Kinnard said, “You can’t protect your brother from Panella, Jordie. He’ll send the next Mickey Bolden, then the next, until he gets him. He won’t give up until Josh’s entrails are strung along behind him in the Gulf.”

She held his stare for the length of a slow freight train, then said, “I wish I’d gone for the kill.”

She and the lawyer walked out as Hick came back in, his cell phone to his ear. He mouthed, Morrow.

Joe, who’d stood up as a courtesy to the ladies when they left the room, sat down again and scrutinized Shaw Kinnard. He looked worse off now than he had when he’d made his grand entrance, and he’d looked like hell then. He was pale, the lines in his face more deeply carved, cheeks sunken.

Nevertheless, from deep within their shadowed sockets, his eyes projected a cold glint that signaled danger despite the signs of his physical debilitation. Joe didn’t have that quality. Nobody would ever move out of his way simply because he focused on them.

If Kinnard had been affected by Jordie Bennett’s parting shot, he didn’t show it. To look at him, you’d think the words had bounced right off him like he was wearing armor. Of course, in order to work as deep cover as he did, detachment was essential. Everything was sacrificed to the job, even normal human emotions.

Joe thought about the comforting clutter in the den of his house, the constant commotion his kids created, the particular squeak his and Marsha’s bed made when they moved on it together, and he didn’t envy Shaw Kinnard his gravitas. It came at a price. Too high a one, in Joe’s opinion.

He motioned toward the door through which Jordie Bennett had just passed. “I don’t think she likes you.”

“Nobody does. I’m used to it.”

“She seemed to yesterday, though.”

Kinnard snapped him a look of alerted interest. Maybe his armor wasn’t so impenetrable after all.

But before he could speak, Hick abruptly ended his phone call and said, “We gotta get to Tobias.”

Joe shot to his feet. “Bennett?”

Hick shook his head. “Royce Sherman.”

“Who’s that?” Kinnard asked.

“The guy who accosted Ms. Bennett in the bar.”

Kinnard was so wobbly he had to use the table to stabilize himself as he stood up. “I’d like to talk to that jerk-off myself.”

“Not gonna happen,” Hick said. “He’s in the morgue.”

Chapter 28

Upon learning that the young man who’d played a key role in Friday night’s events had turned up dead, they wasted only a few minutes arguing over whether or not Shaw would accompany them to Tobias.

Wiley and Hickam were resistant to the idea. He was adamant. To save time, he told them whether or not he rode with them, he would get there. They gave in.

“We’ll stop somewhere along the way and buy some things to better disguise you,” Wiley said over his shoulder as they left the interrogation room.

“Good thinking,” Hickam said. “I’d hate to get struck by a bullet intended for Mr. Armed and Dangerous here.”

Although each step sent a spike of pain through his side, Shaw kept up with them until they reached Hickam’s car in the parking garage. After climbing into the backseat, he surreptitiously lifted his shirttail and peeled back the dressing to check his stitches. They were holding.

No doubt Jordie wished she’d done more damage with that propeller. If she had it to do over, she probably would plunge it into his throat. She’d said as much, and he believed her. She despised him.

His work was too high risk for him to get life insurance. Not that he had anyone to name as a beneficiary, because his job was also hazardous to personal relationships. Before now, that hadn’t bothered him. Often he used innocent people in order to put away bad people. If someone in his wake was left emotionally scarred, it was a cost of doing business. Dirty job and all that.

But when Jordie Bennett had looked at him with unqualified hatred, he’d felt more than a twinge of conscience. That was a first, and it was uncomfortable.

As they wheeled out of the garage, Wiley got a call on his cell phone. Hickam didn’t engage Shaw in conversation, which was fine with him. He laid his head back and dozed, waking only when Hickam parked outside a discount store. Wiley was still on his call, doing more listening than talking.

Hickam was back in under five minutes, bringing with him a sack, which he tossed over the car seat into Shaw’s lap. “Not a place where I typically shop. That’s the best I could do.”

He’d bought an ugly maroon hoodie and a pair of sunglasses with black plastic frames and cobalt blue lenses. Shaw said, “These are fine.”

“I thought they might be.” Hickam made a point of looking at the pearl snaps on the new chambray shirt Morrow had bought for him.

Ignoring the agent’s implied insult to his taste, he yanked the price tag off the hoodie. “So what about Royce Sherman’s demise?”

“Morrow was on the fly, so he gave me the facts in shorthand. I’ll tell you what I know as soon as Joe gets off the phone.”

As though on cue, Wiley, riding shotgun, clicked off. “Sorry. That was Marsha. My wife,” he said for Shaw’s benefit. “We have a toilet problem at home, and she’s threatening to apply a wrench to the plumber’s privates if he doesn’t get it fixed. Soon. What’d I miss?”

“Nothing. I waited on you,” Hickam said. “First thing, Morrow emphasized that it hasn’t yet been determined whether or not Royce Sherman’s death relates to anything that happened Friday night.”

“How’d he die?” Shaw asked.

“Gunshot to the head. Left frontal lobe. Close range.”

“Suicide?”

“No gun found near the body, no powder on his hands.”

“Homicide then,” Shaw said.

“Fair bet.”

Wiley asked if there had been signs of a struggle.

“No. He had cash and one credit card on him, so robbery doesn’t appear to have been the motive. Morrow said it looked like the killer walked up to the open window and popped him.”

“At home?”

“Driver’s seat of his pickup truck. He’d pulled off the highway onto a side road.”

“What for?” Shaw asked.

“Nobody knows.”

“To take a leak?” Wiley ventured.

“No evidence of that. Morrow doesn’t think he got out of the truck.”

Shaw asked him about a shell casing.

“None found. No other bullet, either. Looks like the shooter only fired once. With intent.”

Shaw thought on that and almost missed Hickam’s saying, “But Morrow has a possible motive. The bartender—” he paused and looked at Shaw in the rearview mirror “—he’s the one who put us onto you.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. He’s former military, right? Saw action?”

“He mentioned Iraq.”

Shaw nodded. He’d noticed the bartender’s scrutiny of him and Mickey, which had been surreptitious but sharp. Nothing made a man more observant than a war zone where the enemy didn’t wear a uniform.

Hickam said, “When the bartender heard about Royce’s murder, he immediately called Morrow. Told him Royce was in the bar last night for hours, acting like a celebrity, knocking back whiskeys like they were Kool-Aid.”