CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Escorting Sully Allin through the rear entrance of the field office headquarters was a vastly different experience than the last time she’d hauled a gator handler into an interrogation room. Rather than marching him through an accommodating and often busy precinct lobby, she and Palmer moved him through the quiet, brightly lit halls of the field office. Under the fluorescent lights, Allin’s sun-burned skin appeared almost lobster-red. She wondered, though, how much of the red in his face had come from embarrassment and anger.
She was just glad they hadn’t been tasked with getting his very large friend inside. That had been undertaken by two much sturdier agents, taking him to another room.
As Camille sat him down in one of their polished and clean interrogation rooms,
