CHAPTER FIVE
Agent Thomas Sawyer stood by his sitting desk. He'd personally removed the chair, lodging it in the break room in a form of silent protest. Tom was sick of sitting. For days now, he'd been doing just that in the cramped space. The air conditioning in the FBI field office was broken too, not that he minded a little bit of heat. Discomfort bred character. And cops with character caught more killers.
He tapped his fingers against his desk, studying the computer screen and listening to Sergeant Alice Faber shifting patiently from foot to foot behind him. After another few moments, her voice piped up, “Think you can send me that report so I can sign off?”
Tom pushed the brim of his baseball cap back and studied the clean-cut, well-dressed babysitter from the Seattle PD assigned
