Depending,” he murmured.
“Right. If they found out who you were,” Ty responded as he stripped off his sodden shirt and tossed it at the corner. “But they obviously weren’t close to finding that, or they would have let someone in on it. Sanchez wasn’t the type to play without a net.”
“Unless they hadn’t made the connection yet,” Zane answered quietly, dropping his sheaths on the table and sitting down to pull off his boots. Damn, this was awkward. And everything hurt, no matter how gingerly he moved. He glanced up at Ty, trying to gauge if the other man had walked away with any damage.
“So, what connection did they make but not make that caused him to move on them?” Ty asked wryly as he placed his hands on his hips and watched Zane idly. It bothered him that even now he couldn’t quite find it in himself to despise the man or not be slightly attracted to him. It wasn’t fair.
Not even the recently earned aches and pains could make those things happen.
Bent over to unlace the Timberlands, Zane’s brow furrowed. “A lead on who had the missing files?” he put out there, since that was something he wanted to pursue. “Maybe someone was somewhere they didn’t need to be.
Or shouldn’t have been. Or couldn’t have known about. And the agents thought it was odd. He got scared.”
“Do we know how long the files were missing, though?” Ty countered doubtfully. “Maybe they were removed to lure us to the records room and the spontaneous exploding computer.”
Sitting up and sprawling back with his legs spread out, Zane frowned as he chewed on that idea, shrugging off the discomfort of the situation and the throbbing pain of nearly his entire body. “That means some sort of detonation, then. Something to make it go on purpose. So he either had to be there, or he was watching.”
“Who else was there? Did you see anyone else in the room?” Ty asked with a frown as he sat opposite Zane.
“Just Henninger,” Zane answered, rolling his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “It was lunch time. No clerks.”
“And he was hurt almost as bad as you,” Ty said dejectedly.
Grimacing, Zane shrugged again and winced as he moved his shoulders. He looked up at the photos stuck all over the walls. “It strikes me as unusual just how clean it all is.”
“How do you mean?” Ty asked distractedly as he turned and looked up at the pictures. His immersion in the case was working, the lingering tension and the aftereffects of the fight cast aside for the moment.
“No scrapings. No DNA. No fibers. No fingerprints. No trace of foreign substances. No pattern of injuries. No rhyme or reason. No way to track him. Not at any of the scenes at all. Everything has come back totally clean of anything useful. He knows what we look for,” Zane murmured as he became very aware of Ty’s proximity.
“Yeah. But that’s not hard in this day and age,” Ty grumbled as he reached up to rub at his side. He didn’t know if it was the kick he had caught or the gun pressing into him when he hit the wall and the ground, but his 132
fucking ribs hurt all the same. “He’s an organized perp. They tend to be cleaner and smarter than disorganized ones. He may even stage the killing field before he takes the victim. Ten years ago the sterility might point to a cop or forensics expert,” he sighed. “Now, it could just point to someone who watches too much CSI or bought a Forensics for Dummies book.”
Zane sighed, dropping his jaw to work it a little. Ty had an incredible left jab. “God. Sometimes I hate modern technology.”
“Yeah, well,” Ty offered with a small, slightly vacant smile. He cleared his throat and looked down at his scraped, slowly bruising knuckles, pursing his lips as he flexed his fingers. He felt the sudden urge to apologize to Zane for sucker-punching him, but he just couldn’t find it in himself to do it.
“There’s got to be something.” Zane carefully twisted in the chair and reached back behind him to the far edge of the table. It meant he had to stretch to put his hand on the bag of notes he wanted, and he hitched and flinched again along the way as his back complained. He frowned as he turned around and looked at his notes.
Ty found himself watching the movement thoughtfully. He sighed heavily when he suddenly realized what he was thinking—again—and he shook his head and looked away with a little snarl at himself. He would have thought the several instances of fighting and f**king recently would have soothed that particular urge.
He glanced back at Zane and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I hit you,”
he offered grudgingly.
Zane looked up, surprised to hear it, and he nodded slowly, carefully considering what to say. “I’m thankful you didn’t just snap my neck,” he finally said, looking down at the bag in his hands.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Ty responded as he watched Zane, enjoying his discomfort with a small smirk. “Got a bum shoulder; it would hurt like a bitch.”
Zane made a face and looked back up at him. “Gee, thanks. Feeling the love. Really.” Ty just raised an eyebrow at the response, and Zane shook his head. “You could have killed me, Grady. Probably with one hand. I know that. Just leave me my delusions of lasting a handful of minutes in a real fight with you, would you?”
“If you say so, Hoss,” Ty responded, leaning back in his chair and propping his booted feet up on the bed.
Zane glanced up at the former Marine, a little furrow between his eyes. Was Ty saying Zane had been a decent match? No way.
Ty looked him up and down slowly and cocked his head. “You got the size advantage.”
Sighing, Zane leaned over, elbows on his knees. “Not that much.
You’re close to the same size. I’m just bulkier, is all. There have been times it’s been more a hindrance than a help.”
Ty snorted and shook his head. “Whatever, man,” he muttered.
Zane narrowed his eyes. “What? You’d rather be a beast like me?” he asked, disbelief clear. While he knew there were disadvantages to his size and bulk, after years of training, he wouldn’t give it up. He’d gone through hell in the academy to develop it, and despite the desk jobs of years past he’d kept himself up with weights and a workout regimen.
“No,” Ty laughed softly. “But I’ve been thrown across rooms by brutes like you,” he said as he unconsciously rubbed his side again and his brow furrowed. “Hurts,” he added, as if he needed to clarify that being tossed over someone’s shoulder in a dive in New Orleans and splatting against a dartboard like a bug hurt.