liability and environmental issues. She could well imagine him living like a king on the proceeds of his powerful voice and structured mind.
Still, the likelihood of an everyday citizen cracking a drug-smuggling operation was about as likely as her suddenly deciding to lay down her Glock and become a pole dancer.
“Drugs are smuggled in coffee grounds,” he said in conclusion.
“Twenty years ago,” she said drily as she turned off the recorder and returned it to her pocket. “Things have gotten a bit more sophisticated these days.”
“I don’t envision Jack as a major drug kingpin. This is a small operation. Unsophisticated methods would suit them better.”
Despite herself, she was impressed he’d thought through the conclusions of what he’d witnessed. “So why did you come to us? If Rafton is dealing drugs, this is a matter for the DEA.”
“I have reason to believe he’s smuggling more than drugs.”
“How?” she asked, though she suddenly knew.
“I’ve been watching him.”
She sighed heavily. Random citizens playing at being cops was a surefire way of getting somebody killed. “I’d prefer you leave this to the professionals.”
“You mean the professionals who don’t believe anything illicit is going on?”
“I haven’t come to any conclusions yet.”
Clearly annoyed, he tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. His gaze locked with hers. “The FBI do investigate major thefts, don’t they?”
“Last time I checked.”
“And art theft would still fall in that category?”
“It would.”
“Then I’ve come to the right agency.”
It would still mean she’d have to give the DEA a heads-up, and interjurisdictional cooperation with those cowboys was one of her least favorite job requirements.
Hamilton leaned forward. “I didn’t ask you here on a whim, Agent Blair. I’m not a panicked or bored islander looking for attention. There’s something to this case.”
“It’s not a case yet.”
Those elegant hands, linked and resting on the desk in front of him, clenched. “Why are you so skeptical of my information?”
“Why do you think Jack Rafton’s stealing art?”
“Because two nights ago, he unloaded a box shaped like a large painting.”
She’d asked the obvious; she’d gotten the obvious answer. “Maybe he’s just buying art with his drug-smuggling proceeds.”
“Maybe he is. Why are you so skeptical of my information?”
Because the SAC would never, on purpose, give me anything with teeth.
She bit back that response, though, and stated facts, which she was sure the sharp lawyer would appreciate. “Drug smuggling is an extremely risky and dangerous pastime. Only the very desperate or very foolish would choose that route. The drug kingpins are protective to the death of their product’s distribution and often disembowel those who cross them.
“From the quick background check I did on Jack Rafton, summa cum laude graduate of the College of Charleston and longtime insurance broker of Palmer’s Island, I don’t see him blending well in that violent world.”
Hamilton nodded. “True enough.”
“Rafton also doesn’t drive an exotic car, which, if you’ll pardon the cliché, is a drug dealer’s biggest weakness.”
“And how do you know that?”
She shrugged. “The parking lot outside. There’s a well-used SUV that belongs to the family counselor. A fairly new but understated luxury sedan for the real estate agent, a pickup truck for the insurance guy and a perfectly restored Triumph Spitfire convertible painted British Racing Green.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Which I’m sure belongs to you.”
“You ran the tags.”
“Didn’t need to.”
He said nothing for a long moment as he studied her. “Well, I suppose somebody at the Bureau is taking my suspicions seriously if they sent you.”
She started to argue with him, to explain that the only reason she’d been sent was because he was friends with a powerful man. But admitting that would be admitting she had no influence and simply did as she was told. Plus, despite the urge not to be, she was flattered he recognized her investigative skills.
“We appreciate the cooperation of concerned citizens and follow up on any tip that will lead to the arrest and conviction of anyone participating in criminal activity.”
“Ah, the pat, politically correct answer. Not what I would have expected from a woman who risked her career by questioning Senator Grammer’s son.”
Malina felt the blood drain from her head as humiliation washed over her. “Agent Clairmont told you.”
Hamilton nodded. “As I’m sure he mentioned, we’re old friends. For what it’s worth, he considers you an asset to the Bureau. He also respects your willingness to do whatever it takes to see justice served, even if your methods are sometimes rash.”
“That kid was guilty as sin,” she said, fighting to talk past her tight jaw, even as she felt a quick spurt of pleasure in hearing her boss respected her.
“Sam thinks so, too. Power buys silence way too easily.”
“Not with me.”
“So noted. But I’m guessing a drug-and/or art-smuggling case could put a nice letter of commendation in your file. Not to mention I’m suddenly moved to make a generous campaign donation to whoever runs against that idiot Grammer in the next election.”
Her gaze shot to his. “Surely you didn’t just attempt to bribe a government agent.”
A wide, breath-stealing smile bloomed on his face. “Surely not.”
She rose slowly to her feet. Who the hell was this guy?
Smart, successful and wealthy. A law-abiding citizen who took untold hours of his time to investigate a professional neighbor, then used a powerful association to see that his observations were taken seriously. Was he bored, curious or did he have a hidden agenda?
Bracing her hands on his desk, she noted he’d stood when she had and now she was forced to look up at him. At five-seven, she wasn’t a tiny woman, but the height and breadth of him made her feel small and feminine in comparison. “I’m here to follow up on your information as ordered by my supervisor, Special Agent in Charge Samuel Clairmont. Do you have anything further to add to your previous statements?”
“I imagine you’d be interested in
