Killing Time by Linda Howard

snapping photographs as she went. She didn’t expect to see anything that would point the way to the killer, something that another experienced agent had missed, but she was fixing distances and measurements in her mind. Slowly she circled the house, noting every window and door, the state of the shrubbery under the windows, the distance to the ground from each window. Such knowledge might come in handy, might not. She already knew
how;
she just didn’t know
who.
Or where the
who
was.
    In back there was a small door in the foundation that gave access to the crawl space beneath the house. She studied the ground to make certain there weren’t any footprints in front of the door, then crouched down in front of it; there was a handle, but she didn’t want to touch it and disturb any of the local cops’ evidence. Instead she worked her fingers into the seam until she could pull the thin slab of plywood outward, noting as she did so how the front corner dragged in the dirt. Taking a penlight from her shoulder bag, she directed the light on the ground directly inside the access door. It looked undisturbed, no scrape marks or hand imprints in the dirt.
    The lack of marks reassured her that she was on the right track. Returning the penlight to her bag, she shoved the door back into place.
    “What the hell are you doing in my crime scene?”
    The deep voice, coming from directly behind and above her, shot through her nervous system like a bolt. She jumped, but managed to stifle the shriek that rose in her throat. “Good thing I don’t have a tricky heart,” she said as she stood and turned to face the owner of the voice.
    “Answer the question,” he said, expression hard and blue eyes cold.
    He was broad-shouldered and tall, a good six or seven inches taller than she, and she was five seven. He wore jeans, scuffed boots, and a blue jacket over a white polo shirt. His brown hair was a little on the shaggy side, not quite regulation. Maybe he just hadn’t had time to get a haircut, but maybe he had a little bit of rebel in him.
    At her hesitation he put his left hand on his hip, a deliberate move that opened his jacket and exposed the badge clipped to his belt, as well as the big weapon tucked into his shoulder harness. “If you’re a reporter,” he said, evidently having noticed her camera, “your ass is in big trouble.”
    Just as deliberately, Nikita opened her own jacket, showing him
her
weapon; then she lifted the flap of her shoulder bag and flashed her badge at him. “Nikita Stover, FBI,” she said, and held out her hand to him.
    His eyebrows lifted, and if anything, he looked even more displeased. “Last time I checked, murder wasn’t a federal charge. What are you doing here?”
    She shrugged and let her hand drop. Things would go better if he was friendly, since he was evidently in charge of the investigation; he’d called this “his” crime scene. This was the tricky part; she just hoped her documentation was good enough that he wouldn’t investigate her. “Following a trail,” she said, and sighed. “There has been a string of attacks targeting attorneys and judges, and we think it’s the same person doing all of them. A federal judge was killed in Wichita last year, remember that? We’re following up on every crime that could be remotely connected, looking for a break, because so far we aren’t having much luck.” She glanced at the house. “Mr. Allen was an attorney, so here I am. I’m not looking to take over your investigation; I was hoping
you
could help
me.
”
    The set of those broad shoulders relaxed somewhat, but his eyes remained cold. “So why didn’t you contact me?”
    “You were my next stop. I just wanted to see the house first. I didn’t intend to go inside, and I was careful not to mess up any evidence.” Mentally she took a deep breath, then gave him a little smile and held out her hand. “Let’s try this again. I’m Nikita Stover, FBI.”
    This time he took her hand.