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started backing out before she even closed the door.
    The truck was full of gadgets—radio, GPS, notebook computer on an arm attached to the console. Exactly like their police units in Austin, except the inside didn’t smell like vomit, and the equipment was from this millennium.
    “Must be nice working for Homeland Security.” She wedged her coffee into the drink holder.
    He glanced in her direction, but she couldn’t read his eyes because of the sunglasses. “I thought I told you to stay away from Shay Hardin.”
    She adjusted the vent in front of her. “I think you have me confused with someone who works for you.”
    He turned onto the highway heading east out of town.
    Andrea fiddled with the switches on the dash until a puff of warm air shot from the vents. She leaned back against the seat and made a futile attempt to get comfortable.
    “I could have you arrested. You realize that? You’re interfering with a federal investigation.”
    She stared out the window as the arid landscape whisked by. Everything looked yellow and thirsty. So many barbed-wire fences, so few cattle. The Black Angus she had seen were rangy and underfed.
    For three years running, this county had been ravaged by drought, and her heart went out to the ranchers. Not everyone was lucky enough to have liquid gold lurking under their property.
    “Well?”
    She turned to look at him and noticed the tightness of his jaw, the tense set of his shoulders. “You want me to say something? How about this, North? You’re full of crap. You can’t have me arrested for anything. I haven’t broken any laws.” She glanced out the window as he eased onto the shoulder. “Where are we going?”
    Instead of answering, he swung onto a narrow dirt road that bisected a wide, open field dotted with creosote bushes and cacti. A couple of black pump jacks bobbed in the distance.
    “Shay Hardin is under investigation for murder.” He cut a glance at her. “Are you aware of that?”
    She stared ahead as they bumped over the ruts. She’d been snooping around for days trying to figure out what the feds wanted with Hardin—and if her brother had anything to do with it. She’d considered a range of possibilities but murder hadn’t made the list.
    “Sounds like the sheriff’s bag,” she said. “Why’s the FBI involved?”
    “The victim was a federal judge.”
    “Who?”
    “Arthur Kimball. Of the Western District Court.”
    Andrea frowned. “I don’t remember hearing about it.”
    “This happened July fourth, six years ago.”
    Six summers ago, Andrea had been at the police academy. The training had lasted thirty-two hellacious weeks, and it had kicked her ass. She remembered the bruises and blisters and aching muscles. She’d hardly had the energy to crawl into bed that summer, much less watch the news.
    “Think I missed the headline.” She paused and looked at him. “You really think Hardin killed him?”
    He pulled up to an oil derrick and shoved the gearshift into park. “Yes.” He climbed out.
    Andrea followed. She glanced up at the enormous steel structure looming over her. It looked like a cell-phone tower, only bulkier. She’d always imagined oil wells as loud and dirty, but this one was silent, clearly out of operation for some reason.
    North trekked over to a wooden trailer. He mounted a few steps and yanked open the door.
    Andrea glanced around. Another dusty ICE vehicle was parked off to the side, in the shade of the building. She reached under her leather jacket and touched the pancake holster at the small of her back. Her department had confiscated her service pistol as part of the investigation, so she was down to her backup weapon, a Kimber Ultra Carry II, which was compact enough not to be noticed by the untrained eye.
    She had no doubt North had noticed it.
    She followed his path up the steps and opened the door. The inside of the trailer was cold and dim, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust.
    A man stood on the opposite