75Pat sat in my swivel chair, bare feet propped on the open filing cabinet drawer. He wore black fleece shorts and a pocket T-shirt, once-red but now faded to rust.
It was three o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. The outside temperature had risen past ninety.
Even with the fan blades circling at top speed, my top floor office was warm and stuffy.
After FBI Special Agent Gus Vega departed, I’d come back here to tie up more loose ends.
Pat set up shop in Vicky’s bedroom, making followup phone calls and sending digital messages.
Online, I kept tabs on the fast-developing case against Carter Ramsey.
Five minutes ago, Marina rang my cell and proclaimed cocktail hour was about to begin. I insisted that Pat and I had to finish our work first.
Minutes later, she appeared in my open doorway wit
