Page 39 of High Velocity

“How did you find me?” I ask him a few minutes later when I open the door and find him standing right outside.

But when he makes a move to come in, I quickly step out and pull the door closed behind me. He lifts a sarcastic eyebrow in response.

“Local law enforcement was quite helpful. A Sheriff Hughes or something?”

“Ewing,” I correct him.

I’m annoyed. Not at Junior Ewing, who I bumped into at the grocery store the other day, but at Ben, for being intrusive.

“If you wanted to talk to me, you could’ve just called.”

“I could’ve, but I wanted to see you. It’s been so long.”

He casually leans a hip against the rental SUV’s fender, tilting his head with that faint, cocky smirk on his lips.

The charm and the easy familiarity I once fell for—hook, line, and sinker—now just gives me an ick-feeling. There isn’t a thing about Ben Vallard that is easy or casual; everything is carefully calculated to bring about a desired effect.

“Cut the bull, Ben. I stopped buying a long time ago. I told you all I know over the phone and the rest is up to you. You don’t need to see me; you can take it from here.”

“I could, but you would save me a lot of time showing me around, introducing me to Tracy.”

“You’re FBI, how much more introduction do you need?” I point out.

“I didn’t know you had a dog?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

He’s trying to keep me off-balance. I know his games.

“And why would you?” I fire back. “Aside from the fact we share an employer, you’re nothing but a faded smudge on a distant past. Now, what is it you’re hoping to gain by coming here?”

I plant a fist on my hip and glare him down.

“Aww, come on, don’t be that way,” he cajoles with a broad smirk, but when he realizes I’m not going to play, his face morphs into an impassive mask. “Fine. I need help on the ground here. Because there have been no reported sightings of Laine, my boss gave me only a couple of days to poke around. If I can’t come up with confirmation the guy is in this area, he wants me in South Dakota to chase down new leads. You’re familiar with the area.”

I shake my head, conveying my response.

“I told you, I’m on leave. The only reason I agreed to get the information you wanted was because a policeman is dead—for that and more Laine belongs behind bars—and I was able to get it without the need for any credentials. But I’m otherwise useless to you, I currently don’t have access to FBI resources. Hell, I don’t even have my badge. Talk to Sheriff Ewing, maybe he can offer some assistance, I don’t know, but don’t look at me; I don’t have any standing at the moment.”

“Were you suspended?” he asks, his eyes narrowed on me. “Is that why you’re hiding out in this little Podunk hole in Montana? I thought that shooting in Thompson Falls was ruled a good one.”

I don’t know what is more disturbing; the thought he may have been keeping tabs on me, or the fact he knows about the most pivotal moment in my career.

“No,” I respond curtly, not wanting to get into the real reason, but I also don’t want the story going around I was suspended from my job.

That kind of gossip has a tendency to get around, and the last thing I want is for it to reach my father’s ears. Even after being retired for about fifteen years, he still has connections within the FBI, one of them standing in front of me now.

Ben Vallard was my father’s last partner, and Dad was Ben’s first. I’ve come to realize part of my attraction to Ben had been my father held him in high regard. Maybe I’d hoped hooking up with Ben would meet my dad’s approval. Another pathetic attempt at gaining Dad’s favor that blew up in my face.

Not that Dad ever found out about it, Ben had insisted on keeping things under wraps while they lasted, which wasn’t long. Of course he’d never intended for our relationship to be anything long term and played me, something he wouldn’t have wanted my father to know.

To be honest, I don’t think it mattered, Dad probably would’ve found some reason to put the blame on me. Nothing I’ve done in my solid career for the FBI so far has been able to make him proud of me. I’ve long given up trying to impress him, and we barely even speak, but I still don’t want word getting back to him I’ve been sidelined.

It would confirm what he’s been trying to tell me all these years; I don’t measure up. The last time he told me that to my face was at my brother’s funeral years ago. He battled cancer and lost. Another dark mark on our family. I know it was grief talking that day, but it hadn’t been the first time my father made it clear to me I wasn’t worth the dirt on his shoes. That was the last time I actually saw him face-to-face.

“I’m recovering from a health issue that landed me in the hospital a while ago,” I opt to share. “I’m on medical leave.”

He draws his eyebrows together as he studies me. “What kind of health issue?”

I straighten my back and lift my chin a fraction higher.

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