The Naturals
Page 3

“This is Briggs.”
I couldn’t pinpoint what was more disarming—the fact that this “Agent Briggs” had apparently given me the number to his direct line or the way he answered the phone, like saying “hello” would have been a waste of breath.
“Hello?” As if he could read my mind, Special Agent Tanner Briggs spoke again. “Anyone there?”
“This is Cassandra Hobbes,” I said. “Cassie.”
“Cassie.” Something about the way Agent Briggs said my name made me think that he’d known before I’d said a single word that I didn’t go by my full name. “I’m glad you called.”
He waited for me to say something else, but I stayed silent. Everything you said or did was a data point you put out there in the world, and I didn’t want to give this man any more information than I had to—not until I knew what he wanted from me.
“I’m sure you must be wondering why I contacted you—why I had Michael contact you.”
Michael. So now the boy from the diner had a name.
“I have an offer I’d like you to consider.”
“An offer?” It amazed me that my voice stayed every bit as calm and even as his.
“I believe this is a conversation best had in person, Ms. Hobbes. Is there somewhere you would be comfortable meeting?”
He knew what he was doing—letting me pick the location, because if he’d specified one, I might not have gone. I probably should have refused to meet with him anyway, but I couldn’t, for the same reason that I’d had to pick up the phone and call.
Five years was a long time to go without a body. Without answers.
“Do you have an office?” I asked.
The slight pause on the other end of the phone told me that wasn’t what he’d expected me to say. I could have asked him to meet me at the diner or a coffee shop near the high school or anywhere that I would have had the home court advantage, but I’d been taught to believe that there was no home court advantage.
You could tell more about a stranger by seeing their house than you ever would by inviting them to yours.
Besides, if this guy wasn’t really an FBI agent, if he was some kind of pervert and this was some kind of game, I figured he’d probably have a heck of a time arranging a meeting at the local FBI office.
“I don’t actually work out of Denver,” he said finally. “But I’m sure I can set something up.”
Probably not a pervert, then.
He gave me an address. I gave him a time.
“And Cassandra?”
I wondered what Agent Briggs hoped to accomplish by using my full first name. “Yes?”
“This isn’t about your mother.”
— — —
I went to the meeting anyway. Of course I did. Special Agent Tanner Briggs knew enough about me to know that my mother’s case was the reason I’d followed the instructions on the card and called. I wanted to know how he’d come by that information, if he’d looked at her police file, if he would look at her file, provided I gave him whatever it was he wanted from me.
I wanted to know why Special Agent Tanner Briggs had made it his business to know about me, the same way a man shopping for a new computer might have memorized the specs of the model that had caught his eye.
“What floor?” The woman beside me in the elevator was in her early sixties. Her silvery blond hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail at the nape of her neck, and the suit she was wearing was perfectly tailored.
All business, just like Special Agent Tanner Briggs.
“Fifth floor,” I said. “Please.”
With nervous energy to burn, I snuck another glance at the woman and started piecing my way through her life story, as told by the way she was standing, her clothes, the faint accent in her speech, the clear coat of polish on her nails.
She was married.
No kids.
When she’d started in the FBI, it had been a boy’s club.
Behavior. Personality. Environment. I could practically hear my mother coaching me through this impromptu analysis.
“Fifth floor.” The woman’s words were brisk, and I added another entry to my mental column—impatient.
Obligingly, I stepped out of the elevator. The door closed behind me, and I appraised my surroundings. It looked so … normal. If it hadn’t been for the security checkpoint out front and the visitor’s badge pinned to my faded black sundress, I never would have pegged this for a place devoted to fighting federal crime.
“So, what? You were expecting a dog-and-pony show?”
I recognized the voice instantly. The boy from the diner. Michael. He sounded amused, and when I turned to face him, there was a familiar smirk dancing its way through his features, one that he probably could have suppressed if he’d had the least inclination to try.
“I wasn’t expecting anything,” I told him. “I have no expectations.”
He gave me a knowing look. “No expectations, no disappointments.”
I couldn’t tell if that was his appraisal of my current mental state or the motto by which he lived his own life. In fact, I was having trouble getting any handle on his personality at all. He’d traded his striped polo for a formfitting black T-shirt and his jeans for khaki slacks. He looked as out of place here as he had at the diner, like maybe that was the point.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “I knew you’d come.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Even though you told me not to?”
He shrugged. “My inner Boy Scout had to try.”
If this guy had an inner Boy Scout, I had an inner flamingo.
“So, are you here to take me to Special Agent Tanner Briggs?” I asked. The words came out curtly, but at least I didn’t sound fascinated, infatuated, or even the least bit drawn to the sound of his voice.
“Hmmmmm.” In response to my question, Michael made a noncommittal noise under his breath and inclined his head—as close to a yes as I was going to get. He led me around the bull pen and down a hallway. Neutral carpet, neutral walls, a neutral expression on his criminally handsome face.
“So what does Briggs have on you?” Michael asked. I could feel him watching me, looking for a surge of emotion—any emotion—to tell him if his question had hit a nerve.
It hadn’t.
“You want me to be nervous about this,” I told him, because that much was clear from his words. “And you told me not to come.”
He smiled, but there was a hard glint to it, an edge. “I guess you could say I’m contrary.”
I snorted. That was one word for it.
“Are you going to give me even a hint of what’s going on here?” I asked as we neared the end of the hall.
He shrugged. “That depends. Are you going to stop playing Who’s Got the Best Poker Face with me?”
That surprised a laugh out of me, and I realized that it had been a long time since I’d laughed because I couldn’t help it and not because someone else was laughing, too.
Michael’s smile lost its edge, and for a second, the expression utterly changed his face. If he’d been handsome before, he was beautiful now—but it didn’t last. As quickly as the lightness had come, it faded.
“I meant what I wrote on that card,” he said softly. He nodded to a closed office door to our right. “If I were you, I wouldn’t go in there.”
I knew then—the way I always knew things—that Michael had been in my shoes once and that he had opened the door. His warning was genuine, but I opened it, too.
“Ms. Hobbes. Please, come in.”
With one last glance at Michael, I stepped into the room.
“Au revoir,” the boy with the excellent poker face said, punctuating the words with an exaggerated flick of his fingers.
Special Agent Tanner Briggs cleared his throat. The door closed behind me. For better or worse, I was here to meet with an FBI agent. Alone.
“I’m glad you came, Cassie. Take a seat.”
Agent Briggs was younger than I’d expected based on his phone voice. The gears in my brain turned slowly, incorporating his age into what I knew. An older man who took pains to appear businesslike was guarded. A twenty-nine-year-old who did the same wanted to be taken seriously.