the music wasn’t too loud. Most people sat in small groups, drinking and laughing. Clientele looked to be early twenties to mid-thirties. Some people had obviously come straight from work while others were dressed more casually, shorts and t-shirts, jeans. Ava touched the evil eye bracelet on her wrist. It was a silly Greek superstition, but the amulet never failed to make her feel better.

Sheridan walked in still wearing that expensive-looking, dark suit and the same blood-red tie he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier that day before cutting Van’s lawn. He looked like a smoking-hot politician or a scorching CEO. Common denominator seemed to involve sex and heat and things she should not be associating with a senior agent at the FBI. She let herself enjoy the view for as long as it took for them to make eye contact and then she lifted her hand in acknowledgment.

She scanned the bar. Several pairs of female eyes were following his progress across the room. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed his good looks.

It was ten thirty and many customers were on the other side of tipsy. According to the signs, Happy Hour lasted from five until midnight, which suggested the manager needed a basic math lesson but certainly explained the raucous crowd.

Sheridan reached her booth and slid into the seat, moving close so they could talk without being overheard. His thigh brushed hers before he shifted away, and she jumped at the brief contact.

Way to play it cool, Ava.

She cleared her throat, searching for a nonchalance she wasn’t feeling. They weren’t on a date. This was business. This was about Van. “Where’d you leave your dog?”

He shrugged, and she tried not to notice the broadness of his shoulders. He was just a colleague. Hell, she didn’t think he even liked her very much, and she wasn’t a masochist.

“In the back of the car. I cracked the windows.” The night had cooled off.

The fact he cared more about his dog than the security of his Lexus ramped up his attractiveness by another factor of a thousand.

“You aren’t worried about those fancy leather seats getting chewed up?” She took a sip of beer. She wasn’t surprised his personal vehicle was a luxury model. He was a luxury model kind of guy.

An amused gleam lit his eyes. Her heart wanted to give a little flip, but she forced it to remain frozen in place.

“There was a time there would have been nothing left of the interior, but nowadays…” He shrugged. “He’s getting old. Slowing down, thank god. Like me.”

“Sure.”

The guy was in his prime and knew it. He sure as heck hadn’t looked like he was slowing down when they’d chased after the shooter yesterday morning.

“It’s true.” He laughed quietly, more relaxed than she’d seen him before. But the creases at the edge of his eyes were more pronounced today. She wondered if he’d gotten any sleep last night after the shooting. She certainly hadn’t.

Her server came over with the bucket of wings Ava had ordered. Ordering food had been the only way she’d been able to secure a table.