an agent for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, it was her job to find the person who’d shot this young man in cold blood and left him in the middle of nowhere.
Special Agent Lenny Chen saw her approach. He gave her that chin lift guys give other guys—or their boss—instead of saying Hi. Older than her by a couple of years, he was a solid member of her team. Portia was honestly surprised he didn’t have a team of his own yet.
She said, “About done?”
Another chin lift from Lenny.
Anna Sparrow, the other woman on the team, raised an evidence bag. The bullet was mangled, but their lab was top-notch.
“Casings?” Portia asked.
One bullet had gone straight through the victim and embedded in a tree. Alejandro had told her the second bullet was likely still lodged in the victim’s chest. The more evidence they collected, the better picture they could gather of what happened. If they could find shell casings as well as the bullet...
“Got both of them,” Anna said, rolling her shoulders.
“Good job.” Portia glanced between them. “Both of you.”
“One body, two bullets and no witnesses. The only hard part was the two-hour drive to get all the way out here in the boonies.” Anna’s green eyes glinted and she shook her head, her bright red hair swaying from her ponytail. “I call the backseat on the way home.”
Portia heard a raised voice and glanced over her shoulder. The conversation between the suited man and the sheriff had become heated. Was the guy a reporter? He was dressed more like a fed—from one of those agencies that thought only having three letters made them better.
Portia lifted her watch. They’d been here six hours, but this wasn’t a job to be rushed. Still, it was almost time to head back to the office. “Where’s the kid?”
Chris Armstrong was the youngest member of their team.
“Walking the perimeter,” Anna said. “Making sure we didn’t miss anything.” Her Boston Irish lilt was gentler now. Adrenaline brought out the fighter in her—all the fire that red hair promised. Good thing it took a lot to get her riled.
“I’ll go get him.” Lenny turned and wandered off.
“He’s actually been kinda chatty today,” Anna said.
“And his mom?”
“She had a good morning, I guess.”
Lenny didn’t tend to volunteer information, but he took care of his ailing mother. If she’d had a good morning that was a positive, right? Portia said, “Ready to—”
A man yelled “I want to see him!”
She whipped around. Her hand moved to her weapon as she did so, in time to see the local sheriff quickly overpowered. Just a shove, and the suited guy was past the lawman. That was when she saw it.
Silver badge.
Short dark hair, strong jaw—not that she was noticing. What was the Secret Service... Ah, the brother. Of course. Nicholas Stringer, their victim, had a brother on the president’s protective detail. Evidently Declan Stringer had heard what happened and come all the way out here.
He could have identified the body at their office. And that would have been what she’d suggested when she made the call to him. Something that hadn’t happened yet. So who called him?
Portia strode across the grass while he made his way to the stretcher Alejandro was about to load into his van. Declan Stringer tried to sidestep Alejandro, who shifted and held up one hand, matching the Secret Service agent inch-for-inch in height.
Alejandro said, “And who are you?”
The sheriff sauntered over. “This would be the deceased’s brother. Declan Stringer, Secret Service.”
Declan still didn’t acknowledge her, or even the conversation going on around him. All his attention was on the body bag, giving her the chance to study him some more. His jaw was actually squarer up close, his hair that close-cropped, military style. Functional enough without needing gel, until it got a little longer and required taming.
He was handsome, probably a little older than her, maybe late thirties. He stood with a bearing that said he knew exactly who he was—and what he was capable of. A professional. One of those Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ve got this type of guys. She’d seen a hundred of them in her line of work. And she’d had to prove to each of them that despite the colossal horror of her being female, she was in fact perfectly capable of doing her job.
“Agent Stringer, if you’ll step aside with me. I’d like to speak with you.”
“I want to see my brother.” He was still facing down Alejandro.
The medical examiner glanced at her.
Portia would rather talk to Stringer first, get him to do this back at the office, but Stringer wasn’t going to back down. She nodded once, then turned to the sheriff and waved him two steps away. Might as well ask the sheriff a question or two while Declan Stringer identified his brother.
She moved half a dozen steps assuming the sheriff would follow, then turned and squared her shoulders. His attention was half on her, half on the Secret Service guy. “Want to tell me why the next of kin is here?”
No remorse showed on the older man’s face as he glanced at her, despite the fact he had zero jurisdiction in this case. And he certainly shouldn’t have been calling the family. But this guy had been the duly elected sheriff of this county for forty-two years. By now there was no other way to do things. Just his.
Reminded Portia of her father.
The sheriff said, “When I saw the ID, I ran his name. Marine, brother in high places. Figured I’d help y’all out, get the word across the wires. Called you. Called the Secret Service.”
And Declan Stringer had hopped the first plane from DC as early as when the call had gone out to her and the rest of her team at the Northwest Field Office. Portia sighed. It was time for them to get the body to the morgue.
“I don’t hear a thanks.”
She sent the sheriff a look that was probably overkill, but he seemed not to understand subtle. Then she wandered over to where the Secret Service agent stood. Back straight, his face completely impassive. She didn’t want to think about how hard this was for him. If she did that—if she empathized—she would end up personalizing this case. She’d start to feel everything, which would kill her objectivity. Not a good plan. Especially when they saw the worst people could do to each other as frequently as they did.
Alejandro had pulled back the zipper, revealing the face of their dead marine. Nicholas Stringer’s file said he worked out of the same navy base where their office was. So what was he doing all the way out here in the wild? Alejandro’s liver temp calculation had put the approximate time of death at between ten last night, and midnight. Nicholas had lain on the grass all night before an early-morning hiker had found him.
The guy wasn’t dressed for exercise. Boots,
