Page 37 of Big Bad Wolfe

Zane laid the wallet on the hood, tossed the cell phone up and down in his wide palm. Then he cocked his arm and let the phone fly high, fast, and far into the woods. “Oops. Sorry about that. It must’ve slipped.” As Polson swore, Zane reached into the driver’s side door, plucked the keys from the ignition, and they also sailed into the woods … on the opposite side from the phone. “Well, hell. I’m all thumbs today.”

“I’ll have your badge for this.”

“You’re welcome to try.” Zane bared his teeth in a smile that iced Jillian’s blood. “Assume the position until I’m in my car and gone. Then you’re free to leave.”

“You’ve still got my Glock.”

“Yeah, you can pick it up at the downtown Portland FBI office after it’s been examined and cleared of being used in the commission of any crimes. I’d allow at least a couple months. Maybe three. My paperwork’s backed up like a bitch.”

“You fucking Nazi, I’m going to—”

“Might want to rethink that statement. Threaten a federal law enforcement officer, and Iwouldhave to haul you in.” He clapped a hand on the investigator’s back, gave it a pat. “And Dwayne, just a prudent word of advice: find another client. Come anywhere near Ms. Ramsay again, and you’ll lose more than a phone and your weapon.”

Zane strode to the Cooper, slid inside. He pulled onto the road, but instead of driving forward, he made a sharp three-point police turn and rocketed past the furious PI, back toward Portland.

Jillian looked at the grim set of his chiseled features. “Where are we going?”

“Back to Dallas’ office. I want to scope out this Polson with him … and pick up some extra equipment we’ll need.”

She glanced in the rearview mirror, saw Polson standing beside his stranded vehicle. The investigator flipped them the bird, and she broke into chuckles. “I have to say, Champ, you’ve still got the trophy-winning pitching arm.”

His rare, beautiful grin zinged her from head to toes … and sent her heart soaring out of the ballpark.

* * *

On the way home again after Zane and Dallas’ private confab in McQuade’s office, Zane stayed intent and focused, but oddly now seemed far more confident and less edgy. Jillian shook her head. Her macho FBI guy was perfectly comfortable with bullets, but babies scared the crap out of him.

When they turned onto her street, he stiffened. “Jillian.”

“What is— Oh.Oh no!”

He parked in the driveway and she scrambled from the car, staring in horror at her front lawn. Someone had destroyed all her flowers. Every pot was smashed, the rose trellis splintered into pieces, each plant she’d lovingly settled into the ground and nurtured into bloom uprooted and ripped to shreds.

“Why?” she whispered. “Who would—Why?”

Her throat clogged and she started to shake … and then Zane was there wrapping a strong, steadying arm around her. “Easy. Take it easy, sweetheart.”

“I don’t understand. It’s just so senseless—”

“This is personal. Meant to hit you where it hurts.”

She swallowed hard. “Well, it worked.”

He urged her toward the house. “Let’s get inside.”

She gasped. “You don’t think they got in—Aragorn!Zane, I have to—” Icy with terror, she ran to the front door, fumbled for her keys.

Steady and assured beside her, Zane took them from her trembling fingers. “No signs of anyone attempting to break into the house.” His muscled forearm blocked her when she would’ve rushed through the door he swung open. “But I go in first.”

When had he drawn his gun? A floaty sense of unreality numbed her as she followed him in, her glance ricocheting around the room. Everything looked undisturbed. At the sight of Aragorn’s sleepy green eyes blinking at her from his perch on the back of the sofa, a relieved sigh billowed out.

Her relief cut short when Zane withdrew what looked like a small, complicated remote control from his pocket and began to pace the floor.

“What is that?”

He touched his index finger to his lips and continued his circuit, stopping at the driftwood lamp on the side table. “Bring me a couple of sandwich bags, would you?”

When she returned from the kitchen and handed them to him, he turned one inside-out, covered his fingers with it, and reached beneath the end table. Withdrawing a small silver disc, he held it close to his mouth. “Tsk, tsk, Dwayne. Now I have an ass-load of due cause. I find fingerprints oranyevidence that proves these belong to you, and you’ll lose your license … and face charges.” He flipped the baggie right-side-out, sealing the small device inside without touching it.

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