Beneath the Cracks by LS Sygnet Page A

arrest.
    "That's what I thought.  Now get the
hell off my property, before I have the nice detectives across the
street arrest you for trespassing."
    Eyes darted to the rear view mirror. 
"This isn't over, Eriksson.  I'll be back – with a warrant to
search this house too, and any other house you have lived in, slept
in, or stepped foot in.  Not even the corrupt jerks in
Darkwater Bay can protect you from what you've got coming."
    Seleeby backed out of the driveway, paused
long enough to salute Briscoe and Conall and sped away.  Tony
hopped out of the car and stalked across the street.
    "Give me strength," I whispered.  His
determined face, mixed with more than a fair amount of anger told
me no amount of intimidation or threats or even feminine temper
could forestall the coming tirade.
    "Who the hell was that?  Were those
Datello's boys?"
    Jesus.  My forehead found its way into
the palm of my hand.
    "Dammit, Eriksson, we ain't screwin'
around!"
    "That was Special Agent Mark Seleeby from
the FBI."
    "The…the fuckin' FBI?"
    "It's a long story, and I really don't want
to get into all of –"
    "Well, you're gettin' into it," Briscoe
huffed.  "Open this gate.  Puppy'll drive us up to the
house and you can explain why in tarnation the FBI is pesterin' one
of their former agents."
    "It's nothing, Tony.  Please."
    "I said no.  Either you talk, and I
mean right now, or I'll call Orion over here and you'll explain
this to him.  Jesus Christ.  That scared the hell outta
us!  And what were you thinkin', marchin' up to a strange car
like that without a clue who was inside?"
    That was the rub.  I wasn't clueless
about who they were or even why they were here. 
"Dammit.  Dammit, dammit, dammit."  My fingers worked
through worried furrows on my forehead like it might turn back the
hands of time.  Briscoe wanted answers, and from the look on
his face, none of your business was not an acceptable
one.
    Conall honked the horn.  Briscoe
gripped my bicep and half dragged me to the car.  "Open the
gate, Helen."
    I depressed the button on the remote. 
It felt worse than a man making his final walk to a death
chamber.  Think Helen!  Come up with something
rational that will explain why Seleeby is here, because you really
don't want this discussion to –
    Conall's voice cut through the blanket of
panic shrouding me.
    "He's on his way."
    " Who is on his way?  What did
you do, Crevan?"  My voice leapt into the shrill soprano
range.  Did I think I felt panic before?  Huh-uh. 
That was merely, gee, a big hairy spider just ran over my
face concern.  This was definitely panic.
    Briscoe's eyes darted over his shoulder to
impale me.  "You know who.  Johnny."
    Dammit devolved into something decidedly
more profane in my head, although my teeth clamped together hard
enough to splinter enamel. 
    Remain calm.  What was that thing Dad
always said?  Oh yeah.  Admit nothing, deny everything,
demand proof.  I don't owe them answers.  Not Briscoe or
Conall.  Certainly not Orion.  And I meant what I said to
Seleeby.  He can go screw–
    "How long?"
    Conall met my eyes in the mirror.  At
least that's what I thought he was looking at – me.  "He's
behind us right now.  Said he's had the place under
surveillance all day."
    "He's watching me ?  What
for?"  Outrage melted away some of my panic.
    Briscoe and Conall shared a look.  The
kind that says: we know something but we're not telling you. 
How long had this secret surveillance been going on?  And what
purpose did they have for spying on me? 
    Oh God.  Seleeby.  That son of a
bitch.  My brain jumped into plot mode.  How could I take
him out without making myself look like more of a suspect than I
already was?  Too bad my mad bomber, Jim Daltry was already
incarcerated.  He did a decent job on my rental car four
months ago.
    Orion yanked the back door of the sedan
open.  "Get out."
    Way too stern.  Shit .  To
outthink the best minds at the FBI, to sidestep