Smokies Special Agent. Lena Diaz

and waved toward the reinforced-glass and steel door on the far right. “In there?”

      He followed her gesture. “Ah, no. That’s the holding cell. In spite of what I may have said earlier about locking you up, in the eight years that I’ve worked here, we’ve never once used that room for its intended purpose. It’s stuffed with boxes of office supplies and old case files.” He motioned toward the door on the far left. “I meant the conference room. I’m sure you were shown where the restroom was earlier.” He motioned toward the middle door. “If you need—”

      “No, thank you.” She moved stiffly past him and marched into the conference room like a prisoner heading to death row.

       Chapter Four

      When Special Agent Remi Jordan passed Duncan, he was struck by how petite she was. The top of her head barely reached his chin. In blue jeans and a simple blue blouse, without a jacket to provide bulk, she probably didn’t tip a hundred pounds on a scale. Her right arm being trussed up in a sling only emphasized her vulnerability. Seeing her this way, with this morning’s drama stripped away, and no gun, Duncan realized she appeared utterly defenseless. And he had the inexplicable urge to offer his protection, to reassure her that everything was going to be all right.

      That would be foolish and wrong on so many levels, especially because it would probably be a lie.

      As a trained officer, she should have used deadly force as a last resort. Instead, she’d used it as her first response. She’d shot an unarmed man while off duty, on vacation, according to her boss, with no provocation that Duncan had seen. She could be looking at charges of attempted murder, attempted manslaughter or, the very least, assault. If by some miracle she avoided charges and didn’t go to prison, she’d likely still lose her job with the FBI. And she’d almost certainly face financial ruin in the civil courts. With another law-enforcement officer as a witness, Vale could ride that gravy train all the way to the bank.

      Duncan stood in the doorway, watching her consider the four padded wooden chairs, the square vinyl-topped table that was more appropriate for playing cards than for a conference or an interview. But like everything else in this trailer, the table and chairs met the main requirement—they were small enough to fit the tiny space.

      She apparently decided not to bother with a chair. Instead, she moved to the lone window at the other end of the room. Facing away from him, she stared through the glass at the snow, which was falling again.

      “Special Agent Jordan?”

      She glanced over her shoulder. “Remi, please. Calling me Special Agent every time you ask me a question is going to get really old, really fast, for both of us.”

      “Remi. Unusual name. Is that short for something?”

      “Remilyn, after my grandmother. But my mom’s the only person who ever called me that.”

      “Called? Then she’s—”

      “She passed away when I was seventeen. Breast cancer.”

      The slight wobble in her voice told him that she’d loved her mother, and that her death—he was guessing eight or nine years ago—still hurt.

      He counted his blessings that both his parents were still alive and doing well. He couldn’t imagine not being able to drop by their cabin, share a beer with his father or ask his mother’s advice.

      “My condolences,” he said, and meant it.

      She gave him a crisp nod. “Thank you.”

      He waved toward the sling. “While I wouldn’t have changed the actions I took this morning, I do regret that you got hurt. What did the doctor say about your shoulder?”

      She hesitated, the wary expression she’d given Lee firmly back in place. “The EMT rotated it into the socket. It’s fine.”

      He waited, but when she didn’t elaborate, he asked, “You were taken to the hospital, right? You were seen by a doctor?”

      “All a doctor would have done was tell me to schedule an appointment with a physical therapist. I had the EMT treat me in the back of the ambulance, and told him I didn’t want to go to the hospital.”

      She didn’t want to go? She shouldn’t have been given a choice. She was under arrest, her well-being the responsibility of the National Park Service while in their custody. McAlister and Grady should have made her go to the hospital, with them as her armed escorts.

      “What did the EMT give you for pain?” He didn’t want her to suffer. But equally important, he didn’t want a defense attorney down the road having her statement tossed out on the basis that she was heavily medicated, which affected her mental state and her ability to understand her rights.

      “I haven’t had a chance to take anything,” she said. “My purse is locked in the trunk of my car at the trailhead. I don’t have any pills with me here.”

      “I’ve got some ibuprofen in my desk if you want.”

      She frowned as if puzzled by his offer. Had she expected him to chain her to a chair and allow her only bread and water?

      “I’d appreciate that. The shoulder does ache a bit.”

      “If you prefer to go to the hospital for an MRI—which I strongly recommend—and to get a prescription for the pain—”

      “Over-the-counter pills will be fine.”

      Visions of future defense attorneys were still dancing in his head. She really should go to the hospital. But it was her shoulder, after all. Not a head injury. And she’d been given medical treatment by the EMT. It was probably safe to take her statement.

      “I’ll be right back.”

      “Special Agent McKenzie?”

      “If I’m calling you Remi then you have to call me Duncan.” He added a smile that he was far from feeling. But keeping things friendly would make the interview go much more smoothly. Orders from her boss to cooperate would go only so far if she had something to hide about why she was in the mountains with a gun. He’d start out playing good cop and see how things went.

      She gestured toward the side of his head. “Duncan. I really am sorry about everything that happened. I hope that doesn’t hurt too much.”

      It took him a second to realize she was talking about punching him. His grin was genuine this time. “You’ve got a wicked left hook.”

      Her answering smile seemed reluctant, but also genuine. “I’m right-handed. You got lucky.”

      He laughed. “So I did. No worries. We’ll talk everything out and then decide where to go from there. Okay?”

      She blew out a shuddering breath, her face relaxing with relief. “Sounds good.”

      When he reached his desk, he pulled his laptop from the bottom drawer just as his cell phone buzzed. He took it out of his pocket and checked the screen. It was Lee. A quick glance toward the open door of the conference room confirmed that Remi was still standing at the window, looking out. Duncan plopped his laptop on the desk and sat down to take the call.

      “Hey, boss. Did you shove Grady into a snowbank yet to shut him up?” he teased.

      “Have you started interviewing Special Agent Jordan yet?”

      The terseness of Lee’s tone immediately had Duncan on alert. “About to. Why?”

      “Johnson had his assistant send me an email. I forwarded it to you. It makes for some interesting reading. Skim it before you talk to her.”

      “Why?”

      “Humor me.” The line clicked.

      Duncan sighed and flipped open the laptop. There were fifteen unread