He stroked for a few minutes, was rewarded with a tentative lick on the back of his hand.

The dog cringed again when Reed stood up, then shifted his gaze up when the expected blow didn’t come. He learned quickly the dog didn’t like the leash. He pulled, twisted, froze each time Reed stopped and looked down at him. With that process, they made it to the car.

The tail wagged with more enthusiasm. “Like riding in cars, huh? Well, this is your lucky day.” He started to put him in the back, but the dog looked at him with such soulful eyes, the beginning of hope.

“Don’t barf up the burger in my official vehicle.”

The instant he opened the door, the dog leaped in, sat in the passenger’s seat—and banged his snout on the window.

Reed decided a dog could look surprised. He rolled the window down, and his prisoner’s floppy ears waved out in the air all the way back to the station.

“Gotta write you up, and see if I can get the vet to come in and take a look at you. Then we’ll figure out the rest.”

He noted the black SUV in the lot, and knew he had a federal visitor.

In the bullpen Donna took another call, Cecil and Matty sat at their desks, and Special Agent Xavier sat in a visitor’s chair with a cup of coffee while he scrolled something on his phone.

The sight and smell and sound of so many humans in one place had the dog shaking, tail tucked, head down.

“Aw, you found the puppy.” Cecil started to get up. Reed held up a hand to stop him.

“He’s scared of people.”

“Doesn’t seem to be scared of you,” Matty pointed out.

“A little yet, but we came to terms over the burger I fed him. Donna, call the vet.”

“Vet’s only open Wednesdays and Saturdays, except for emergencies.”

“I know that. Call him at home, tell him the situation. I need him to look over the dog, make sure he’s not sick. Cecil, why don’t you take him back to the…”

As he held out the leash to his deputy, the dog whined, pressed against Reed’s leg, and trembled. “Never mind. Hang on a minute.” Leading the dog, he went to the break room, hunted up a bowl, a bottle of water. “Special Agent Xavier,” he said as he came back, “why don’t we go into my office?”

“You’re bringing the dog?”

“He’s in my custody.”

In the office, Reed gestured to a chair, then sat behind his desk. Immediately the dog crawled under the desk. Reed poured water into the bowl, set it down.

“So, what can I do for you?” Reed began, over the sound of wet, rapid lapping.

“I felt a face-to-face might make it crystal clear that neither I, nor the Bureau, appreciate your interference with an active investigation.”

“Well, you didn’t need to take a ferry ride for that, but maybe you needed one to define my interference.”

“Detective, you contacted two people—that we’re aware of—related information to one of them—that we know of—and stated your personal belief that Patricia Hobart intended to kill them.”

“First off, that’s Chief. And clearly my personal belief became fact when Hobart killed Emily Devlon.”

Xavier pressed his palms together, folded down all but his index fingers. “We have no evidence, at this time, that Hobart is responsible for the death of Emily Devlon.”

Reed just nodded. “Would you mind shutting that door? If I get up to do it, this dog’s just going to follow me over and back again, and it looks like he’s finally settling down.”

Reed waited while Xavier obliged.

“I asked you to shut the door because I’d rather my bullpen doesn’t hear me calling an FBI agent an asshole.”

“You’re going to want to be careful. Chief.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I think what I have to be here is straight. You may not have any physical evidence, to date, or a handy eyewitness, but you’ve got everything else. Devlon fits Hobart’s pattern down the line. She survived DownEast, and while she was at it, she saved a life. She got kudos— No, my office,” he said as Xavier started to interrupt. “She got some kudos at the time, write-ups and so on. More, she benefited financially when the life she saved died of natural causes years later and left Devlon a hundred thousand in her will. Every one of Hobart’s victims so far got press and benefited in some way.”

“You were ordered, specifically, to stay out of this investigation.”

“I don’t work for Portland PD now. I’m not interfering in dick-all, and I hope like hell the FBI brings her down, and fast. Until you do, I’ll do what I do.”

“By tampering with potential targets—”

“Tampering, my ass. I contacted Lowen, laid it out for him because I had information that led me to believe Hobart shifted her gears to Florida.”

“And didn’t share that so-called information with officials?”

“I put together the information Sunday afternoon, and fully intended to pass it to you Monday morning. I did, in fact, advise Lowen to contact you. Gave him your name and number. I would have done the same with Devlon had I reached her. And had I reached her, maybe she’d be alive. So don’t come into my house, Agent Xavier, and try to bullshit me. You’re in charge of the Hobart investigation, but I’ve got skin in this—literal skin.”

“Which is exactly why you were taken off the investigation.”

“Again, I don’t work for Portland PD. I work for the people of, and the visitors to, this island. And, as far as I know, there’s no law or regulation saying as such—or as a private citizen—I can’t gather information or contact individuals I believe might be in jeopardy.”

Xavier just looked down his blade of a nose. “Let me make this clear. The FBI doesn’t need the dubious assistance of some obsessed LEO who’s playing big shot on some bumfuck island and spends his time out catching stray dogs.”

Reed glanced down at the dog now snoring at his feet. “It didn’t take that much time. I’ll say this, then we should both get back to work: I’m not looking to get in your way, and we both know I haven’t been in your way. You’re pissed because it’s now in the files that some obsessed LEO on some bumfuck island contacted Hobart’s next victim—or tried to. And you, Special Agent, with all the punch of the FBI behind you, didn’t.

“I’d be pissed, too, in your shoes. But Emily Devlon is still dead, and there are people I care about who fit Hobart’s victim pattern. So you’re wasting your time trying to scare or intimidate me.”

“What I’m doing is warning you. The Bureau has control of this investigation.”

“Warning me isn’t going to do dick-all, either. I hope you get her. I hope to Christ you take her down before she kills the next on her list. When you do? I’ll send you a case of the beverage of your choice. Until then, I’d say we both know where we stand on this.”

“You’ll cross a line.” Xavier got to his feet. “When you do, I’ll see to it you lose this cushy job you’ve got here, and any chance at a badge anywhere.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. You know, you haven’t asked how I determined Hobart was in Florida and would go for one of the two people I contacted. You don’t ask,” Reed continued, “because you’re pissed. I’m going to send you that information, and hope you’ll look into it when you’re not as pissed. It’s relevant because if you haven’t confirmed that Hobart’s responsible for Devlon as yet, you will. She’ll have left something because she wants credit for it.”

“Just keep out of my way.”

“We’re still off-season,” Reed said as Xavier went to the door. “So you’ve got a couple hours before the next ferry back to Portland. The coffee and pie are damn good at the Sunrise Café.”

Xavier strode out, leaving the door swinging open behind him.

Reed looked down at the snoring dog again. “That, my friend, was a man who managed to be a dick and a tight-ass simultaneously.”

He looked up again when Donna came to the door. “Your visitor didn’t look too happy when he left. Rude, too, slamming the door. We figured you were in trouble with the feds for something, but you don’t look worried.”

“I’m not, because I’m an obsessed LEO playing big shot on a bumfuck island. And that works out pretty well for me.”

“Big shot.” She snorted.

“Hey, I’m chief of police. That’s pretty big for any shot.”

“Did he really call the island ‘bumfuck’?”

“He did, but we’re not worried about that because we know better.”

“Did you cut that asshole down to size?”

“He didn’t leave happy, did he?”

She gave a sharp nod of approval. “Doc Dorsey said you can bring the dog in.”

Reed wondered if he should let sleeping dogs lie. But when he rolled back a couple of inches in his chair, the dog’s head shot up. His eyes stared into Reed’s with fear and longing.

“I guess I’ll do that then.”

He opted to walk, hoping the dog would stop shaking every time he saw someone who wasn’t his arresting officer. But every time he did, the dog leaned on Reed’s leg and trembled.