“I don’t trust it very often.”

  “Maybe you should trust it more,” he said, running the back of his fingers along her neck, wishing they had more time. The look in her eyes said she was wishing it too, then something shifted.

  He cocked his head. “What’s wrong?”

  She pursed her lips.

  “What’s that face for?” He chuckled. “Looks like you ate something sour.”

  “It’s just . . .” She shifted to face him better. “I wholeheartedly believe someone set me up, but what if I was wrong?”

  He frowned. “About being set up?” He didn’t believe that for a second. She was too good and meticulous to botch a job, and that wasn’t just the amazing way she made him feel, how she made him want to be a better man just for her. His gut said she was innocent of all the claims.

  She fiddled with the black tassel on her blouse. “No.” She shifted, pulling her knee up on the seat.

  “Then what?” he asked, resting his hand on it.

  “What if I was wrong about Mitch?” she said, her voice quiet.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if he was innocent and what I said sent an innocent man to jail?”

  “You reported what you found.”

  “A partial match to Mitch Abrams. Though partial in this case means a rare chance it wasn’t him.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “But a chance still existed.”

  “You testified it was a partial match. You did the work and told the truth.”

  “But how can we both be right?”

  “You and . . .”

  Her shoulders drooped. “Your brother.”

  “Deck is working for you now.”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean he suddenly believes me.”

  “Deck’s a good enough investigator, he’ll start from zero and work your case from there.”

  “But he got evidence to prove Mitch’s innocence. How can he be innocent and me still set up . . . if that makes any sense.”

  Christian slumped back against the seat and exhaled, soaking in what she was saying. Their case was twisty enough by itself, but weave in Deckard and Harper working her case, and it was a tangled mess. He exhaled. “I know it won’t be easy, but let’s allow Deck and Harper to handle your case and us focus on ours.”

  She nodded.

  “Hey.” He tipped her chin up with a crooked finger. “I don’t for one second believe you did anything wrong.”

  “You just met me, despite how deeply . . .” She cleared her throat. “The fact is you haven’t known me long. How can you be so certain?”

  “Because my gut never lies.” A flash of movement caught his attention. He rapidly shifted his gaze. A man slipped behind the brick building.

  “What’s wrong?” She scanned the parking lot.

  “Hang on a sec.” He shifted the car in reverse. It was probably nothing, but his gut was telling him otherwise, and as he’d just told Andi, it never lied.

  Pulling around the rear of the building, he scanned the area . . . nobody walking, all rear establishment doors shut. He shifted his gaze to the parked car. No white SUV. A total of ten cars were parked. Was the man sitting there in one of them? No way he had time to disappear from sight that quickly. He had to be somewhere.

  “Start scanning the cars,” he said.

  “They all look still, and from this vantage point, empty to me.”

  “You’re right. We need to get up close to each. See inside.” He pulled the Equinox into an open slot and cut the engine. “You go left. I’ll go right, starting with the purple Dodge Dart.”

  “I didn’t know those even existed anymore,” she said, stepping out of the vehicle and rounding it to meet Christian before he had a chance to open her door.

  Her hand by her gun, ready to pull it if necessary, Andi strode for the first car on the left while he moved to the relic of a car, his hand ready to pull his weapon as well. He glanced in the car, both the front and rear seats, his gaze casting on the floor of it. Nada.

  Andi indicated the cars she’d cleared, but she had two to go while he still had three. He moved for the silver pickup truck, but before he reached it, the engine roared and it reversed out of the slot, the same man Andi had shot driving.

  “Get down,” he hollered as the truck passed by her position. She did so, and the truck squealed on, its tires leaving a burning smell as it peeled out.

  They raced back to the Equinox, and within a minute were flying out on the road after the truck with only a vanity plate that said CrissY.

  FORTY-NINE

  “THERE IT IS,” Andi said after a minute of thinking they’d lost what, given the vanity license plate, had to be a stolen truck. “Six cars ahead on the right . . . now left.”

  “I got him,” he said. The truck was swerving in and out of traffic.

  Christian pressed the accelerator, speeding ahead, weaving safely in and out of traffic, then speeding up even more once they hit an open stretch of road. He had a short distance to catch the man before they ended up in the heart of downtown Santa Fe where Christian could easily lose him in the Sunfest crowd. The three-day-long festival packed the sidewalks, overwhelming the streets with traffic.

  The truck pulled ahead and increased its speed. No one else was on the stretch. Now was his chance. They started to gain on him, pulling closer.

  The man rolled down the window and . . .

  “Duck!”

  A bullet ricocheted off the hood, then thankfully deflected into the mesa.

  Another one whizzed by the window just before a blue minivan swerved out into the road from a side street, cutting them off.

  Christian hit the brakes, his tires squealing, the odor of burnt rubber filling his nostrils. He moved into the other lane, trying to wave the minivan back, fearful the man would fire again, but the truck had pulled far away.

  They were headed for the center of downtown.

  “What’s all this?” Andi asked as they came to an abrupt stop with a line of cars at the light with no sign of the truck. He must have made it through the light.

  “The Sunfest festival,” he said, tapping his fingers along the wheel. Come on. Turn green.

  Finally, the light switched, and the three cars in front of him moved forward painfully slowly. He tapped the wheel harder.

  Andi scanned the area. “There!” she said, pointing a good block ahead to the truck parked along the sidewalk.

  Great. He was no doubt on foot.

  “I’ll double-park. You stay in the vehicle, and I’ll check his, but I’m sure he’s blended into the crowd by now.”

  “You’re in the driver’s seat. I’ll hop out.” And she did so before he could argue. Hand ready to pull her weapon, she moved along the truck. Then shook her head after clearing it.

  She hopped back in the car. “We find a place to park and go after him.”

  Christian surveyed the mass of people spreading far and wide before them. They’d get on foot, but they’d already lost him.

  ■ ■ ■

  After stopping at Urban Outfitters to grab fitting clothes for their investigation, Deckard followed Harper into the FBI building in Albuquerque, swiping through to the crime lab with special permission for him to visit by Harper’s boss, Greg Dunkirk, the forensic director.

  “You okay?” she asked as they made it through security and headed for the elevator.

  “Just don’t like the danger surrounding my brother and Andi. Too many close calls.”

  “I agree. I didn’t like leaving them any more than you did, but they want us here. This is most important to Andi.”

  “More than her life?” Deckard arched a brow.

  “This is a big part of her life. The part that was stolen.”

  “We’ll work the case, work on clearing her name if the facts back up what she says happened.”

  “Clear her name. Huh,” Harper said, swiping her keycard to enter the main crime lab facility.

  “Huh, what?” He frowned.

  “Just sounded like you’re actually starting to believe Andi’s innocent, that she didn’t make any mistakes.”

  He mulled that over. “I think it’s possible.” Miranda—Andi—wasn’t what he’d expected. Spending time with her, short as it was, showed a different side.

  “Wow. That’s progress,” Harper said.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We need to look at the evidence, gather the facts.” That’s what he’d base his determination on.

  “The evidence is gone,” Harper said.

  “That’s not the evidence I’m talking about.”

  “Oh? Then what evidence are you talking about?” She lowered her voice as they passed a group of people.

  “I am looking for evidence of how the DNA got corrupted and the shirt ‘misplaced.’ And if it wasn’t by Andi, as you and my brother wholeheartedly believe, then the question is who did it, and why?”

  “Well, Greg runs the lab, so he’s the best place to start. Oh, and Andi went by Miranda as an FBI agent. Some people have probably heard her called Andi, but it might be easiest if you use Miranda.”

  Deckard smiled. He’d just gotten used to Andi and now it was back to Miranda. “Got it. Thanks. And I remember Greg. When I started my investigation, Mitch’s defense attorney got his approval for us to get a guided tour of the lab. The forensic analyst who gave us the tour and explained what had gone wrong was working the same night as Andi.”

  “Pamela Whitmore?” Harper asked as they pushed through another set of doors. “That was the only other woman working that night, and me, of course, but I was primarily out in the field.”

  “Right. I’m pretty sure that was her name. I’d recognize her if I saw her.”

  “We’ll talk with her, too, if she’s on shift. If not, we can track her down,” Harper said, leading the way down a long hall and then through a myriad of them. White tile floors and brown office doors with rectangular windows framed in the center by the wood lined the corridors. Finally, she stopped in front of an open office door. “Knock, knock.”

  The man looked up from his desk and smiled. “Harper.” Tall, with silver hair and a matching beard, he stood and moved around the desk to greet her. Gold wire-rimmed glasses sat halfway down his nose. He patted her on the shoulder. “I thought you were leaving for your Red Cross mission today.”

  “It got delayed for a week, so I went to visit Andi.”

  Greg nodded as his gaze shifted over her shoulder.

  “This is Deckard MacLeod. I don’t know if you remember him. . . .”

  “Sure. The PI investigating for Mitch Abrams. You came with his defense attorney.”

  “Right.” Deckard nodded.

  “Nice to see you again,” Greg said, shaking his hand.

  “Same.”

  “But I’m confused. Mitch is already out, and Harper said she was investigating Miranda’s claims. So . . . who exactly are you working for?”

  Deckard swallowed. “I’m working on behalf of Andi . . . Miranda.”

  “Well . . .” Grey said, moving back around to take a seat in one of the old-fashioned wooden swivel chairs with spindled backs. His lab coat had his name stitched in blue, he wore a matching blue button-up shirt underneath, and the top of his yellow tie showed where the top two buttons were open. He sat back and steepled his hands. “This is an interesting turn of events,” he said with a glimmer of a smile.

  Deckard tilted his head. “You could say that.” He still struggled with wrapping his head around the change of events a year could bring.

  “Please,” Greg said, indicating the two wooden chairs opposite him. “Have a seat.”

  Deckard pulled out a chair for Harper, then sank down in the one beside her and leaned forward. “Harper tells me you were the only person besides her that remained kind to And—Miranda.”

  “It never quite sat right with me,” he said. “What went down.”

  “So you believe Miranda is innocent of the claims against her?”

  “Innocence and guilt . . .” Greg said. “It’s hard to make a definitive claim of innocence when the evidence indicates you.”

  “But what if she’s right and someone set her up?” Harper said, straightening.

  “I suppose the question in that case would be, Who set her up and why?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re trying to find out,” Harper said. “The only way Deckard can help is if he can see the lab and the evidence locker.”

  “Oh?” Greg’s inquisitive gaze fixed on Deckard. “Is that true?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, shifting in the hardwood chair, trying not to adjust the Dockers pants Harper said he should wear, not to tug at the tie or loosen the button-down shirt.

  She said he’d get further dressed this way, but it felt foreign and awkward. He was a jeans, boots, T-shirt, and Stetson kind of guy.

  “And why is that?” Greg asked, pinning his gaze on Deckard.

  “Because it happened here,” he said with a respectful tone. “If what Miranda believes is true, the sample was corrupted in the lab after she correctly stored it, and the missing shirt was taken from the evidence locker after she brought in the box to be catalogued.”

  Greg silenced an incoming call and kept his full attention on them. “And what do you think you’ll discover? Particularly, after all this time?”

  “I would like Harper to show me the process the DNA went through. Where the sample was tested. The data or record of it. The proper way to store DNA. What the evidence locker looks like. Who was on shift the day the shirt disappeared . . .”

  “My,” Greg said, “it appears there’s a lot to be learned.”

  “We need your permission to get Deckard in the lab and evidence locker,” Harper said.

  “Yes, you do.” Greg swiveled in his chair, and they waited. After a moment, he sighed. “Very well. You have my permission, as long as you don’t interfere with the work anyone is doing. And other than the data Miranda had on Mitch Abrams, no forensic information is to be shared from any other cases being processed both now and from before.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harper said.

  “So you both agree. You’ll limit your exposure to these aforementioned items?”

  “Yes, sir,” Deckard said, and Harper nodded.

  “All right.” Greg gave a single nod of permission.

  “Thank you, sir,” Harper said.

  “Yes, thank you,” Deckard said.

  “One more thing,” Greg said.

  “Sure,” Deckard said.

  “I want to know what you find,” he said. “As the forensics director, I want to know what’s happening in my lab.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you about that?” Deckard said.

  Greg dipped his head. “About . . . ?”

  “About the hierarchy of positions here. I don’t really understand what roles they fill.”

  “Oh, certainly. Ask away,” Greg said, silencing another call. “I’d be answering that all day if I picked up every time it rang. I’m a scientist. Not a phone operator. So,” he said, redirecting his attention, “I’m the forensic director. I am responsible for the overall daily operation of the laboratory, as well as reviewing and coordinating the work activities of the full staff.”

  “So you run the place,” Deckard said.

  Greg smiled. “Basically.”

  “And the forensics manager?”

  “He oversees the forensics lab, the lab supervisor, and the evidence division.”

  “Harper said you have a new forensics manager?” Deckard said, trying to poke deeper while not insulting the man who had been passed over by Todd Phillips for a job, which, given the plethora of degrees and awards hanging on Greg’s wall, he was far more qualified for, as Harper indicated.

  “Yes, Kevin Gaines was promoted after Todd Phillips left the FBI.”

  “We both know you should have been given that position,” Harper said. “You’re entirely more qualified, and a nice person to boot.”

  “Well, thank you, Harper. But clearly someone, or more than one person on the hiring committee, didn’t think so.”

  “We don’t think that was by accident,” Deckard said.

  Greg held up a finger, stood, strode to the door, and looked up and down the hallway. Then he shut the door and returned to his seat. “I’m not saying it should have been me, but it definitely shouldn’t have been him. He’s not qualified, disciplined, or frankly intelligent enough for that position. I was already looking for a replacement for him as well as keeping an eye out for someone for my position. I certainly wouldn’t have recommended Todd for it.”

  “If you were looking for your replacement, had you been offered the job?” Deckard asked.

  “Not quite, but it looked very favorable. I’d made it to the last round of interviews and was told by the head of the hiring committee that they were impressed by my credentials and they would be in touch soon. Next thing I knew, Todd had the job, just like that. I didn’t even know he’d applied for the position. I thought he had his eyes on mine.”

  “I don’t suppose they said why they went with Todd?” Deckard asked.

  “Actually, they didn’t even call me. I found it very strange. I learned Todd had the job, and I called to thank them for their consideration and time, rather hoping they’d say something, but he just mumbled a ‘You’re welcome’ and wished me the best in my endeavors.”

  “Any idea what kind of job Todd’s doing over there? I can’t imagine well,” Harper said.

  “I’ve heard lots of complaints from the academy members, but it doesn’t seem to have any effect on those in charge. He’s still there.”

  “Do you know who on the hiring committee might be willing to speak with us?” Deckard asked.

  Greg rocked back in his chair—it creaked with the motion. “I’m not sure anyone will, but if it was going to be someone, it would be Ms. Cavet.”

  “Ms. Cavet. Great. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. If you get anything out of her, please let me know. I just don’t understand.”

  “Of course,” Harper said.

  “So what prompted Kevin Gaines’s move into Todd Phillips’s role?”

  “That was my appointment. He deserved the job. That’s who I was going to move into Todd’s role when I fired him.”