Agent to the Rescue (Special Agents At The Alter Book 3) by LISA CHILDS Page B

out who I am that way?” Jared Bell had mentioned as much the day before.
    “We have your DNA,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t match any on file. Neither do your fingerprints.”
    She stared down at her hands. She didn’t remember being fingerprinted. But then, there was so much she didn’t remember. Like that damn ring on her finger...
    Claire Stryker was confident it had been there for a while. Why, then, wasn’t she married already?
    How long had this engagement been?
    And where was her fiancé? Why hadn’t he reported her missing? Because he couldn’t—because he had been with her when she’d been attacked but had been more critically wounded than she had been?
    “Was there any other DNA in that trunk I was in?” she asked.
    His mouth curved into a faint grin. “From the way your mind works and the questions you ask, I would almost believe you’re in law enforcement, too.”
    Hope burgeoned. She would rather be on the right side of the law than on the side with people who hurt other people.
    “But if you were in law enforcement, your fingerprints would have been on file,” he continued and dashed that brief hope.
    A bell dinged as the elevator stopped and the doors began to slide open. Panic rushed over her. He had assured her that he wouldn’t have brought her along if this could have been the person who’d hurt her. But this person was the link to that car—the car that probably would have been her casket had Agent Reyes not rescued her in time.
    He touched her again, his hand squeezing hers as it had so many times before. But this time chills raced over her as her skin tingled in reaction to his touch. His skin was rougher than hers and warm. The man was like that—a little rough around the edges, probably from growing up in a gang as Claire had told her he had, but he was warmhearted.
    He cared.
    About his cases.
    He felt sorry for her. While he felt only pity, she was beginning to feel something more—something completely unfamiliar to her.
    “It’ll be okay,” he assured her. “We’ll just see if he recognizes you, if he’s seen you around this building before.”
    As they walked down the hall, she studied the building—the dark wood walls and terrazzo floors. The building was old and dark, but it wasn’t run-down. It wasn’t even dated. It was fairly ageless.
    But the man who opened the door at Agent Reyes’s knock wasn’t ageless. His body was stooped with arthritis, so that his head barely came to Dalton’s chest. His face was heavily lined, his eyes clouded with cataracts.
    “Mr. Schultz?” Dalton asked.
    The older man nodded. “Who are you? I hope not salesmen. I have no money or time for your pitch.” He shuffled back a step as if getting ready to slam shut his door.
    Dalton held out his badge. “I’m FBI—Special Agent Reyes,” he introduced himself.
    “An FBI agent?” the old man asked. He pulled Dalton’s badge closer to his face and studied it through narrowed eyes. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He chuckled. “Tell me what I’ve done.”
    “You haven’t done anything wrong, Mr. Schultz,” Dalton assured the elderly man.
    Mr. Schultz chuckled again. “Depending on what kind of day my wife is having, she might tell you differently.” He stepped back and gestured for them to step inside his apartment.
    She glanced around, hoping to see something familiar. But nothing struck a chord. Like the hallway, his apartment was classic—polished hardwood floors and smooth plaster walls. It looked familiar in that she could have seen it on TV or in a movie or even a magazine.
    Magazines and photo albums were piled atop a coffee table. Mr. Schultz gestured them to the floral sofa behind the table. “Take a seat. Would you like some coffee or tea?”
    Initially unwelcoming, the elderly man now seemed grateful for company.
    “We don’t want you to go to any trouble,” she told him.
    “No trouble at all,” he assured her. “I’m the chief cook and bottle washer