Insidious by Catherine Coulter Page B

years old. “But I’ll tell you, Cammie, when he gets a look at your face and that smile of yours, only the good Lord knows what he’ll have to say.”
    Cam knew a smile got a woman FBI agent only so far. It didn’t help with perps taking her seriously, or with some male agents and law enforcement, for that matter. She could but try. “Please, Dreyfus, it’d help if you called me Cam. Not Cammie—sounds like I’m still seven and smearing birthday cake all over my face.”
    “Cam. Sounds good.” Sheriff Murray led her into the bullpen, not all that large a room, with maybe twelve desks, half occupied, buzzing with low voices. The men and women detectives were on their cells or typing on their computers, one talking with a perp or a victim as he leafed through a file. She smelled bitter coffee, like every other cop shop she’d ever been in. It felt like home, down to the doughnut crumbs and the half, lone bear claw lying on the table next to the pot of coffee, probably strong enough to corrode stomach lining.
    “There he is, over there, the guy with the Mac laptop, the cell crunched between his shoulder and his ear, and the bagel in his hand.”
    Cam eyed Detective Montoya, then turned when Dreyfus said, “I’ll let you introduce yourself. Keep me in the loop, Cam,” and left her to it.
    Cam walked over to Montoya’s ancient banged-up cop desk, stood quietly beside him as he spoke in a slow comforting voice on his cell, maybe talking to a witness or a victim. If he saw her, he didn’t acknowledge her. She watched him take a bite of his bagel, end up with some cream cheese on his upper lip. As he listened, he typedon his laptop with two fingers. He finally looked up at her, jerked his head toward the chair.
    She sat down and looked around, fully aware the other detectives in the room were eyeing her, knowing who she was, because there are no secrets in a police station or in a sheriff’s station. Montoya said thank you and punched off his cell. He took the final bite of his bagel, wiped his hands on a paper napkin, and continued to type on his laptop. The dab of cream cheese was still on his lip.
    Cam said, “I admire a multitasker. You nearly have that email to your mom finished?”
    He didn’t look up. “Been a busy morning, lots to tell her.”
    “It’s only eight thirty in the morning, Detective Montoya. You sure don’t look Latin to me. Where’d you get the Spanish name?”
    “You could ask where I get the gringo first name—Daniel.”
    “Nah, Daniel’s biblical, way back before Latin America was invented. He got tossed into a lions’ den and lived to brag about it. I bet you’ve never even seen a lion.”
    “Yes, I have. I was six years old, down in the San Diego Zoo.”
    “Are you through?”
    “Just one more sentence to Mom, telling her how I miss her chicken pot pie—two crusts. There. All done.” He closed the laptop and slowly rose, eyed her up and down when she stood to face him. “You’re the Fed?” Incredulous voice. Then, under his breath, but not quite low enough, “Oh, joy.”
    Cam was closing in on five foot ten in her boots, but came only to the middle of this guy’s nose. “Yeah, I’m the Fed. Big dude, aren’t you?”
    “You ain’t no midget yourself.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Detective Daniel Montoya, as you already know.”
    “I’m Special Agent Cam Wittier.”
    They shook hands. He looked pissed for a moment, then shewatched his face change as he reminded himself to accept the inevitable and settled on resigned. “Okay, the sheriff told me you were coming to take over the case.”
    “True. But right now, I’m here to meet to you, see what you think.”
    “And then kiss me off because I’m a worthless yahoo without a sentient brain?”
    “Depends on the ideas you have about this Serial. Then I’ll assess if you’re worthless. Or not.”

13
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    Daniel looked at her short wavy blond hair and into her blue-gray eyes, no, there was hazel in