She couldn’t conceal her revulsion. “Would you like to eat mine?”
“Aye, thanks.” He jabbed the two patties with his fork, shifting them from her plate to his. “You know what this means?”
She shook her head.
He leaned closer, a teasing glint in his eyes. “No haggis for you.”
6
Quinn stuck the small camera into place with a strip of adhesive. The hotel’s management wasn’t going to like this, but they would deal with that later. He turned the unit on, pointed the lens toward the door where Elizabeth stood. “Ready.”
She did a little dance to set off the motion detector, her gaze on her phone.
Quinn heard her mobile buzz. “So, it works, does it?”
She smiled. “I’m looking at myself on the screen, so it’s working perfectly.”
If anyone entered their rooms while the cameras were operational, the devices would notify both phones using the hotel’s wireless system and send an image of the intruder to their screens. If the bastard tried to break in while they were in their rooms, Quinn would be ready with the Glock 42.
He hadn’t told Elizabeth he had the pistol. He didn’t want to make her complicit if he was forced to use it and faced prosecution. It was small enough that he could carry it in its holster inside the waistband of his jeans. She need never know it was there.
With cameras in both rooms, Quinn helped Elizabeth set up the white board, watching for the next five minutes while she cleared space for her computer and then arranged her pencils and notebook.
“I’d no idea that intelligence work demanded such precision. Does it make a difference to national security if the pencils point this way instead of that?”
She shot him a look, a smile tugging at her lips. “I like to be organized.”
“Aye, I can see that.”
When she was satisfied, she picked up a dry erase marker and her notebook. “Let’s write down the facts—no guessing or assumptions. Just facts.”
Quinn sat on the back of the sofa. “Jack is dead, murdered.”
She turned to the board and began to write.
JACK MURRAY MURDERED — TIME OF DEATH ca. 3 A.M. 2 NOV.
God almighty, had Jack truly been dead for almost a week now? Last Friday at this time, Quinn was in Afghanistan, and Jack was living his last day on this earth.
It didn’t seem real. It wasn’t right.
I’ll find the bastard, Jack, and I’ll make him pay. I swear it.
“We don’t have toxicology tests yet. Who identified the body?” Elizabeth turned, met Quinn’s gaze, stopped.
She set the marker aside, walked over to him, and wrapped her arms around him, her head resting against his chest. “I’m so sorry, Quinn. This won’t be easy for you. I’ll seem like I’m being cold and analytical. I’m probably going to throw out ideas that are upsetting. But I’m here because I care. Don’t forget that.”
Quinn held her, the feel of her precious in his arms. He wasn’t used to accepting comfort from others. For most of his life, physical contact had come in two forms—sex and violence. Her kindness touched him more than he could say. “Thanks.”
She stepped back, looked up at him, sympathy shining through her blue eyes. “You were Jack’s best friend. I never met him. I’m going to do my best to be objective, and you won’t always like it.”
“Fair enough.” He felt an urge to kiss her but knew it would drive her away. He’d always been careful during their wee flirtations not to cross the line. Elizabeth took her work seriously. She wasn’t about to risk her career over a kiss—or a man.
She turned back to the board. “Who identified the body?”
“Ava did.”
Working off her notes, Elizabeth wrote down all the facts they had about Jack’s murder and the events that had followed. “Is that everything? Am I missing something?”