“Hey, Ava.” Special Agent Zander Wells stuck his head in her cubicle. “Duncan wants you and me in his office in thirty minutes.”

Zander was also on temporary assignment to VCMO, from Cybercrimes, his computer skills in high demand.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Don’t know yet, but I think it’s important. His voice had that sharp edge it gets when something huge has landed on his desk. He’s waiting on some intel before talking to us.”

“Thanks. See you then.”

The tall agent vanished silently down the hall. Zander was one of the good ones. Deadly smart and a memory like a supercomputer. Pleasant, too.

Thirty minutes? That should be enough time to make a small dent in her email. She tapped on her keyboard, but felt her nerves crank up in anticipation of a hot case.

3

“Representative Carson Scott didn’t have the best reputation,” commented Mason as he stared at the Google images at his desk in the Portland office.

“That surprises you?” Ray asked. “The only reason I recognized him was because his face was all over the TV last fall during that sex scandal. And he doesn’t even belong to our state.”

“A lot of people consider Vancouver, Washington, to simply be a Portland neighborhood on the other side of the Columbia River.”

“People who live in Vancouver don’t see it that way. And I’m sure Scott didn’t see it that way.”

“Looks like the only thing he could see was women. Usually young ones,” muttered Mason. “He’s with a different one in every picture. They look about Kirstin’s age.” The blond U.S. representative looked like James Bond in a tux. No wonder the women liked him. The high eyebrow that Mason had noticed at the crime scene made Scott appear always interested in what was directly in front of him. Mason had heard that women found it sexy.

But he thought it had a touch of Hollywood sleaze.

“I’m sure they’re older than my fifteen-year-old,” said Ray. “Scott is what, all of thirty-three? It’s not unusual to date women in their twenties at that age. But that’s what got him all the press last year. Everyone believed that donor’s wife when she said they’d had an affair.”

“She was credible. Him not so much.”

“Then why didn’t it cost him his job?”

“Maybe it will cost him come election time—oh, crap—guess not.” Mason realized too late. “Anyway, Dr. Rutledge said he hoped to have a cause of death this afternoon. Until then we need all possible views of that stretch of the bridge from the traffic cams. We need to locate any family in the area and find out what he’s been doing the last few days.”

“I know he was out with McKenna Drake Saturday night,”stated Ray.

“How do you know that? And who’s McKenna Drake?”

“I’m looking at his Facebook page. It’s public. It shows they attended a movie together.” Ray clicked one button on his keyboard. “McKenna Drake. Lives in Portland. Dancer at BlazerDancers. Studied business at the University of Portland.”

“BlazerDancers? You mean the dancers for the pro basketball team?”

Ray’s gaze was glued to the screen. “Yup. Kirstin’s main goal in life is to dance on a professional sports cheerleading or dance team. I’ve tried to tell her they probably make less than minimum wage and work insane hours.”

Mason got up from his desk and walked around to look over Ray’s shoulder. Ray was studying the Facebook page of a very attractive young woman with black hair and huge turquoise eyes. Sure enough, the top posting was a link to a movie theater where she’d gone with Carson Scott. “Why do people post where they’re at? They’re just asking for trouble. I’m not home, come rob my house.”

“I’ll reach out to her and get her in for an interview. I’ve already talked to his chief of staff, who’s headed in to meet with us. They were headed back to DC tomorrow.”

“He has a chief of staff? Why? How many people work for a U.S. rep?”

“Looks like nearly twenty.”

“Christ. I want a staff. I need a staff.” Mason frowned at his messy desk and ignored the extreme neatness of Ray’s.

“The question is who wanted him dead?” muttered Ray. “A husband or boyfriend of some woman he flirted with? Someone affected by a bill he voted on?”

“His job opens up a whole other issue,” admitted Mason. “Denny put in a call to the FBI the moment we had a preliminary ID on him. Murder of a federal official is their territory.”

“I’m all about getting their help. They have a lot more funds and resources than we do,” stated Ray.

“Do we have camera footage yet?” Mason walked back around to his desk and opened his email. The Oregon Department of Transportation had said it would email footage from the previous evening and early morning. Mason figured it’d happened in the middle of the night. If he were hanging a body in public, he’d do it during the quietest hours possible. Of course, not all criminals were smart.

“Not yet.” Ray yanked at his perfect tie to loosen it around his neck. A signal he was sucked into the case. The detective was nearly a decade younger than Mason and dressed like he’d stepped out of a menswear magazine. Mason’s working uniform was jeans and button-down collared shirts. And his boots and hat. Occasionally he’d throw on a sport coat and tie if he had a meeting, but he preferred to be comfortable. Ties weren’t comfortable.