Murder Mix-Up. Lisa Phillips

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.