Page 98 of Girl Between

“Did you really think I wouldn’t hear about a twenty-year-old cold case re-opening in my own backyard?” he chided. “Those little girls used to ride their bikes down this very street.”

Dana ignored the shiver creeping up her spine. “If you know something about what happened to them you should go to the police.”

“I did, twenty years ago. You’ll find my statement in their report, assuming you do a more thorough job for the FBI than you’ve done here.”

Dana swallowed her anger. “Well, if you know anything else, you should call the FBI tipline.”

Taurant’s wicked grin showed too many teeth. “The secrets I could spill.” He sighed, straightening his pastel pink bowtie. “Alas, none of them would bring those poor girls back. Though it might be fun to bring down a government official or two.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Dana seethed.

He clucked his tongue. “Oh that’s something I know much better than you, my dear. Word of advice? Some graves shouldn’t be dug up.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Take it how you like. But those families have been through enough. Just about every one of us still standing in this town has been through enough. Scratching old wounds won’t change anything. Just causes more pain.”

“Well.” Dana hit a few strokes on her keyboard and fired off the email she’d been working on. “Lucky for you, I’m done here,” she said, slamming her laptop closed. She stood and gathered her belongings. “I wish I could say it’s been fun …” She trailed off purposefully.

“Oh, there’s still plenty of time for fun. Save me a dance at the wedding.”

“What?”

He clucked his tongue again, making Dana wish he would choke on it. “Can’t believe you turned Gorgeous George down. Made a lot of ladies in this town happy. And men, too,” he added with a wink.

Dana breezed past him, ready to be done with this unpleasant exchange already. But Taurant didn’t know when to stop. “I don’t blame you,” he called as she moved into the foyer. “I wouldn’t be able to pass up that fine FBI friend of yours either.”

Dana was on him in a second, hands on his scrawny throat.

The thoracic choke was a martial arts technique she’d perfected, but unleashing it on Taurant was much more satisfying than her jiu-jitsu instructor. She squeezed harder, restricting blood flow to his head as she compressed his upper airway.Taurant’s beady black eyesbulged with fear. “What do you know about Agent Shepard?” she hissed into his ear.

“N-nothing.”

“Then keep his name out of your mouth! Do you understand me?”

He tried to nod, but he couldn’t move his head. His gaunt cheeks were turning blue so Dana released him. “You may know this town. But you don’t know me,” she snarled. “Remember that the next time our paths cross.”

86

George couldn’t blameShepard for wanting nothing to do with the bedlam amassing in the French Quarter. The steps to his precinct were already swarming with reporters waiting for any scoop regarding the FBI’s appearance.

He hadn’t seen or heard from Shepard since watching him hand off the investigation to the BAU team early this morning.

There seemed to be no love lost between Shepard and Agent Colby Creed. The younger agent sent Shepard packing immediately after the proper paperwork and introductions were out of the way, stating his services were no longer required. A bold thing to say to an Ex-Army Ranger. But Shepard had taken it in stride.

George wished he could say the same.

It was difficult to ignore the sting of being demoted in his own precinct. He knew Creed and the BAU team had good intentions. And technically, they were there to assist George and his officers. But since they’d arrived, the FBI was making their presence known in a big way.

Currently, they were flexing their federal muscles as they took over the conference room.

“Why don’t we have anything like this?” LaSalle grumped atGeorge’s side as smart boards, high powered monitors, laptops, and encrypted servers were brought in.

“‘Cause we don’t got an unlimited budget,” Neville teased.

“Hell, compared to this, we don’t have a budget at all,” George muttered.

“No kidding,” Richter grumbled, joining them with a mug of coffee. “Is there some sort of competition for the worst cup of Joe going on around here?” he asked. “This shit tastes like burnt tree bark.”