Barrington crossed his legs at the knee and fiddled with the mouse on Slater's desk, glancing at the computer screen as it lighted up to reveal last year's budget report.
"Can I help you with something, Mr. District Attorney?"
Barrington jumped like a high-strung yapper dog and shoved the mouse away as if it were a dead rat. "Uh, Slater. I, uh, I need to talk to you immediately."
Barrington rarely called Slater by his title, almost as if he disliked conceding the position held by former Sheriff Xavier Marconi, who'd left office suddenly before his term was over. Slater didn't mind the disrespect, but he noted it.
The district attorney frowned, the expression making him look like a chubby-faced baby about to throw a temper tantrum. "Didn't you get my ASAP message?"
"I'm here now. What do you want?" Slater eased into the room and towered over the little man. Barrington stood, but immediately sat down again when he noticed the disparity in their heights. Slater grinned and threw himself into the guest chair opposite his desk. Once he was seated, apparently Charlie felt secure enough to rise. He bounced his fingertips together several times like a professor ready to launch a lecture. Slater sighed, recognizing the signs, and not eager to waste time listening to Barrington's drivel.
"The government wants our help in a matter," Barrington said, pacing around the office and tapping his fingertips together.
"The federal government?"
"Of course." Barrington frowned. "What else?"
Slater shrugged. Nothing else, but he liked getting a rise out of the little man.
"Whatever. The call I got came directly from Washington." He slipped a sly look Slater's way, apparently expecting him to be impressed.
"Washington state?"
"D.C.," Barrington snapped. "I want to be sure you understand how important cooperating with federal agencies is to Bigler County."
Slater figured Charlie was hinting at the case last year when the sheriff's office had moved ahead to track down a serial killer without consulting the FBI. Deputy sheriff at the time, Ben had used his resources to rescue Kate Myers, their forensic psychiatrist and his lover. Kate was on assignment in LA now and he missed her like hell.
"Sure, I get it." He nodded pleasantly at the DA, wondering mildly what Charlie was getting them into with the feds.
"Your contact is an Agent Holt, Jackson Holt."
"What?" Slater leaned forward, thinking Barrington wasn't smart enough to play with his mind like that. Thinking he must've heard wrong. Or at least, the name was a colossal coincidence. Except, he reminded himself, he didn't believe in coincidence. "Are you sure of the name? Jackson Holt?"
Barrington flashed an impatient look. "Of course I'm sure. Do you know him?"
"If it's the guy I'm thinking of, there's a little history." Hell, he and Jack boasted a millennium of history between them, but Slater wasn't about to share that information with Barrington. Anyway, hadn't he heard Jack was dead?
"Whatever it is," Barrington warned darkly, "don't let it get in the way. Agent Holt will organize and head a task force. I expect full cooperation. ADA Torres will help."
"Isabella won't be happy about that. She's working on the Vargas case."
Barrington narrowed his eyes. "That investigation can wait. Anyway, Vargas is Sac County's problem, not ours."
"How do I get hold of Holt?"
"You don't. He'll contact you."
Slater watched Barrington mince his way across the polished linoleum and out the doors of the courthouse. Previous district attorneys had made their offices in this impressive historic building, but not him. The day after he assumed office, Barrington moved his staff into the sleek new complex across the freeway.
Asshole, Slater thought. Barrington knew the Diego Vargas case was important to Isabella Torres.
He sighed and leaned back in his over-sized chair, pondering this new information. If the DA was allocating all his resources, including ADA Torres, to the federal case, it must be important. Agent Jackson Holt couldn't possibly be the kid he'd known in high school.
Coincidence or not, the news was a bitch.
The call about the dead body at Lake Tahoe's North Shore came in while Jack sat in the Bigler County Sheriff's office. Slater eased his solid length into a worn leather chair that spoke more of comfort than décor, and eyed Jack across a desk unit that looked ridiculously small. When he'd shaken Slater's hand a few moments ago, a surge of testosterone flared between them and he'd imagined the two of them arm wrestling like they used to in high school.
"Who'd have thought," Slater drawled as he raked his eyes over Jack's physique. The desk phone buzzed. Slater ignored it. "Heard you'd gone back to Texas, got killed in a knife fight."
Jack didn't speak, just opened his credentials and held them up for inspection. He was taller and thinner than Slater, and he knew his clothes hung on him as if they were tailored to a mannequin in contrast to his old friend's casual jeans and shirt. Slater was broader, probably stronger, and had about twenty-five pounds on him. He had even teeth set in a square jaw, and right now his gray eyes were suspicious in a way that took Jack back in time.
Someone had gone looking for him, Jack thought, and wondered who had cared enough.
"So, the feds, huh," Slater commented after a lengthy silence. "Never expected you to end up there."
Jack laughed harshly and without humor. "You probably thought I'd be on the other side of the law." He leaned backward in the chrome chair until the front legs tilted upward.
"Frankly, I didn't think of you at all until the district attorney got a call from Washington."
The jibe rankled. "Good, then I can expect your full cooperation."
"Why not?" Slater paused, and like a dare added, "As long as you don't disappear on us." The again was implied and set Jack's teeth on edge.
"What can I do for the federal government?" Slater asked before Jack could react.
Jack stretched his long legs out in front of him. "I have an old cold case."
"What's a federal cold case got to do with my office?"
"We have intelligence that our killer might've run to ground in this area."
"Out of fifty states and thousands of counties, you think he's holed up in mine?" Slater lifted both brows and lazily rested his chin in his large hand.
Jack opened his mouth to explain, but the insistent buzzing of the phone stopped him.
"Hold on." Slater lifted one finger in the air and punched the speaker button. "What's wrong now, Connie?"
"Dispatch reports a 187 at North Shore, about a half mile past marker 19, two hundred yards from the water."
"Harris?"
"Yep, got him on the other line."
"Patch him through," the Sheriff instructed, looking at Jack with mild curiosity.
The voice came through the speaker phone, tinny, but deep. "Harris, here, Sheriff. Got a nude body off the highway, laying behind a log near the shore, female, possibly African-American."
"Say again. Possibly?"
"Yes sir, body's badly beaten. Can't be sure."
Jack went very still, all senses on full alert. This time as the headache slammed into him, he managed to control the pain of it. Still, the sounds of crushing bone and spattered blood echoed in his ears. Cries, young female cries, and the whimpers of fear and desperation, terror and pleading.
He smelled the bone, heard the blood, felt the cries. Mismatches, he thought, and battled back the sensory overload.
"Goddammit," Slater muttered. "I'll be there in forty." He depressed the call button. "Conn, get the techs out there ASAP." He slammed the phone back in its cradle.
Not possible, Jack thought, at the same time he mentally calculated the distance between the Utah border, where the fourth body was found, and northern California. It was his man. He felt it in his bones. Pulling out the notepad where he'd taken notes on Olivia's student, he read his own broad scrawl. Keisha Johnson, five foot two inches, African American-Islander, nineteen.