drive here illegally, did you, Xana?”
“You want to know what I’m surprised by, Del? I’m surprised you have time to stand there and poke at me with your stick while a police officer lies in the morgue and the shit hits the fan at Hartsfield-Jackson, but we both know your priorities have always been a bit off. Now, if you’re going to interrogate me, Del, why don’t we do it upstairs?”
Had Xana adequately shamed Del? She shot a glance at the mountainous security guard.
“You signed for her,” Mikkelson grumbled. “Let her through.”
Without further comment, Del stepped aside. Less than a minute later, he and Xana were exiting an elevator onto the fourth floor where they were greeted, on the wall in front them, by the flag-and-laurel seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Chapter 8
On the fourth level of the building, tucked behind one of two unmarked wooden doors, civilians could be seated in an oblong room with three solid walls and one wall made of glass. The wall of glass was reflective. About four feet off the ground ran a meager horizontal ledge upon which civilians could, presumably, rest their elbows. A thin slit ran above the ledge for the passage of paperwork. All in all, this tucked-away room was the kind one expected to find at a maximum-security prison, the kind of tight quarters into which some woeful mother or father might be sequestered in order to have a timed conversation with their convict child.
This was the FBI field office’s interview room, and Xana had never ever been on this side of the glass. She felt knocked a bit out of her skin. Her guts were squeezed with claustrophobia. The anxiety parched her mouth and throat. She was Pavlov’s alcoholic.
Pacing did not help. Pacing only reminded her how constrictive the space was. But still Xana paced, hugging her arms to her chest like mail. In this room designed to addle a person with a clear conscience, a person burdened by sin could quickly go mad, and when for fuck’s sake would someone appear on the other side of the glass? Who would it be? How long had it been since Del had escorted her to this room? How long would they make her wait?
Or were they there already, the lot of them, watching her stalk to and fro as if they were patrons at a zoo and she the—what? Chimpanzee? Hyena?
Enough of this shit.
She was going to have to do the instigating.
As always.
In this small room in this federal building, she plucked out a cigarette and lit it up.
“Don’t be an idiot, Xana.”
The male voice came from the other side of the glass, where the reflection of the lit cigarette faded and was replaced by the long hangdog scowl of Angelo Potter. His side of the interview room was identical to hers, only on his ledge, between his resting elbows, was an assortment of papers.
“Hey, Angelo,” she said, and snuffed her cigarette out on the glass, just below his left eye. “You look good.”
Lies. He looked awful. Necktie askew. Eyes laden with baggage. But Angelo always looked awful. So what if he would never be selected to run any press conferences? The man was within spitting distance of a pension from the FBI. The man deserved respect.
But so did she. She hadn’t expected a ticker-tape parade, but she was Xanadu Marx, damn it. She had won the Medal for Meritorious Achievement and the Shield of Bravery, and yet her reappearance after all these months warranted the attention not of Jim Christie, for whom she had for years dutifully and—frankly—extraordinarily closed difficult cases, but instead the attention of subordinates like Del and Angelo?
Not cool.
Unless this thing at the airport was even bigger than she suspected and Jim Christie was otherwise occupied. That would explain a lot.
“So when did you finish rehab?” Angelo asked her.
“Seriously? You have my paperwork in front of you. You know exactly when I finished.”
He shifted in his seat. “I was trying to make conversation.”
“Why?”
“Because