Page 72 of Buried Secrets

Samira huffed into the phone. “He loves attention, keeps spiders and snakes as pets, and is not exclusive in his relationships.”

Matt got the message clearly. Cook was a player with unconventional pet choices. Cuddly cats versus spiders and snakes…

Snakes.

Excitement roiled in his gut.

“Thanks for sharing that and for the update,” he said finally. “Send me the full report when you get a chance.”

“Will do.”

The line went dead. Matt sat in the silence of his office as things ticked together in his mind.

He looked down at the search warrant application again. Eleanor Holloway’s challenge seemed less like cooperation and more like a dare. She wanted him to ask specific questions, to come armed with legal authority and probable cause. Well, he had a sleepy island capable of murder and a federal investigator assigned to a case he shouldn’t have been.

But what if he was wrong? He had more to lose than Mrs. Holloway did. His reputation, credibility, and job were all on the line.

Matt crumpled the warrant application and tossed it in the trash, even though his gut screamed at him that it wasn’t the right thing to do, abandoning that lead.

Another idea niggled in his mind. The evidence room. Matt made his way to the tiny closet they used to store their evidence. Usually it was empty, but today it held a bag left behind at the local inn waiting for the return of its owner.

Alice had said it smelled and had put it away. Matt had simply assumed it was a gym bag or such, mistakenly left behind.

The acrid smell of smoke slammed him as soon as he opened the evidence closet. Matt pulled a small leather gym bag from the shelf as the stench stung his nose. Donning rubber exam gloves, he unzipped the bag, his heart pounding.

From inside the bag, he pulled out a black shirt and pants. An empty plastic bottle cluttered to the floor, and Matt swore to himself. He was glad the office was empty.

They certainly had a rogue agent on their hands.

Matt placed the items back into the bag and locked the closet. Walking quickly back to his office, he closed the door as his mind raced. Special Agent Reid Cook.

The phone call to the FBI’s internal affairs department took less time than he had imagined. A replacement agent would be assigned immediately and they would handle Cook. Somehow Matt felt that they weren’t all that surprised by his revelations.

His phone buzzed again. Another text. But this time it wasn’t from Samira.

It was Amy York. I think you need to see this. Can you come over to the mansion as soon as you can?

Matt stared at the screen, his blood running cold.

Chapter 20

The fog had lifted by the time Kaitlin returned from her run, Ollie’s barking welcoming her back. The mansion was bathed in a pale morning light that made its weathered stone seem deceptively welcoming. After showering and getting a bite to eat, Kaitlin headed to the mansion for work.

She could hear raised voices drifting from one of the ground-floor windows as she approached the front entrance, Amy’s distinctive tone sharp with irritation.

“—told you three times already, Sullivan. The historical society requires documentation before any structural modifications are made to the interior walls.”

A deeper voice responded, muffled by distance and the mansion’s thick walls. Kaitlin couldn’t make out the words, but the exasperation was clear.

She slipped through the front door, following the sound of the argument down the corridor toward Amy’s temporary office. The voices grew clearer as she approached.

“Look, lady, you hired me to renovate this place, not preserve every stick of wood from the nineteenth century. Some of these walls aren’t even original to the building.”

“That’s not the point, Sully. The permits specify—”

Kaitlin knocked softly on the door frame. “Amy? Sorry to interrupt.”

A burly man in paint-splattered overalls brushed past her without acknowledgment, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway. Amy stood behind a folding table covered with blueprints and coffee-stained permits, topped with the hunk of granite from the basement, her usually serene expression tight with frustration.