Stolen(3)
He hated to intrude on Caity’s family reunion , but he’d feel a hell of a lot better delivering his news to his mother in person. Hesitating only a moment, he said, “You sure? I know you need time with your mom . . .”
“I’m positive.”
No doubt his mother’s visit would mean less chance for Caity and her own mother to regroup, but Caity’s smile was genuine. This wasn’t Caity grudgingly making a sacrifice. This was Caity looking out for him, because that was just how she was.
“I’ll bet they’ll have a blast together.”
“It’s a deal. You clear it with Arlene, and I’ll book Mom’s flight.”
Interrupting their conversation, a tanned, toned, feminine arm reached across the aisle, flapping a pen and a piece of paper at him. His shoulders jumped. Oh yeah. There were other people on this bird. Reluctantly, Spense turned away from Caity toward the overly enthusiastic limb. It belonged to an attractive woman, about late twenties.
She beamed at him with bright green eyes, her cheeks flushing. “Can I have your autograph?”
“You talking to me?” He started to say ma’am but stopped himself. According to Caity, women hated to be called ma’am. “You must’ve mistaken me for someone else. I’m not a celebrity.”
She waved what looked to be her boarding pass harder. “Oh yes you are. I recognize you both.” She smiled, though less vivaciously, at Caity. “She can sign, too, I guess.”
Spense tried to straighten and stretch his legs, but the seat was too damn small for his six-foot-four frame. Too bad real life wasn’t like television where the FBI profilers flew to every crime scene on a luxury jet. As he lamented his lot, a charley horse galloped up his leg. He winced. How long was this plane going to taxi?
“Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for your patience. We’re stacked up a bit. Please keep your seat belts on until the captain turns off the fasten seat belt sign and gives you the all clear to stampede,” an irritatingly cheery voice announced.
Spense rubbed his tight calf muscles.
The green-eyed woman thumped him on the chest with her pen.
“Ma’am, please . . .”
The irritated expression on her face made him wish he’d heeded Caity’s warning. And it wasn’t the woman’s fault these seats were designed for Tom Thumb. He should’ve been nicer. “Sorry. We’ll sign.” He handed the woman’s boarding pass to Caity who smiled big and autographed it with a flourish before giving it back to Spense.
He signed, then looked up to find the woman in the row ahead peering curiously over her seat back at them. “Who are you?”
He handed the paper back to its owner. “Nobody, ma’am.”
Another devastated look. Someday he’d learn.
“That’s Atticus Spenser and Caitlin Cassidy—the FBI agents who caught all those serial killers,” Green Eyes said. She ticked off several monikers from their recent cases.
Impressive. This woman knew her psychopaths. Though they hadn’t granted any interviews, Forensic Facts had featured Spense and Caity yesterday. Maybe the woman had caught the broadcast.
“I’m not an FBI agent.” Caity hurried to correct the woman’s misconception. Caity didn’t like to take any extra credit. She wasn’t a glory basker. Though to his way of thinking, her credentials were every bit as impressive as his—more so in fact. “I’m a psychiatrist,” she explained.
“But I saw it on TV. Kourtney Kennedy from SLY news went on and on about how you solved that Angel case in Hollywood.”
Kourtney.
That pain-in-his-ass celebrity newscaster, not Forensic Facts, had been to blame. “Dr. Cassidy may not be an FBI agent, but she’s a very important part of the team,” Spense supplied.
Still, the woman continued to side-eye Caity as if she’d hoodwinked her into accepting a worthless autograph. “I don’t get it. Are you FBI or not?”
An unpleasant itch developed on the back of his neck, but Caity smiled, apparently not the least bit annoyed. “I’m a civilian, a private citizen contracted with the FBI to help with specific cases. Agent Spenser is a criminal investigative analyst with the BAU—the Bureau’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
The plane hung a left, and Spense groaned aloud. The “snowcapped peaks” of the terminal were getting farther away. Apparently they were going to take another turn around the runway.
The woman thrust her hand over her heart. “I just realized what this means. There’s a serial killer in Denver!”
The plane changed its mind and turned back toward the terminal. Thank goodness.