Page 9 of The Broken Places

His lip twitched, his eyes squinting slightly. “Crimes?”

She nodded.

“Such as?” He leaned in minutely, as if highly interested in this conversation and also surprised that she’d unhesitatingly engaged in banter. But while her inspector persona didn’t necessarily come naturally, this did.

She shrugged one shoulder. “Some flavors and textures obviously don’t go together, but that seems to be lost on some. It’s a simple art, but it does require at least some amount of thought and planning. This summer, my parents had a grill-out, and one of their neighbors brought a lackluster concoction of cantaloupe and seeded grapes, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, they put sliced bananas on the top. It sat in the sun, and the bananas all turned brown and mushy. If it were me, I’d think long and hard about whether that neighbor should ever be invited back to any potluck event.”

His mouth tipped, and she had this little shiver in her stomach that strangely felt like panic. “I see.”

“Of course, my parents aren’t nearly as judgmental as I am. My mom could find something delightful about bad bananas. She probably plucked them off the top and made banana bread out of them. It’s hard to believe we’re related sometimes.” Her heart warmed even as she poked fun at her mom to this virtual stranger. She wasn’t exaggerating about her mother. The woman probablyhadmade banana bread, butnot only that, she’d likely delivered the loaf to the soup kitchen and served it by hand to hungry children. Because that was her mom.

She took a big sip of her coffee and then cringed as she swallowed, the drink too hot for such a large mouthful. “Sorry, I’m rambling. And I can be opinionated.”

“That’s a good thing,” he said, spearing a sausage link and bringing the whole thing to his mouth. “You know who you are. Not everyone is as lucky.”

She thought about that. Did she know who she was? She supposed she did. She just didn’t necessarily like it all the time. Her life choices didn’t seem to align with her personality, and that made her feel ... lost, when she’d chosen the career she had for the exact opposite purpose—to feel found. But the man was looking at her in that assessing way again, and so she waved her hand slightly, as much to brush off the sinking feeling in her stomach as to distract him. “Well, I’m not sure luck has much to do with it. My parents spoiled me rotten.” That was also a lie, and now she was really on a roll. Her parents loved and adored her, but she’d always had tough rules. Theyhadtaught her to be sure of herself, however, and comfortable in her own skin, so she supposed it was because of them that she wasn’t afraid to express herself. At least when it came to matters of fruit salad.

The server approached their table again and asked if Lennon wanted to place an order, shooting another not-so-furtive glance at Ambrose. “No,” Lennon said. “Just coffee.”

“You already ate?” Ambrose asked when the server departed.

Lennon nodded. “I’m an early riser.”

His eyes hung on her for a moment, and she resisted fidgeting under his heavy stare. She could see his wheels turning as he considered her, and though he remained still, he almost reminded her of the way her parents’ dog, Freddie, tipped his head back and forth when she said a whole string of words he recognized but was working out the context. She doubted the agent would appreciate being compared to a dog, however, so she didn’t mention it to him.

Again, though, the guy was different, and she wasn’t sure if it was good different or not-so-good different. Whatever he was, he was trying very hard to size her up, and she had this feeling he was getting at least some of it right.

Apparently done assessing her, he picked up his orange juice and took a long drink, draining it and setting it back down. She noticed a white scar on the top of his hand, right in the middle.

“So, Agent Mars, tell me about you. Lieutenant Byrd said you worked at a field office? Where exactly?”

His eyes remained on his plate. “Pleasant Hill. And call me Ambrose.”

She lifted her chin. “Are you from Pleasant Hill?”

He lifted his fork again and resumed picking through the cup of fruit. “No. San Francisco, born and raised. But I moved out of the city ten years ago to take a job as a correctional officer. I did that for a couple of years, and then applied to the FBI. When I graduated, I wanted to come back to the Bay Area, and so I put in a request and was sent to the field office in Pleasant Hill. I’ve been there for several years now.”

That was a lot of back-and-forth, but two things stood out to Lennon. One, he was a local, too, and for some odd reason, even though there were almost a million residents in San Francisco, she was surprised she’d never come across him. Which made no sense at all. So she moved that aside, on to the second thing that had caught her attention. “You started your career as a correctional officer?”

“Yeah.”

Her respect notched up, even if she didn’t necessarily want it to. There weren’t too many more pressure-filled jobs than that, where you had to be on constant alert. She’d only been somewhat convinced he’d noticed her enter the diner before, but she was certain of it now. You had to be observant—to say the least—if you wanted to survive in that environment. “That had to have been rough.”

Ambrose shrugged and tilted his head. She waited for him to provide more details, but in the end, he simply put a strawberry in hismouth and looked into the distance as he chewed. Ambrose set his fork down. “So, since you’re here, asking questions, you obviously weren’t successful in shaking me.”

She almost felt embarrassed. Almost. He’d obviously sensed her initial dislike or ... suspicion? It wasn’t like he’d actually done anything wrong. But if he hadn’t just reminded her about the weird vibes he put off, she might have blushed. Instead, she shrugged. “No. I was unsuccessful in shaking you. I guess I’m stuck with you. For now.”

Ambrose smiled, but there was no cockiness in it. No gloating, or even annoyance that she obviously was far from overjoyed to have been partnered up with him. There was almost an understanding in it, like he didn’t blame her for trying to get rid of him.

Which in itself was odd. Most people sought to make a good first impression. They wanted to be liked, or at least welcomed. Most people would take offense at being dumped right off the bat—or at minimum the attempt.

Maybe he was only here to make a report about the unknown drug found at three murder scenes and the possibility of a serial killer in San Francisco. Beyond that, it was anyone’s guess at the moment if Ambrose could even—professionally speaking—handle the mean streets of the city. Some days she barely could, and she carried this vague assumption that she’d put her guilt aside and transfer somewhere else sooner or later. Somewhere with less crime and more emotional stability. Bored, like Tommy, but able to sleep at night without reliving visions of the constant depravity city cops were confronted with. And that wouldn’t really be giving up, would it? She’d still be doing the job, even if she was only doing accident reports and responding to minor thefts?

Ambrose signaled the waitress for the check. “Since you’re stuck with me for now,” he said, “should we go see what the medical examiner has to say about the three latest victims?”

CHAPTER FIVE

“Jett”

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