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voice.
    “Maggie O’Dell.”
    “Hey.”
    Close. It was Gwen’s boyfriend, R. J. Tully, who happened to be Maggie’s partner. That was before the FBI buckled down on costs. Now they found themselves working singularly and assigned to very few of the same cases. However, Tully had been one of the contingencythere today at the warehouse, one of half a dozen agents who witnessed Kunze’s kill shot.
    “Thought I’d check to see if you’re okay.”
    “I’m fine.” Too quick. She bit down on her lower lip. Would Tully call her on it? Gwen would. Before he had a chance to respond, she tried to change the subject. “I was just about to call Emma.”
    “Emma?” Tully sounded like he didn’t recognize his daughter’s name.
    “To stay with Harvey. I need to leave tomorrow morning. Early. Charlie Wurth has a case in Florida he wants me to check out. Is Emma home?”
    Too long of a pause. He knew what she was up to. He was a profiler, too. But would he let her get away with it? Gwen wouldn’t.
    “She hasn’t left for college yet, has she?” Maggie asked the question only to fill the silence. She knew the girl was dragging her feet about going.
    “No. Not until late next week. She’s not here right now, but I’m sure she’ll be okay about staying with Harvey. Text her instead of calling. You’ll get an immediate response.” Another pause. “Does AD Kunze know about this trip?”
    “Of course, he does.” She hated that it came out with an edge. “Wurth checked it out with him.” She didn’t add that Kunze thought it was a good idea. Tully would add it on his own. He had faced the wrath of Kunze last fall when their new boss put Tully on suspension. “It’s probably not a big deal,” Maggie jumped in again. “Some body parts found in a cooler off the coast.”
    “More body parts.” She could hear Tully laugh. “Sounds like you’re becoming an expert on killers who chop up their victims.”
    She would have laughed, too, if it wasn’t so close to being true. Then, without regard to all the work she had done to change the subject, Maggie heard herself say, “Do me a favor, don’t tell Gwen about today, okay?”
    “Not a problem.” This time there had been no pause, no hesitation. A partner backing up another partner. “Let me know if I can help. With the case,” he added, allowing her cover.

CHAPTER 6

    HILTON PENSACOLA BEACH GULF FRONT
    Scott Larsen sipped his draft beer and waited for the man he’d secretly nicknamed “the Death Salesman.” It was sort of a term of endearment, one colleague to another. After all, Scott didn’t mind that some people—including his own wife—sometimes called him a death merchant. Sounded sexier than funeral director or even mortician.
    He watched the back door to the hotel from the deck bar. This was the first time they were meeting outside of Scott’s office. Scott was good at his job, good at being the professional. He didn’t do casual or social very well, and in his line of work you never mixed business with pleasure so it worked just fine.
    The cute, blond bartender had already given him a refill and his head was beginning to feel a bit fuzzy. He’d never been good at holding his liquor, even beer, though he was pretty good at pretending. As soon as the buzz began, he slowed down his speech and carefully measured his words.
    His wife, Trish, claimed he was too good at pretending. But then he’d had a lot of practice. That was, after all, what the funeral businesswas all about, wasn’t it? Pretend the deceased is at peace. Pretend he’s gone on to a better place. Pretend that you care.
    Scott glanced at his wristwatch and turned to look back at the water. He tried not to stare at any of the young bikinied bodies though the beach was filled with them this early on a Saturday evening. He was a married man now, or at least he could use that as an excuse. He stunk at flirting, too. He could be so charming when it came to widows, holding their hands and