Killing Time Read online

  “How about my driver’s license,” she offered. “Or a credit card. Want to see them, too?”

  “If you don’t mind,” he repeated, and she actually laughed as she opened her purse and removed both cards from her wallet, handing them across the desk.

  He studied the license with its holographic seal, closely examined it for signs of tampering, then compared the signature on the bottom with the signature on the back of the credit card. They matched, of course. He was beginning to feel foolish, while she was not only relaxed, she was amused as well.

  “Good,” he said as he returned the cards to her. “Now I don’t feel as if I need to take your weapon away from you.”

  “Try to take my weapon,” she corrected. “There’s a point at which I stop being a good citizen and become a pissed-off agent.”

  “Then don’t do anything that makes me nervous, and we’ll get along fine.”

  She picked up another fry. “If I wanted to shoot you, I could have done it this morning when we were the only two people around, and my weapon was already unholstered.”

  “There’s that,” he conceded. “Have you had any other thoughts about how Taylor Allen’s murder ties in with your other cases, and why someone in your office would obviously leak your whereabouts to a sniper who might or might not be the killer?”

  “On the surface, I can’t see any connection between Mr. Allen and the other cases. As for wanting me dead, that doesn’t make any sense at all. Assuming I did find something that is threatening this someone in my office, I don’t know what it is, and killing me would only result in someone with a lot more experience taking over. Killing me isn’t cost-effective, as far as I can see.”

  “You’ve been pretty calm about the whole thing,” he observed.

  “What choice do I have? I suppose I could get hysterical and cry on your shoulder, but what would that accomplish, other than a stuffed-up nose?”

  She hadn’t been rattled when she was shot at, either, he remembered. He liked that kind of steadiness in anyone. There was a lot about her he liked, including that friendly smile. He just wished that damn verification would come in so he could feel better about liking her. Until then, he’d already let his guard down as far as he could without crossing over into total unprofessionalism.

  The phone rang again and he answered it. He listened, said “Thanks,” then hung up and smoothly pulled his weapon and leveled it at her. “Use two fingers and remove your weapon, then place it on the desk and step back,” he said in a cool, level tone. “You’re under arrest for impersonating a federal agent.”

  7

  Nikita’s heart gave a quick thump and adrenaline burned through her veins. This was it; she’d hoped events wouldn’t bring her to this, but she was a realist and she’d prepared. She had to be more convincing than she’d ever been before in her life, or her ass was burnt. No, that wasn’t it. A cooking term, though . . . Burnt, cooked, baked—oh, yeah: her ass was toast.

  The ridiculous thought calmed her a little. Without protest she opened her jacket and awkwardly used the first two fingers of her left hand to pull the heavy weapon from the holster. She laid it on his desk, barrel pointing to the side. His big hand closed over the weapon and moved it out of her reach.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” he began as he lifted her to her feet and secured first her right wrist, then her left, in a set of handcuffs. The cold steel bit into her, so tight it felt as if her bones were squeezed together. She didn’t bother listening as he recited the Miranda; she knew the drill by heart.

  “Please empty my purse onto your desk,” she said softly, looking up at him. He was still standing close, gripping her arm, so close she could feel his body heat. Cops were taught to use their own bodies to subdue and control, to grip, the agonizing holds that paralyzed a struggling suspect with his or her own pain. She didn’t make even a tiny move of resistance, in fact leaned even closer to him, so close her hair brushed his shoulder. “Please.”

  His gaze was flat and remote, his face expressionless, all hint of affability gone. “Why?”

  “There are some things in there I want to tell you about. Handcuff me to the chair or the desk if you’re worried I’ll try to bolt. I promise I won’t, but you might feel nervous.”

  “Nervous?” he asked, briefly puzzled and his attention caught. “How’s that?”

  “Because I have training that you don’t.” Maybe this was working. She could see the flicker of interest in his eyes.

  “If you were a real FBI agent, I might believe that.”

  “I am a real FBI agent, just not . . . now.”

  “Maybe you can convince a judge you’re delusional, but I’m not buying it. They have no record of a Nikita T. Stover as an agent, former or otherwise.”

  “I didn’t say ‘former.’ Please, just empty my purse on your desk. I’ll tell you about everything that’s in there.”

  For a moment she thought he’d refuse, but in the end his curiosity won out. He didn’t take chances; he made her sit down, and he used a second set of cuffs to attach one of her ankles to the chair. Being cuffed was very uncomfortable, the way it pulled her shoulders back. Experienced prisoners didn’t try to keep their shoulders balanced; they dropped one and let the cuffs ride more to the other side, which effectively relieved the pressure on both shoulder joints. She tried that, and almost sighed as the pain instantly faded.

  Picking up her purse, he dumped the contents on his desk. After a moment he frowned at the array of gadgets. “What’s all this?”

  “First, look in my wallet. In the zippered compartment, there’s a card. Take it out and look at it.”

  He unzipped the section she indicated and pulled out the card. It was thicker than most cards, about the same as three personal cards stacked together, and made of a lightweight, translucent compound that was virtually indestructible. It wouldn’t burn, and she herself had tried to hack it to pieces just because they’d told her it couldn’t be done. They’d been right.

  On the left side a gold shield with an eagle on top had been laser-embossed, a shield that was similar but not identical to the one she’d showed him earlier. The shield read “Department of Justice” on the bottom and “Federal Bureau of Investigation” on the top. That hadn’t changed, but the shape of the shield differed, being slightly more rounded, and the eagle looked more fierce. On the right side was a three-dimensional holographic photo of her, and below was her name and serial number.

  “Cool,” he said, holding up the card and tilting it so the hologram flickered. “What’s it supposed to prove? That you know someone who can make 3-D pictures?”

  “Try to destroy it,” she said. “Go ahead, try anything you can think of. Cut it up. Melt it. Pour acid on it. See what happens.”

  “I don’t have any acid with me today,” he said, but he took a pair of scissors from his center desk drawer and tried to cut the card. Then he tried again, a look of concentration settling on his face. “This is thicker than a normal card,” he said, bearing down with all the strength in his hands.

  The rivet popped out of the scissors and the two pieces fell apart in his hand.

  “Shit!” he said in surprise, and examined the card with more interest. “What’s it made of?”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” she said, trying out the old joke. When he didn’t laugh, she shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s called poly-di-something-something; I’ve never been able to pronounce it. The trade name is Ondite, for reasons I don’t know. NASA developed it for spaceships about, oh, a hundred and twenty years ago. Sort of.”

  His gaze went flat again. “Stop fucking with me, lady. If this wild story is all the explanation you have, you’re wasting my time.”

  “Because NASA didn’t exist a hundred and twenty years ago? It didn’t, counting from now. Try burning the card,” she suggested, thinking he needed to be more intrigued before she tried explaining about NASA.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he sa