His brother was the intended victim...

Now someone’s after him in this Secret Service Agents story

After a man is killed while carrying his brother’s navy ID, Secret Service agent Declan Stringer is determined to figure out why—even if it turns a killer’s sights on him. But first he must convince NCIS agent Portia Finch to partner with him on the case. As attraction sparks between them, Portia knows she’s on dangerous ground...because Declan is hiding deadly secrets.

LISA PHILLIPS is a British-born, tea-drinking, guitar-playing wife and mom of two. She and her husband lead worship together at their local church. Lisa pens high-stakes stories of mayhem and disaster where you can find made-for-each-other love that always ends in a happily-ever-after. She understands that faith is a work in progress more exciting than any story she can dream up.

Also by Lisa Phillips

Secret Service Agents

Security Detail

Homefront Defenders

Yuletide Suspect

Witness in Hiding

Defense Breach

Murder Mix-Up

Double Agent

Star Witness

Manhunt

Easy Prey

Sudden Recall

Dead End

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Murder Mix-Up

Lisa Phillips

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09496-2

MURDER MIX-UP

© 2019 Lisa Phillips

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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“I’m Portia Finch.”

“NCIS special agent, I know.” Declan couldn’t help the smile.

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 that the body wasn’t my brother. 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.

She wasn’t giving him her number for any other reason, either. Despite the first flicker of what he recognized as attraction on his part.

Just a little zing. Could be more. Was he going to find out?

“There’s a whole lot of work to do to sort out this mess.” Her gaze snagged on something over his shoulder. “I—”

But before she could finish, shots rang out.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for joining me on this journey with Portia and Declan. I’ve wanted to write an NCIS book for a long time and am excited for the possibility of more to come! Portia and Declan are both take-charge people, independent and strong enough to take care of themselves. Sometimes that can seem like a recipe for disaster, but I’ve found in my own marriage that often it’s the similarities between partners that make the relationship stronger.

Portia and Declan both had hurt from the past which scarred them emotionally. Neither was easier or harder to bear than the other—it was simply their experience. Hurts come in all shapes and sizes, but we have a God who delights in being our Comforter. And in bringing people into our lives who will show that comfort to us. I pray that He is doing that for you, and that you can see it.

If you wish to write to me, my email address is lisaphillipsbks@gmail.com and you can find out about my books through www.authorlisaphillips.com.

God bless you richly,

Lisa Phillips

But I would strengthen you with my mouth, and the moving of my lips should asswage your grief.

—Job 16:5

To my fabulous writer friends. Strong like Portia, and loving like Declan. A great match!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

ONE

NCIS Special Agent Portia Finch watched as the medical examiner zipped the body bag closed. Crouched as she was, her boots sinking into the soft earth of the state park, the sound eclipsed all thought for a second. Why it should hit her now—with this case, rather than all the others she’d investigated in her years as a navy cop—she didn’t know.

An approaching car snapped her out of her thoughts. A silver four-door, American brand. A rental? Whoever was in the driver’s seat pulled between her car, the duty SUV her teammates had driven and the medical examiner’s van. Determined to be seen, whoever they were. Determined to get here.

A dark-haired man in a gray suit climbed out. Portia watched the local sheriff make his way to the man.

The medical examiner cleared his throat. He had deep lines around his wise eyes that crinkled as he stared at her with that knowing look. But he didn’t ask what was in her head—not here. When he stood, his knees popped. “I’ll know more about the deceased after I get him back to the office.”

“Thanks, Alejandro.” Portia stood while the medical examiner and his assistant lifted the body onto a stretcher. She eyed the silver car again, then made her way over to where two of her team members were busy taking pictures of the bullet that had embedded itself in the tree.

Two gunshots, center mass. The victim, Nicholas Stringer, hadn’t had time to realize what was about to happen. The fact he was a marine—the Corps being a branch of the navy—meant it was Portia’s team who got to investigate.

As 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, jeans, sweater and jacket. It was cold enough that Portia was wearing gloves. What had Nicholas been doing out here? Surely not hiking.

Alejandro said, “If you could—”

“Thank 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 any other reason, either. Despite the first flicker of what he recognized as attraction on his part.

Just a little zing. Could be more. Was he going to find out? No. Declan didn’t need the added complication of a relationship when he was facing some unsettling feelings about the toll his job was taking on him. He had four days off, and a decision to make. One that had to be all about him and what he wanted for the future. It didn’t need to be about a cute brunette with serious eyes, who was just doing her job.

The medical examiner’s van pulled away, followed by the sheriff’s Jeep. Her teammates took a little longer, idling for a minute in their car before they trailed after the others. That left his rental and her car.

“Time to head out?”

Portia Finch nodded. “Two-hour drive back to the office, then a whole lot of work to do to sort out this mess.” Her gaze snagged on something over his shoulder. “I—”

Before he could ask her what it was, shots rang out.

TWO

A bullet smacked the tree beside her. Portia ducked and rushed to another tree for cover, whispering a prayer for protection. Where that inclination came from, she didn’t know. And now wasn’t the time to figure out why she was praying after so long.

She scanned the area and searched for the shooter. Declan had found a tree ten feet from her and huddled behind it, his gun held in a loose aim. Ready. She could appreciate a competent man she didn’t have to coddle.

The next shot hit the tree beside him.

Not good, but it gave her an approximate location for the shooter. Portia raced toward the origin, moving in an arc that would put her on his right flank. Another shot rang out in Declan’s direction and she heard him return fire.

She caught sight of their assailant then. Dark blue jacket. Ball cap. Caucasian. Forties, maybe. She couldn’t get a good enough look at his face.

“Drop the gun!”

He swung it toward her.

Portia fired, then dived. Forced to hit the ground as the shooter did the same. She heard his muffled cry of pained alarm, then footsteps cracking branches and shifting leaves. She’d hit him.

“Portia!” Declan raced toward her while the shooter got away. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Go get him!” Nothing bruised but her ego, she stood and brushed leaves from her behind while she ran after him.

An engine fired up, and what sounded like a diesel truck roared away.

“He got away.”

Like she couldn’t see that for herself? “I don’t suppose you managed to see a license plate?”

Declan shook his head. “Tan truck. Chevy.”

“Older model, diesel.”

His eyebrows lifted.

Portia shrugged one shoulder and headed for her car. “It chugged a little before the engine turned over. Could just be cold, but more likely he has a clogged fuel filter.”

Silence. “He was holding his shoulder. I think you hit him.”

She nodded. Listened to his footsteps bringing up the rear. Shame this wasn’t a leisurely hike through the park. Not that she did anything in a leisurely way, but she enjoyed recreation. So long as no one pestered her with comments or questions, she could get along quite nicely with whoever accompanied her.

And yes, she realized that at thirty-four she likely shouldn’t be quite this set in her ways. But she was who she was: the daughter of a marine gunnery sergeant and single father who not only taught her how to shoot but also taught her everything he knew about cars. Tears were unacceptable, unless they were angry tears—in which case she’d been sent to the garage to work out her frustration on the heavy bag.

She was also the youngest female senior field agent NCIS had. Declan might be a hotshot Secret Service agent, but she’d fought every day to garner the respect she’d earned along with her seniority.

She stared him down over her shoulder. “You’ll need to come in to the office and give a statement.”

“I can do that.” His footsteps sped up until he walked alongside her. “Why do you seem super calm, and not like you just got in a gunfight?”

She put her weapon away. Was it just adrenaline, or was this man the most cooperative witness ever? “The shooter got away.”

Declan shook his head. “That was fast. Like, seconds and it was over.” He blew out a breath. “Things don’t happen that quickly at the White House. We see it coming, and we respond in the applicable way. Then we do hours of paperwork while the person is processed and interviewed, then sent to jail.”

“In that case, about the only similarity between our jobs is the paperwork.” She shot him a look, and he smiled.

“Why does that not surprise me?” He paused. “Are we going to inform the sheriff of what just happened?”

“We are on his turf. But until I know that wasn’t related to my case, there’s no need. It’s my investigation.” And that guy had stuck around purely for the chance to shoot at a second person. Declan. “Not at me.”

“What was that?”

“He wasn’t shooting at me.” Portia slowed beside his rental car and said, “He wasn’t even interested in me until I called him out. That man wanted you dead.”

“You think he’s the one who shot my...your victim.”

“Could be he thought that was your brother and he killed him. He might have it in for both of you.” And why would that be? “Anyone you know who might want to hurt the two of you?”

Declan swallowed.

Portia waited.

“I’d like to hold off on story time until I know it’s necessary for me to tell you.”

She folded her arms. “It’s necessary.”

He didn’t back down. “Still. I’d like to maintain my privacy until I know it’s related to your case.”

Sure, throw her words back at her. Portia said, “That won’t fly for long.”

“Just until I know for sure.”

An uncooperative witness was the last thing she needed. Portia turned to her car, then said over her shoulder, “I expect you at the office, giving your statement on the shooting that just occurred, as well as your description of the truck. Soon as you get there.”

She’d get the rest of the story out of him then. As well as have her people dig into Declan Stringer’s background to find out everything there was to know.

“I’ll check into a hotel and come straight over.”

“Fair enough.” She could accept the fact he wasn’t a man to be pushed around, even if it made her life a little harder that he wasn’t...malleable. Portia was way too type A to respect a man she could manipulate. “I’ll see you there.”

She had to walk away. It was that or stare into those dark eyes some more...and probably forget she had work to get on with. Attraction was one thing—she just had to get done what she needed to in spite of it—but a relationship was a whole different animal. One she wasn’t ever going to go near again, considering the last one had been a disaster.

Her dad had never gotten over her mom leaving the way she had. One day there, the next, stuff gone. Suitcase gone. Car gone. They’d never seen her again.

Probably Portia hadn’t ever gotten over it either. She figured that was true even if she had no intention of ever discussing it with a professional. Too much work to do to see the shrink. And as excuses went, it was the best she’d ever come up with. Get up, go to work. What free time she had, Portia tested her limits rock climbing, bouldering. Strength was more than just physical, it was also mental. And she could see it in Declan Stringer.

Too bad there was intentionally no room left in her life for a relationship—even if she was looking for one. Which she was not. It was just easier that way.

Portia turned up the talk radio station loud enough for it to drown out her whirling thoughts and gripped the steering wheel as she drove. Watching for that tan truck all the way back to Seattle.

Declan was wrong. The gunfight had affected her. It was just that it took longer than a couple of minutes. She shifted in the seat. Process the fear, set it aside. Not something she was about to do in front of anyone. She wasn’t without weaknesses; she just didn’t acknowledge them. Just like her father had taught her.

It was almost six in the evening by the time she got back to the office, but everyone was there. Portia set her weapon in the top drawer of her desk and said “Who wants to go first?”

Lenny, Anna and Chris just looked at each other. No one spoke.

“One of you must have something to explain how our dead man has his picture on a marine’s ID.”

Anna winced, then motioned to the director’s office with a nod of her head. Portia glanced over and saw her boss, Director Elenor Golden, shake Declan’s hand.

* * *

Portia was mad. Declan could tell as much as he trailed after the director. Portia glanced between her boss and Declan, shooting him a look he couldn’t confuse. Yes, he’d gone straight over her head to speak with her boss. But he had a good reason.

He really wanted to know how the dead guy had been found with his brother’s ID—and why the man had been killed.

He needed to know if there was a threat to his family.

After all these years?

The idea had niggled at him for the first hour of drive time before he’d made a few phone calls. Now he wanted to know badly enough to have used his not inconsiderable pull to get on this case. Not working it. Just close enough that he could observe.

What else was he going to do with his vacation?

“Special Agent Finch.”

Portia stood, and her boss explained exactly what they’d just discussed in her office. The director had a strong presence, but the person in the room who arrested him...made him want to stutter...was Portia.

Her gaze came to him, a frown on her face.

“Run down the case.” The director stepped to the side, and turned toward her office. “And figure this out.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Portia’s voice was cold. There was no other way to describe it. She looked at him with a What did you do? face.

“Guess I’m sticking around for a while.” If it took longer than four days, he’d have to call his own director and work something out.

Portia spun on her heel and strode back to her desk. The woman was a consummate professional, but there was no way she was going to simply roll over and invite him into her fold. And judging by the looks on the other agent’s faces, the rest of them weren’t going to give him anything either.

“Okay, run down what we—” Her phone rang. She snapped up the receiver. “Finch.” She listened for a second. Her gaze darted to him and he thought he saw a gleam of something flash there, but it disappeared just as fast. “Great. We’ll be right there.” She hung up.

“Alejandro wants us in the morgue.” She strode past the desks of her colleagues and didn’t even look at him. “You’re with me, Stringer.”

Declan followed her to the elevator, where Portia jabbed at the button for the basement a little harder than was probably necessary. He sighed. “Look—”

She cut him off. “Don’t. You made your play and now we have to live with it. So let me get on with this case, and then you can be on your way.”

Yep, she didn’t feel the attraction. If she did, there was no way she’d dismiss him like this. Not that he wanted warm and fuzzy between them. Declan was interested in one thing—finding out what this murder had to do with his brother. Anything that could’ve been between him and Portia, he didn’t want it clogging up getting to the bottom of this mystery anyway. The fact she felt nothing for him was a bonus.

“If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s liars.”

Declan bristled. “When did I—”

“You said you were going to check into your hotel. Not that you were going to come straight here. I’m surprised you didn’t get a speeding ticket for how fast you had to be driving to get here ahead of me and get in a meeting with the director. All just so you could weasel your way into my case.”

“I checked in online.”

“While you were driving?”

“Quick rest-stop break,” he said. “You didn’t need to stop?”

“It’s a two-hour drive. I’m not five years old.”

Ouch. “Look, I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re not. And don’t patronize me by pretending to be. You wanted in, so you got yourself in.” The elevator doors slid open.

“I was going to say sorry about going behind your back, but my way was faster.” He was results oriented. It was the way he was trained. After all, if he misstepped by taking too long to make a decision, it could cost the president his life.

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

She knocked twice on the door. A buzzer sounded, and Portia let herself into the morgue. Alejandro looked up, saw Declan behind her. His perfect eyebrows rose. Even with some kind of goopy mess on his gloves, the man didn’t have a hair out of place. He switched the gloves out for clean ones, and Declan got his first look at the beginning of an autopsy.

“Company?”

Portia said, “He’s shadowing the case.”

Alejandro eyed Declan, then said, “Two gunshot wounds, one through and through and one in the sternum.”

She folded her arms. “We already knew that.”

Alejandro glanced at Portia.

“Sorry.”

He shook his head, all forgiven. Then said to Declan, “I can get you a mask if the smell...”

It wasn’t bad, per se. The room was ventilated. Still, the smell was interesting. Declan saw the curl in the corner of Portia’s lips.

This was why she’d jumped at the chance to bring him down here. She thought she could get him in front of a dead body and he’d lose his lunch? He nearly smiled at the realization. The NCIS agent was testing his mettle. Forcing him to walk in her shoes and deal with what she saw every day.

He probably should have been insulted by that. But meeting a woman who held her own, who expected a man to not cower but meet the challenge? There was nothing more attractive than strength like that. A woman who knew what she wanted and didn’t settle for anything less.

Declan had to push aside the rush of thought. He wanted to go over all that, to process this revelation and set it aside so he could focus, but there wasn’t even time to do that. They were waiting.

He lifted his chin instead, and turned to the medical examiner. “So the victim probably knew the shooter?”

Alejandro said, “From the velocity of impact, and the damage it did—which I’ll have to confirm after I’m done with the full autopsy—I’d say at this point that it was three feet, maximum.”

Portia said, “Only someone you know, and trust, or someone you’re doing a deal with, gets that close. Unless the shooter was fast enough to pull off two shots.” She shrugged. “But if the shots were straight on then they were facing each other.”

She backed up three feet and held her arms up in front, making a gun with her fingers and holding it in her other palm.

“So they were talking, and the shooter pulled out a gun,” Declan said. “Fast enough the man didn’t turn away to run.”

She nodded.

Alejandro said, “I’ll let you know if I learn more.”

Portia thanked the medical examiner, and they headed for the hallway.

In the elevator, Declan said, “I can’t imagine not reacting at all if someone pulled a gun on me.”

“They were probably talking,” Portia said. “One second, conversation. The next he’s got his gun up and he’s firing two shots. Caught the guy off guard, close enough to make sure he absolutely got the job done. And then he stuck around to shoot at you hours later.”

She squared her shoulders in a way that didn’t bode well. “Want to tell me now who has it in for you and your brother badly enough to go to all this trouble?”

“You’re assuming the killer is the same person who shot at us.” He paused. “We don’t know that.”

“You’d rather there were two gunmen?”

The doors slid open and Declan exited the elevator. Maybe if there were, she could find her suspect.

And he’d never have to tell her the truth about his.

THREE

Portia sat at her desk while Declan hovered at the big TV screen, staring at the open tabs of all the information they’d collected so far. What was he hiding? And why couldn’t he just tell her? Whatever it was, she figured it was wrapped up in the reason his brother had been a target.

Assuming that was what had happened.

The fact their dead guy had been using Nicholas Stringer’s ID might simply be a coincidence. Then again, considering Declan was acting this way at all, likely not. There was a reason they were seemingly targets of a murderer. And he knew what that reason was.

She let him have his silence while she answered a few emails. Distracting herself from all the questions. When she was done, she moved to stand by him. “Well?”

“I should speak with my brother first.”

Portia saw the flinch in the skin around Declan’s eyes. He’d hidden his discomfort well, and she was getting the idea he would endure a lot before he broke that professional demeanor. Yes, bringing him down to autopsy had been a test. But if the guy was going to insinuate himself into her murder investigation then he was going to have to be all in with every part. It was what he’d asked for.

“I’ll contact your brother’s Captain and get him online for a chat with you.”

Nicholas Stringer—the real one, not the man their victim had pretended to be. Declan’s brother’s Marine unit was based out of Camp Pendleton in California—not here in Washington State where the ID had indicated. Which made her wonder why that was what had come up when they entered his name into their system. This was a more elaborate identity theft than she was used to seeing.

She said, “The system says your brother is deployed right now. He’s been in J-bad for nine months.”

Declan frowned. “J-bad?”

“Jalalabad, Afghanistan. There’s a forward operating base there.” She saw the look on Declan’s face. “You didn’t know he was deployed.”

He shrugged. “We aren’t that close.”

“I don’t have any siblings, so I wouldn’t even know how that works.”

“No?”

Portia shook her head. “It was just me and my dad.”

Empathy shone in his eyes. He said, “It’s been just me and Nicholas for years, though we have some extended family. He and I should probably talk more, but once you get in the habit of not picking up the phone it’s hard to change things.” He stretched his arms up over his head, then twisted left and right. “How about you and your dad?”

“He passed away two years ago.” The words were choked.

Portia didn’t wait for Declan to offer her condolences. She needed to focus on the case anyway, the way she’d been keeping her attention on her job since her dad had passed. What was the point in expending the energy to grieve, letting all the feeling swallow her whole, if it wasn’t going to change anything?

“Agent Armstrong,” she called out to Chris as she walked back to her desk. “Get me Corporal Stringer on-screen in MTAC.” It was probably about breakfast time in Afghanistan.

Their Multiple Threat Alert Center was a twin to the one at the Quantico office of NCIS. It was basically just a fancy name for a room where they gathered intelligence and could make secure communications.

“Sure thing, boss.” The kid’s Southern drawl sounded almost sarcastic. She eyed the probationary agent, and he shot her a grin. She sighed. Did he take anything seriously?

Lenny sat at his desk, across from Chris, frowning at his colleague.

Portia wandered over. “It’s late.” She spoke to Lenny in a low tone. “If you want to take off, we can hold down the fort. Catch you up in the morning.”

She could likely use his help, but Lenny needed to be home as much as possible. Working this case late into the night might help with the time zone in Afghanistan, but it wouldn’t help Lenny make sure his mother got to bed.

Lenny gathered his things and said good-night. Anna wandered over and clicked the remote that worked the TV screen between Chris’s and Lenny’s desks. “Update?”

Portia nodded. “Please.”

“I dug into the military record for Corporal Nicholas Stringer,” Anna said.

Portia held her hand up. “The driver’s license ID for the marine based in Washington, or the real one for Declan’s brother out of California?”

“Both.”

“Okay,” Portia said.

“As for the real Nicholas, there isn’t much but standard stuff. I found some interesting things on the Washington one I punted to Squire.”

Declan took a step closer to them. “Squire?”

Portia glanced at him. “Our forensic technician.”

Anna continued, “Squire has the bullet, the shell casings and the deceased’s clothes, so it might take a while, but I’m having him look into a lease. Someone is renting an apartment in Tacoma under the name Nicholas Stringer. I think our dead guy had his ID for a few weeks, at least. Long enough to make a life here.”

Portia nodded. “Social media?”

Anna said, “I had the same thought. I ran his photo in an online search and got a hit that indicates this is bigger than one fabricated ID. A single social media profile with the deceased’s picture and the name Nicholas Stringer. A couple of video shares was all he posted.”

Portia felt her eyebrows rise. “It’s a dummy account?”

“Set up two months ago. Before that, no digital footprint.”

“Some presence is less suspicious than no presence at all.”

Declan said, “What does that mean?”

Portia pointed to the profile Anna had put on-screen. “Someone who wants to stay hidden can stay off the internet, right? Just don’t sign up for those accounts and you’re anonymous. But it’s so uncommon these days that it’s actually kind of suspicious.”

“Because most people have social media accounts now.”

Portia nodded. “So they create a dummy profile. Just enough activity it gets a search result, but doesn’t give anything personal away. He wanted to be seen online using Nicholas Stringer’s ID.”

“How about you?” Declan lifted his chin. “Are you on these sites?”

“Most cops have a fake profile.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

This time it was Portia who lifted her chin. “Then I guess we’re even.”

Anna cleared her throat. “Uh...okay. So I’m going back to my desk now.”

Portia glanced at the agent and caught her smiling as she walked away. Declan opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off when Chris called down from the top of the stairs at the far end of the room.

“Stringer. Your brother will be on the line in T-minus two minutes.”

Declan headed for the stairs. Portia followed, and at the bottom step he turned to her. “Are you planning to listen in on my call?”

“I’ll give you privacy if you need it, but I also have questions for your brother that are pertinent to this investigation.”

He looked at her like he didn’t know if he believed her. Whether he did or not, she was about to get an answer to her question. One way or another she would find out what Declan was hiding.

“It’s routine,” she assured him. “And while your brother is at least safe from a murderer over in Afghanistan, I need to know whether you’ll continue to be in danger here.”

Declan shook his head and climbed the stairs. “He’s safe in the line of fire, and I’m the one in danger?”

“We can protect you.”

“It’s usually me standing between the gun and the president, doing the protecting.”

“With a team of people, all currently occupied with that job. So you let us do this for you.”

He stood with his hand on the door handle of the secure room. “And if I don’t need you to do that for me? What if I can protect myself perfectly well?”

“Never hurts to have help.”

He went inside. Portia winced, realizing she actually agreed with him. She would go it alone and take care of herself every single time. Maybe she and Declan Stringer were more alike than she’d thought.

* * *

They were nothing alike. The thought stuck with him while he donned the headphones and sat at a desk in their secure room. The video chat loaded on-screen.

Declan didn’t make a move without the backup of other Secret Service agents. Yes, he believed he could protect himself alone. But only because his instinct was to return to his team and that safety net.

Could he really do that?

If he brought danger back to the White House, he’d be putting lives in jeopardy. As a Secret Service agent, he couldn’t do that. If he was going to maintain operational security on duty this needed to be cleared up before he went back to DC.

The screen flickered and Nicholas’s face was there. Not happy. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Nick.” Declan’s throat closed. He cleared it. “Good to see you. It’s been a long time.” The awkwardness was compounded by the fact Portia was listening to everything.

“There a reason why I hit my bunk for half an hour and then got woken up to exchange small talk with you?”

Apparently not much had changed. Nicholas was still mad about the fact their family’s history had been tarnished. And despite it being no fault of Declan’s—the two of them had been kids when their father broke the law—Nicholas still unloaded all his frustration on his sibling. Declan.

“Night duty?”

Nicholas didn’t give him anything.

Declan sighed, then explained all that had happened with the dead guy.

Nicholas’s eyebrows lifted. “He lives up there, by Seattle?”

Declan nodded. “Someone rented an apartment in Tacoma. He listed his occupation as ‘marine.’”

“But I’m based out of Camp Pendleton. Southern California.”

“I know.” Declan smiled. He was pleased for his brother, even not knowing much about his life. It shouldn’t be a surprise—not a good one anyway—learning something so simple. “And a Corporal now?”

Nicholas didn’t reply. “Is there anything else?”

It was Portia who said, “You have an idea why a man is using your identity?” She’d leaned down close enough a strand of her hair tickled the side of his face. “He has a driver’s license and credit cards.”

Nicholas’s gaze shifted to her, and Declan saw something there. What he didn’t know was whether it was about Portia or the question.

Nicholas said, “I’m in Afghanistan. How do I know what’s happening in Washington State? I can tell you my wallet was stolen a few months back. Happened to a couple of other guys in my squad, as well. I canceled my cards and got a new driver’s license.” He shrugged.

“Fair enough,” Portia said. “But the question had to be asked.”

“Can I get back to sleep now?”

“I need to talk to you about something first,” Declan said. “The man who killed this guy with your ID, he waited around—or came back—and shot at me. Special Agent Finch thinks someone might have it in for us.” He let that settle in with his brother, then said, “I’m going to fill her in on our...history.”

“Not my history.”

“I know you want to bury your head in the sand, but that doesn’t mean you’ve moved on.” At least, that was the way his shrink had explained it. “You’re still mad. Apparently, at me. And while it is in the past, it’s also part of us.”

Nicholas leaned back in his chair. It was written all over his face that he didn’t want to hear what Declan said.

He was going to say it anyway. “I want you to be careful.”

“I’m in a war zone.”

“You know what I mean, Nick. I don’t think this guy is going to come after you there, but he shot at me. He’s committed enough he found someone with your name, met with him and shot him dead.” Declan blew out a breath. “That guy is dead because of us.”

“Not my fault.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Declan ground his back teeth for a second. “I just want you to be aware, so you can be safe.”

“I’ll be careful. Now, are we done?”

He sighed. Nodded.

Nicholas clicked off the call, halfway out of his chair before the screen blanked.

Declan leaned back and blew out a breath. When he glanced up at Portia she had a compassionate look on her face. He almost told her right then.

“Coffee?”

Declan looked at his watch. Nine thirty-four in the evening. “I doubt I’ll sleep a wink, so sure.”

She took him to a break room. When she placed the mug in front of him and sat, he didn’t waste any time. “My real name isn’t Declan Stringer. It’s Declan Harris. My brother and I changed our names when we moved in with our aunt and uncle. We didn’t want to be those kids, the ones whose father had swindled investors out of millions and stashed it all in an offshore account.”

She didn’t sip her coffee. Portia just watched him, and fingered the handle of her mug. Listened.

“He was caught. Tried. The whole thing was a Ponzi scheme. When he went to prison we were left with nothing.”

Nothing but each other and their aunt and uncle, and even that had turned sour. Declan and his brother hadn’t ever been best friends, the way brothers could be. They were too different. Nicholas internalized everything, and he never let a single thing go. Declan couldn’t live with that kind of bitterness. He’d had to figure out how to work the feeling out.

He said, “Dad got out of prison six years ago. Nicholas had just graduated from high school. Dad called, said he wanted to see us both. Only I showed up. My brother wasn’t interested. Dad never came, though. I never saw him again.”

Portia’s jaw clenched, and he recalled how she’d told him her own father had died.

He said, “I’m sorry if this brings up bad memories.”

“You’re worried about me?” She waved away his concern, her coffee mug still untouched. “Don’t be. I’m fine.”

Declan wasn’t convinced that was true.

“I’ll look into the people your father swindled. See if there’s anyone who might still be around to want revenge. People like that usually aren’t quiet about their intentions.”

She asked him about the tan truck the assailant had driven away in, and he told her everything he remembered. They compiled a description together, and she had him write it all down. Sign it.

At the end she said, “It’s not much to go on. Not even really enough for a BOLO, since we don’t have a sketch of the man. The sheriff can keep his eye out for a tan truck and a Caucasian man in his forties. Dark clothes, with a ball cap. But there’s no way to narrow that down.”

He thought over everything. “You really think I’m still in danger?”

“Don’t drop your guard. Not until we figure out who your father wronged. Whoever it is could be the one who wants you and your brother dead.”

He opened his mouth to tell her he’d be careful and wound up doing a jaw-popping yawn. “I should probably get some rest.” Things would make more sense in the morning. He’d be able to make a plan. See what else these NCIS agents had come up with. Maybe they’d even find the guy tomorrow. “You don’t think it’s his real identity that got him killed. So it must be some other reason than my brother’s name as well?”

“I’m not ruling out either of those theories. We’re trying to figure out who the deceased really is, running his prints and such.” She got up. “But we’re also not going to assume you aren’t in danger. Until we know for sure, we can’t make assumptions.”

Declan nodded. That made sense.

Especially halfway to the hotel, when he realized he was being followed.

By a tan truck.

FOUR

It wasn’t far to the hotel, but Portia kept her car behind Declan’s on Charleston Boulevard. Close enough to keep him in sight, but not so close he’d see her. There was no way she was going to let even a trained Secret Service agent go it alone when there was a gunman loose. If Declan figured out she was behind him—doubtful, since she was trained at this—she would simply tell him it was about the case.

Her dead guy. Her killer. Her arrest to make.

He’d probably feel better thinking she’d essentially made him the bait by following him, half expecting that same truck to show up. But it would be worse if he thought she was trying to protect him. She wouldn’t admit it was a little bit of both—along with a side of keeping her eye on a man who’d insinuated himself into her work life. It didn’t matter what his reasoning was, he’d gone behind her back to get on the case.

Portia intended to nurse the sting of that rather than think about the attraction she felt between them every time he turned those dark eyes to her. Soon enough he was going to hop a plane back to his White House detail and she would probably never see him again. There was zero point in even considering anything more than a professional détente.

And yes, that was probably mostly about self-preservation. Not because of what he’d told her about his father. It would be unfair to consider him guilty for something that had nothing to do with him. It wasn’t anything he’d been able to change about his life—who his father was, and what he’d done. She’d seen enough pain on his face to know he’d come through it and found at least a measure of peace on the other side. He wasn’t harboring anger still. Not like his brother.

Portia changed lanes, pushing aside those thoughts. She wasn’t the one who would heal what was wrong with either of them. Their family was none of her business.

A tan truck edged up on her left. Portia glanced aside, then back at the road in front of her. Declan’s car was four in front of hers. She held her place in the middle lane while the truck pressed on. Until it was only red lights in front of her. No rear license plate that she’d seen.

She edged closer, shortening the gap between them so she could make sure. So she could be close if, or when, the shooter made a move.

Declan tapped his brakes. Had he seen the truck in his rearview? Maybe he’d even spotted it before she did.

Portia bit her lip and glanced at the center display. The truck driver hadn’t done anything yet, and maybe wouldn’t. Maybe it wasn’t even the same truck. There wasn’t much for her to call in. She and Declan didn’t need backup.

Not yet.

Declan took the next street, even though his hotel was another five minutes down the highway. Drawing out the truck driver?

Sure enough the tan truck followed. Portia did the same, keeping her distance so they didn’t look like a convoy. That would be too obvious. As it was, Declan had slowed.

Portia’s phone rang, lighting up the dash display. She tapped the screen and the ringing in the car speakers switched to the low drone of tires on the road.

“Special Agent Finch.”

“It’s Declan.”

She lifted her eyebrows at his number on the screen. Before she could say anything else, he said, “Listen, I’m on my way to the hotel, like I said.” He paused. “But there’s a tan truck behind me.”

Apparently he felt the need to impress on her the fact he was doing what he’d told her he would this time. But instead of commenting on that, she said, “I’m behind the truck, on your six.”

He was a smart man with training. He’d get the military reference, meaning she was directly behind him.

Silence filled the line.

“You’re welcome.” She laced the words with all the frustration this man brought out in her. Why was that? She didn’t care about Declan Stringer enough for him to rub her the wrong way to this extent. Not after only knowing him for a few hours.

“Of course you are.” More silence. Then, “I guess you should brace yourself.”

“What—” She didn’t get to finish before Declan’s car brakes came on. He pulled up sharply, and the back end of his car swung out in a wide arc. When he was almost nose to nose with the truck, she saw the whites of Declan’s teeth flash in the truck’s headlights.

The man was crazy. He’d deliberately confronted the truck driver, not even knowing if it was the shooter. Declan could have just scared the life out of an innocent man who was only guilty of driving a tan-colored truck.

The truck driver hit the gas and pulled around Declan to speed off.

Declan’s voice came through the car speakers. “Go get him.”

Portia hung up. She was already doing what he ordered, even before his instruction. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of acquiescing over the phone. Not after the stunt he’d just pulled. Besides, hanging up on someone was just so satisfying.

She drove after the truck, following reasonably close to see where he went. The person driving still hadn’t actually done anything illegal. The truck took a right turn onto a side street. Portia followed for two more turns before he pulled back into traffic on the highway about a mile closer to the hotel.

The phone rang, echoing through her car speakers. She turned the volume down.

Changed lanes, tried to spot the truck.

It was too far ahead.

Another mile, and she realized she’d lost him. Whoever he was, killer or not, he was gone now. She couldn’t call in local PD to assist when the driver hadn’t even done anything, and her own team was too far away at this time of night.

Portia slammed the heel of her hand against the steering wheel. She made a U-turn at the next intersection and drove back to where Declan had made that move, her phone ringing in the speakers the entire time. She ignored it.

When she pulled up behind his car he was standing in the open driver’s door, phone to his ear. He hung up and tossed the phone inside, onto the seat, then stalked toward her.

Why was he mad?

Portia swung out of the car and slammed the door with every ounce of frustration she felt.

“Why didn’t you answer the phone?”

She moved right into his space, her bootheels bringing her to eye level with him and she thanked God for that bit of extra height. Normally she didn’t much appreciate that fact about herself. But she was grateful she could face him almost nose to nose right now. “Why did you do that stupid maneuver?”

“You mean bring the situation to a head, rather than lead him to the hotel where I’m staying?” His loud voice was laced with sarcasm.

Portia met him beat for beat. “I meant pushing it. Acting rashly.”

“You lost him, didn’t you?”

“Because you forced him to break off.”

“This isn’t my fault,” he said.

“Well it’s hardly mine.”

“Fine. Neither of us is at fault.”

She folded her arms and stared at him. Did he think that absolved him of the stupidity of that overly flashy maneuver? “Do they teach those stunts at Secret Service school?”

“You didn’t get that training?”

“Not the kind which involves stunt driving just to show off.” And she was done with this yelling match on the side of the road. “Did you get a license plate this time?”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t see them. You?”

“No.” She wanted to make a frustrated noise, but then he’d know this case was getting to her. Why couldn’t anything in her life be easy? Why did it always feel like she was pushing a boulder uphill just to make it? God hadn’t promised her easy days, but did it have to be this hard? She sighed, realizing that might be why it had been so long since she’d prayed.

She said, “I’ll follow you to your hotel.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

She wasn’t even going to respond to that. If he wanted to play the solitary hero, she would simply call it a free country—thank You, Lord—and follow him anyway. Because she had every right to be on the road.

It would just happen to be on the road right behind him.

Declan’s eyes narrowed, as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. He wandered to his car and got in. Backing down? That didn’t seem like him.

Portia called in what had happened as she followed him to the hotel. Maybe tomorrow she would wake up fresh—and a whole lot less frustrated with Declan Stringer.

At least, she prayed that would be the case.

* * *

Declan’s phone rang just before eight the next morning. The screen of his phone switched from his Bible app to signify an incoming call. Agent Finch. He’d labeled her contact that to keep things professional between them. The phone vibrated across the surface of the diner booth table and clanged into his knife.

The night had been uneventful, and he’d occupied himself in those quiet hours constructing an email to his brother. He hadn’t sent it. That conversation could come later, when he wasn’t smack in the middle of a murder investigation. At least that was what he was telling himself. Plenty of self-denial going on here.

“Agent Stringer.” His voice held that edge of frustration he’d been nursing since she lost the truck.

“It’s Portia.” Hers had the same tone. Either they were destined to be best friends, or they’d part as sworn enemies.

“Didn’t figure I’d hear from you this morning.”

“Too bad. Rise and shine, cupcake.” In the background, he could hear the muffled sounds of someone jostling keys. “Time to get to work.”

He signaled the waitress. “Let me get the check. Where are we going?”

“The check? I thought you’d be sleeping in.”

“I’ve been up since four. East Coast time, remember?” He handed the waitress a twenty and pushed his chair in before he strode to the door of the diner. “Went for a run. Took a shower, and then decided I needed an omelet.”

“How nice for you. I’ve been in the office two hours already, running down leads and trying to figure out who tried to kill you yesterday.”

“I didn’t hit a trail, though I wanted to. Hotel gym.”

“At least there’s that.” He heard the relief in her voice. She cared about him. Or she just didn’t want to do the paperwork if he died.

“I’d much rather run outside.” Before thinking about it, he added, “Maybe before I go home you’ll show me a trail.”

Silence. “Maybe.”

“Don’t like to run?”

“I’d be more concerned with whether or not you’ll be able to keep up.” Now there was an edge of a smile in her voice. Were they approaching friendly banter, or something else entirely?

Declan beeped the locks, and then climbed in the rental. “So where are we going?”

“The address listed on the John Doe’s license was the one he rented under Nicholas’s name. Squire ID’d him early this morning from his print. His name was Frank Parsons. Was in the navy for a few years. He lived in Tacoma. You want to get a peek at his house?”

“Definitely.” Frank Parsons had been killed pretending to be his brother, or someone with the name Nicholas Stringer. A close enough match physically that the killer likely thought he was Declan’s brother. Maybe. There was a resemblance. He figured that was why Frank Parsons had been killed.

And why the killer had come after Declan. Twice.

The address Portia texted over had a unit number, which he figured was an apartment. When he pulled onto the street, the neighborhood took a significant downturn. Run-down buildings that looked to have been erected in the seventies, and maybe never updated. The parking spots had green corrugated metal roofs. Declan found a visitor’s spot close to where the forensics van had parked, then climbed the stairs where neighbors had congregated.

He gave his information to the officer at the door and showed his badge. The officer said “Thanks.”

The smell inside made him wrinkle his nose. “Agent Finch?” He didn’t want to venture into every room. Not when certain ones smelled worse than the living room/kitchen/dining area.

She called back, “Second door on the left.”

The first room had a double bed and rumpled covers. Two forensics guys were going over a dresser. He found Portia in the second room, what would’ve been an office or guest room in any other house. Frank Parsons had piled in there what most people would have thrown in a storage unit to keep it from cluttering up their place.

Boxes were stacked high. Trash bags bulged with papers, or clothes. A bike, a kayak and a dog crate were among the stacks. He even saw an ironing board.

“Whoa.”

Portia looked up from a stack of papers. “Pretty much. Though, this actually makes life easier for us.”

“Assuming he doesn’t have a storage unit, or some other place, equally as packed with boxes that should all be labeled Miscellaneous.”

She cracked a smile at that, then said, “I’ve managed to solve one mystery, at least.”

“What’s that?”

She pulled a paper from the pile and stepped over an overflowing bag of shoes and boots. “Frank Parsons owned a tan truck.”

Declan felt his eyebrows lift. “And our mysterious gunman happens to be driving one?”

“Same make and model from last night.”

He didn’t want to get into an argument about that. “BOLO?”

She nodded. “Already sent the information across the wires. Now all we need is for local police, or one of our people, to spot the truck.”

Hopefully with the gunman in it. Or close by, so they could nab him. The fact they were able to alert all law enforcement to “be on the lookout” for their truck could mean the difference between the shooter finding them, or their finding him first.

“I’m going to get this to the techs so they can bag it up.” She wandered out, and he went over to the stack she’d been working on.

A minute later gunshots rang out, followed immediately by the shattering of glass.

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