CHAPTER EIGHT
Sawyer glanced around the local precinct. Dingy, dark, a couple of sputtering bulbs over by the interrogation rooms. He felt a hand nudge at his wrist, and glanced down to see Sergeant Faber pushing a small, prepackaged sandwich against his fingers.
“Come on, Tom,” she said. “You haven’t eaten all day.”
Sawyer nodded his thanks and took the sandwich, though he had no intention of eating the thing. Not now, not yet. Not while he was still focused.
“Can I get those files printed?” he asked, glancing back.
Detective Lopez, who was standing within earshot, snorted. “Do it your own damn self, Agent.”
Sergeant Faber, though, just nodded and moved quickly off toward her desk. Sawyer didn’t acknowledge the sneered comment by the block-chinned detective. His mind was already fli
