Killing Hour - Lisa Gardner [16]
The man clipped the ID badge to his collar. The sun sank, the sky turned from red to purple to black.
“Clock ticking,” the man murmured. He started to drive.
CHAPTER 4
Stafford, Virginia
9:34 P.M.
Temperature: 89 degrees
“WHAT’S UP, SUGAR? You seem restless tonight.”
“Can’t stand the heat.”
“That’s a strange comment coming from a man who lives in Hotlanta.”
“I keep meaning to move.”
Genny, a tight-bodied redhead with a well-weathered face but genuinely kind eyes, gazed at him speculatively through the blue haze of the smoky bar.
“How long have you lived in Georgia, Mac?” she asked over the din.
“Since I was a gleam in my daddy’s eye.”
She smiled, shook her head and stubbed out her cigarette in the glass ashtray. “Then you won’t ever move, sugar. Take it from me. You’re a Georgian. Stick a fork in you, you’re done.”
“You just say that because you’re a Texan.”
“Since I was a gleam in my great-great-great-grandpappy’s eyes. Yanks move around, honey. We Southerners take root.”
GBI Special Agent Mac McCormack acknowledged the point with a smile. His gaze was on the front door of the crowded bar again. He was watching the people walk in, unconsciously seeking out young girls traveling in pairs. He should know better. On days like this, when the temperature topped ninety, he didn’t.
“Sugar?” Genny said again.
He caught himself, turned back to her, and managed a rueful grin. “Sorry. I swear to you my mother raised me better than this.”
“Then we’ll never let her know. Your meeting didn’t go well today, did it?”
“How did you—”
“I’m a police officer, too, Mac. Don’t dismiss me just because I’m pretty and got a great set of boobs.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand, then dug around in her purse until she found a fresh cigarette. He held up a light and she smiled her gratitude, though the lines were a bit tighter around her eyes. For a minute, neither one of them said a word.
The bar was hopping tonight, flesh pressed against flesh, with more people still pouring through the doors. Half of them, of course, were their fellow National Academy classmates—detectives, sheriffs, and even some military police enrolled in Quantico’s eleven-week course. Still, Mac wouldn’t have expected the bar to be this busy on a Tuesday night. People were fleeing their homes, probably trying to escape the heat.
He and Genny had arrived three hours ago, early enough to stake out hard-to-find seats. Generally the National Academy students didn’t leave Quantico much. People hung out in the Boardroom after hours, drinking beer, swapping war stories, and by one or two in the morning, praying that their livers wouldn’t fail them now. The big joke was that the program had to end week eleven, because no one’s kidneys could survive week twelve.
People were restless tonight, though. The unbearable heat and humidity had started moving in on Sunday, and reportedly were working their way to a Friday crescendo. Walking outside was like slogging through a pile of wet towels. In five minutes your T-shirt was plastered to your torso. In ten minutes, your shorts were glued to your thighs. Inside seemed little better, with the Academy’s archaic air-conditioning system groaning mightily just to cool things to eighty-five.
People started bailing from Quantico shortly after six, desperate for any sort of distraction. Genny and Mac had followed shortly thereafter.
They’d met the first week of training, eight weeks ago. Southerners had to stick together, Genny had teased him, especially in a class overrun with fast-talking Yanks. Her gaze, however, had been on his broad chest when she’d said this. Mac had merely grinned.
At the age of thirty-six, he’d figured out by now that he was a good-looking guy—six two, black hair, blue eyes, and deeply tanned skin from a lifetime spent running, cycling, fishing, hunting, hiking, canoeing, etc. You name it, he did it and he had a younger sister and nine