you, I’ve seen enough.”
The voice halted her steps. Deep. Full of authority, and a sadness that made her want to hug him. Was he the brooding type? Portia needed to get the guy through this, and then get herself back to closing the case. She didn’t need her resolve tested, no matter how tempting the idea of a handsome man might be. Relationships didn’t work, not when you dug below the attractive exterior and actually tried to build something real. Love never lasted. What was the point of proving—again—that she was right?
“This isn’t my brother.”
* * *
“Excuse me?” The medical examiner had a soft tone. Kind. Or at least he had the presence of mind enough to understand the circumstances. But it wasn’t necessary for them to treat Declan like he was the relative of this deceased man.
He wanted to hang his head in relief. Just bend forward, stick his hands on his knees and take a few deep breaths. It wasn’t Nicholas. This was all just a day wasted. A mistake. But instead of broadcasting his relief to these people he didn’t know, Declan glanced at each of them.
The sheriff. The NCIS agent. The medical examiner. “This isn’t my brother.” And he’d flown all the way from DC to be the one to tell them this.
But if he had to be honest with himself, he’d needed it.
Plane flights—the emotional stress notwithstanding. The waiting. Sitting. Walking. He’d been rapidly approaching burnout when he got that call. Coming off a long night of little activity on the White House grounds. The break had been good, even if it had been about trying to sleep while traveling across the country to identify his brother’s body.
Declan turned to face down the sheriff. “You said Nicholas Stringer. Right? That is what you said.” The sheriff gave him nothing. “Want to explain why you gave my brother’s name, when this is not my brother?”
“Driver’s license,” the sheriff stated. No inflection, no sign of an apology. “Credit cards. All there in his wallet.”
So someone had stolen Nicholas’s identity? Surely they could spot a fake ID. The NCIS woman who seemed to be in charge continued her study of him. He’d been aware of her stare for a couple of minutes now. Assessing him? Maybe. Did she consider him a suspect?
If she wasn’t going to apologize for this mistake, that was fine. Declan could deal. “Someone want to tell me how it’s possible you falsely ID’d this man?” He hadn’t seen Nicholas in a few years...was it four already? How could that be? Still, he hadn’t forgotten what his brother looked like.
“Driver’s license,” the sheriff said. “Credit cards.”
Like Declan was dense, or something.
The NCIS agent-in-charge turned to the sheriff then. “Want to tell me again how you were being helpful?”
Three other agents had drawn up around them. Ball caps, with NCIS on the front. Office attire and rain jackets, badges and guns. All of them had protective stances. They’d go to battle for this woman, their boss. And the local sheriff ranked about as high in their estimation as a stinkbug.
Declan looked at the dead body again. Relief swept through him once more, quickly followed by that grief. Someone had died. It just hadn’t been his brother. The sorrow he’d nursed since that phone call early this morning was still there.
I’m sorry for your loss had to be said. But to who? The next of kin wasn’t here. It was supposed to be him.
He caught her dark-brown gaze. Her hair hung past her shoulders, layered curls in different shades of brown. Her clothes were professional, but not so stuffy-looking that she didn’t seem completely at home out here in the mountains. The woman was an enigma for sure—and he hadn’t been that curious about a woman for a long time. Not that he allowed himself to dwell on it long enough to do more than register the feeling. She was not a mystery he planned on solving.
Declan’s head was too full of work. Being a Secret Service agent on the president’s detail was taxing to the extreme. A killer schedule. Long days. He didn’t know how the man kept going for that long, and it pushed them all to keep up with him. Considering they were the best of the best of federal agents, that only made him respect the president all the more.
She said, “I apologize for the fact you had to come all the way out here.”
Declan nodded. “Thank you.” And he was sincere. He really did appreciate her apology.
The medical examiner and his assistant pushed the stretcher to their van, and the sheriff followed along behind. Which left Declan with the four NCIS agents.
The woman in charge glanced at her team. “You guys head back. I’ll follow shortly.”
The redhead and the younger man started walking in the direction of the vehicles. The third NCIS agent teammate said, “Boss?”
“I’m good, Lenny.”
Declan could appreciate the guy not wanting to leave a woman alone with an unknown man. She was also this Lenny’s boss, so he respected her answer. But the look he shot Declan spoke clearly that he didn’t like the idea.
“Like I said—” She shot him a professional smile. “—I’m sorry you got dragged all the way across the country.”
Declan shrugged. “We might not be super close, but he’s family.”
“And now we’ve wasted your time.”
Maybe not. “I have a few days off. I’d like to know who this man was, carrying my brother’s ID.”
“He probably had it made recently, considering the photo is of our victim but the name is your brother’s.” She pulled her phone out. “You have a contact number for him?”
“I...usually just email him.” He gave her the address, and she typed it into her phone.
“We’ll figure it out.”
He stuck his hand out. “I’m Declan Stringer.”
“Secret Service, I know. Again, I’m sorry the sheriff wasted your time.” She put her hand in his and they shook, his cold hand to her wool glove. “I’m Portia Finch.”
“NCIS Special Agent, I know.” He couldn’t help the smile. “And thank you for apologizing, I really do appreciate it.”
She nodded, and a smile curled one corner of her lips. “It’s nice to meet you, Declan. Despite the circumstances.”
“I don’t know whether to be relieved or not. I mean, I am, but someone is still dead.”
“I’ll keep you apprised of what I find out.” Portia pulled a card from the inside pocket of her coat and handed it to him. Office number. Email address. Cell phone.
He’d rather stick around and see what they learned than be filled in later. “Thanks.” He managed to get the word out, even while he decided it was just professional courtesy.
She wasn’t giving him her number for
