His story was crazy.

“How well did you know the victim?” Ava asked. Her mind sped through his tale, and she agreed with him. Someone was out to get him.

“She’d been a CI for two years. I probably met up with her a dozen times. I’d like to think she trusted me.”

“Prostitutes don’t trust anybody. A druggie probably trusts everyone. You think she was hooked on something the last time you saw her?”

“Something changed. She might have been a casual user to start with, but the dead woman I saw had the physical appearance of a die-hard addict—the weight loss, the facial sores, the teeth. I didn’t know things could change so fast.”

Pity for the dead woman was plain on his face. Ava could also see some self-blame going on for not recognizing Josie’s problem. “Nothing you could do.”

His gaze met hers; he didn’t believe her.

“Don’t tell me you think you can save the world. Haven’t you been on the job a little too long to believe that? I thought that mentality disappears within six months of being hired,” she joked.

He gave a small smile. “Gotta keep some faith. Otherwise, it gets to you.”

An optimist. He acted like a pessimist, but at heart he wanted to see the good in everything. Something she ached for, too.

Ava nodded. Damn it. Why’d he have to be a cop?

She didn’t get involved with cops. She’d played that game before. It might take someone on the job to truly understand what she went through every day, but dating cops was a no-no. They thought with their dicks. Women loved the uniform and threw themselves at it. Talk about an ego booster. She’d dated one for eighteen months in LA. She’d heeded the warning not to get involved with a man in blue, but she thought she’d found the exception. She hadn’t. He’d cheated, twice.

First time, shame on him; second time, shame on her.

She put in for a transfer.

This guy is different. She fought an urge to laugh.

“What? You find my attitude amusing?” Mason asked.

She snorted. “No. Thinking of something else. It’s good to know you’re still optimistic when your department thinks you kill prostitutes.”

“Ouch.” He thumped his hand on his chest, but his eyes wrinkled in a faint smile.

“I don’t think you’re a killer.”

“Good to know. And I return the sentiment.”

13

Ava gazed at her date in the romantic restaurant. The lighting was dim, the crowd was festive, and they had a sweeping nighttime view of the sparkling Willamette River from their table near the window. On the river walk outside, the second bench was in their line of sight, where an agent sat waiting with a black backpack.

Ava glanced at her watch. Nearly seven. The agent would walk away at seven, leaving the backpack tucked under the bench next to the legs. ASAC Ben Duncan sat across from her, his gaze glued to the agent, his phone at his ear. She tried to look calm, but felt hyperaware, as if she needed to memorize the movements of every diner in the restaurant and every passerby outside. Two other agents sat in the restaurant, taking up another prime table. The restaurant must have hated to lose it this last weekend before Christmas.

Tonight the Christmas Ships were out. Private yachts and sailboats paraded up and down the river, decked out in Christmas lights. Fans made reservations at restaurants with river views months in advance, the beautiful sight a Portland tradition. The ships paraded in December and sailed a few different routes, but tonight was a prime viewing evening for this seafood restaurant.

Walkers and shoppers strolled the twenty-foot-wide walkway in front of the restaurant. The concrete path continued north along the river and deeper into the city. On the west side of the walk stood the shops and restaurants; on the east side, the landscaped bank sloped gently down to the river and marina. Tiny white lights covered the trees that lined the walk. Die-hard diners sat at outdoor tables along the east side of the walk as waiters dashed between the outdoor tables and the restaurant. Huge propane heaters kept the diners warm. Supposedly. Ava saw a lot of scarves, bulky coats, and steaming drinks. She was thankful to be assigned indoors.

She knew teams were located at both ends of the walkway, and another team was down at the edge of the river in case their suspect had a water escape planned. Would their note writer come? Or were they sitting around waiting for nothing? She fought the urge to jump up and physically check the status of each team of agents. She could hear light chatter in her earpiece, but she felt blind. This was the hard part: waiting and trusting each person to do their job.

She was surprised the ransom note specified such a public drop. Granted, the writer may have believed the masses of people gave good cover. She took a sip of water and tried to slow her heart rate as she felt the minutes crawl by. Agents had been staking out the area since they’d received the note. The rest of the teams had arrived an hour ago. Ben hadn’t planned to include her, but she’d put her foot down. She was the eyes for the family, and the FBI needed every available set of hands. Or feet. Depending what the suspect decided to try.

The suspect could grab the cash and go north or south, assuming he didn’t head straight for the water. North offered a solid wall of shops and restaurants along one side of the walk. He’d have to go at least a hundred yards before he could leave the walkway. Heading south on the walk would offer him better options. Open streets, parking lots, and other freestanding buildings. Lots of nooks and crannies to lose someone in. Somewhere in that area were two cars with agents with a good sight line on the bench.