He walked toward her, forcing her to take a step back or hold still and shoot him. She stepped back. He turned and closed the door, clicked the dead bolt. He saw her eyes were shadowed, as if she hadn’t slept well, and she was pale. It made him madder, and his voice came out stone cold. “If I hadn’t realized it had to be someone Delsey knew, I might believe you, Anna, but I do know. You’re an undercover DEA agent, like the man who died.”
She didn’t change expression, didn’t say a word.
“Anna—excuse me, Agent Castle—my sister could easily have been killed Friday night, no thanks to you and your operation. Your own agent died at her place. It’s past time you leveled with me.”
She met his eyes directly, didn’t falter. “I’m a music student at Stanislaus and a part-time waitress payin’ my own way. What do you want from me? Why are you even here?”
He stepped right up to her face. “This is my sister we’re talking about, and I’ll do anything I need to in order to protect her. I thought Delsey was your friend, that you cared for her. But you don’t have any friends, do you? You’re only an operative trying to get information.
“Whatever you’re after is the DEA’s business, I accept that. But Delsey is mine. You were onto something, weren’t you, and that’s why your partner was killed. What was it? What happened? What was your partner doing in Delsey’s apartment? And the big question—what does Delsey have to do with any of this?”
She was shaking her head back and forth, but now he saw her eyes were sheened with tears. Or maybe rage over what had happened to Delsey. Still, she repeated, her mouth hard, “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, and I want you to leave, Agent Hammersmith. Now.”
He took her shoulders in his hands and shook her. He let her see his own anger now. “Tell me the truth. I know you care about your murdered agent, but think of what could still happen to Delsey. Your partner’s killers now know she identified him and they could start to worry she might have seen them, too. They wouldn’t want a possible witness breathing, would they? Talk to me. Don’t you owe Delsey that much? She could have been killed because of you.”
“Agent Hammersmith, you have no right to question me,” Anna said. “You’re guessing at somethin’ you shouldn’t, do you hear me?”
“Guilty as charged. Here I have the gall to interfere with a federal investigation. So why not take that up with your DEA boss? We could work together, help each other if you’d level with me. Otherwise, Sheriff Noble and the FBI might blow your whole investigation without even meaning to. Does that give you a different slant on things now, Agent Castle?”
She cursed him, nice full-bodied curses, then whirled around, and said over her shoulder, “Stay here, I mean it. I need to make a call.”
He watched her walk on stockinged feet down the hallway and into another room, heard her speaking on her cell, though he couldn’t make out the words. Five minutes passed; he timed it. When she came back, she walked right up to him, and her look was both angry and resigned. “You win. I spoke to my boss in Washington, Mac Brannon. He’s calling Mr. Maitland, bringing the FBI in with us. You’re right, I’m DEA, Special Agent Lilyanna Remie Parrish. You’ve embarrassed me, made me look incompetent to my boss. How did you know?”
She was so close he could feel her warm breath on his face. And her mouth was too close. He stepped back. “You obviously didn’t realize you were sending out clues.”
“I sent out clues? I’m very good. I never send out clues. What clues?”
He smiled down at her and counted off on his fingers. “You knew quite a bit about guns, you knew about fingerprints, and the biggie—you disappeared all day Saturday. It takes a cop to know a cop, don’t you agree?”
“That’s not much at all, not a single real clue at all. All a guess.”
Griffin shook his head, pointed to her Glock. “Smart of you to be really careful. You went out this morning. Where did you go?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I’m psychic.” At her startled look, he said, “Would you believe I saw the double footsteps to and from your front door to your car?”
She said, “I went to Bridy’s Market for some bagels and cream cheese.”
He walked past her into a small living room that looked like a clone of his grandparents’ lake cottage, old and faded and a bit saggy, neither place updated since the day the front doors opened circa 1950. There was an ancient chintz sofa across from two overstuffed flowery chairs, scattered rag rugs over a banged-up oak floor, and an old fireplace belching a bit of smoke and little heat.