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* * *
How the hell had his life come to this?
Quincy Palmer stared into the cracked mirror in the station’s dingy bathroom, and didn’t like what stared back at him. Sure, he looked pretty much the same on the outside. Same grooves alongside his mouth and across his forehead that had worn deeper and deeper with age. Same thick beard, just more white in it now. It was his eyes that bothered him.
He’d stopped meeting his own gaze in the mirror three months ago.
No one else seemed to have noticed the change in him. It probably said a lot about the strength of his personal relationships, and he tried to see it as a positive. If no one else could see the difference, no one would wonder what had caused it.
The bathroom door opened behind him, and Quincy looked up, nodded into the mirror at one of the newbie officers and walked out the door. Back into the buzz of the station.
Things were crazy with news of the Haley Cooke note being released to the media. What had the parents been thinking?
And what the hell had happened to Haley? The case was weird enough on its surface, but he was the only one here who knew how hard it should have been to grab Haley Cooke.
Because he’d had his eye on her for three months. He’d been watching her closely—stalking her, by the legal definition. It had been his job to make sure she didn’t do anything out of the ordinary, and if she did—say, if she showed up at the police station—it was his job to take her statement. Then to make sure that statement disappeared.
Twenty years on the job, and he’d never taken a payoff. Never taken a bribe. Never looked the other way.
And then this mess. They’d found his one weak spot, the one thing that would make him throw away twenty years of dedicated service to a job he believed in so much he’d given everything for it. Given his marriage, given his relationship with his son, given all his free time. It had become his life.
If this came out, though, it wouldn’t matter that he’d had nothing to do with Haley’s disappearance. And it really wouldn’t matter that he’d done his damnedest to find her.
Because he knew they’d make him take the fall.
* * *
“That family is hiding something,” Evelyn told Sophia as they walked into the police station.
Sophia had fumed the whole drive back, but now she just seemed dejected. “Everyone in this case is hiding something.”
“What happened? What did you learn?”
The deep voice made Evelyn jump, and when she turned, she saw Quincy Palmer rushing toward them. His pale face was flushed, blotchy red above his heavy beard.
“I don’t know,” she told Quincy, wondering if his own cases ever took him out of the station. “But my guess would be some kind of abuse. Either the father or the stepfather.”
“Really?” Sophia stopped walking, and turned to face her.
Evelyn nodded. “But honestly, with this much scrutiny on the case, with this much media attention, I doubt a seventeen-year-old girl could stay under the radar if she had just run away. I think someone made her disappear. Maybe it started with her going willingly, maybe not. Either way, at this point, chances are, we’re not looking for Haley.” At Quincy’s deep frown, she said apologetically, “You know the statistics.”
Sophia nodded, her shoulders slumping. “We’re looking for her body. I know. But I’ve learned all about this girl. Everyone I talk to loved her—her classmates, her teachers, her neighbors. They all say the same thing. Haley was nice to everyone she met. This is a sweet kid, with a bright future. I want her to beat the odds.”
“So do I,” Evelyn said. “Maybe she will.” She tried to sound upbeat, but the fact was, she’d handled too many missing-persons cases.
More than half a million people were reported missing every year in the US alone. The first twenty-four hours were crucial, the first forty-eight the most likely time to make a live recovery. After a month, the chances were practically nonexistent. Especially when the victim was a beautiful teenage girl.
It wore her down, being asked to provide profiles on case after case where the victims would probably never come home. Sometimes, all she could hope for was to bring some closure to the family left behind. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe they could really find Haley, give her back that bright future.
No matter the outcome, she vowed to help find the answers Sophia had been so desperately searching for over the past month. She didn’t care how many secrets she had to expose to do it.
Sophia and Quincy looked back at her, both solemn and serious.
“What’s next?” Sophia finally asked, her upbeat tone sounding forced.
Before Evelyn could answer, a plainclothes officer raced down the hall, her eyes bright with excitement as she skidded to a stop in front of them.
“Detective Lopez,” she panted. “We just got a note.”
When she took a breath, Sophia asked, “What sort of note? Someone else claiming to have knowledge of Haley’s—”
“No. Not a whack-job letter. This one matches the handwriting from the note you brought in yesterday.”
“What?” Quincy barked. “The note Haley left in her bedroom? That means—”
“This is from Haley. She’s still alive.”
4 (#uff73b27f-3bc6-5509-ba49-ffaaf7eedc7b)
Of all the agents in the Washington Field Office, what were the chances he’d be paired with Jimmy Drescott? Kyle wondered as the Supervisory Special Agent in charge of the Civil Rights squad introduced them.
Kyle had spent the morning filling out paperwork, before finally making his way into the WFO’s bullpen. It looked a lot like the field office in New York where he’d started his FBI career in counterterror, years before joining the HRT. Really, it resembled any other office building in the DC area. Only this particular office happened to be populated by men and women carrying Glock pistols.
“Mac,” Jimmy said, using the nickname Kyle had been given by the HRT. Jimmy stood slowly as the squad supervisor glanced back and forth between them, having just brought Kyle over to introduce him to his new team.
Apparently he’d just missed the rest of the group—two were testifying in court and the other four were out on a case. So, just Jimmy Drescott waited in the Civil Rights squad’s little corner of the bullpen.
“You two know each other?”
“We’ve met,” Kyle said, holding out his hand. The last time he’d seen Jimmy, the man had been lying under a big fir tree in Evelyn’s front yard, a near-fatal knife wound slicing through his neck.
“You moved out of Violent Crimes?” Kyle asked. That was where Jimmy had been assigned the last time they’d met, working a case that Evelyn had consulted on nine months ago.
Kyle was actually a little surprised Jimmy had stayed in the FBI. He’d lost his partner that night, and he’d almost lost his life.
But here he was, standing in the WFO, a neatly groomed beard covering the ugly scar Kyle knew had to be underneath. Otherwise, he looked pretty much the same, resembling a TV version of an FBI agent with overgelled hair, a nicer suit than most agents could afford on a government salary and his jacket open to display his gun.
“Yep,” Jimmy replied, shaking his hand vigorously, as if they were old friends.
Maybe because the last time they’d seen each other, Kyle had helped save his life.
“I needed a change of pace. I figured a new challenge would be good for me.” He grinned widely, showing off straight, white teeth.
Same old Jimmy apparently. Except maybe amplified, if that was possible.
This was going to be interesting, Kyle thought, but what he said was, “Good to see you.”
“Great,” his new supervisor said, looking frazzled as she glanced at her watch. “Because I have a meeting with the Director in twenty minutes. Since you guys are already friends, Jimmy can get you up to speed on the squad’s open cases.”
She nodded at Jimmy on her way out, and he winked back.
Kyle might have thought they were involved, except he remembered how Jimmy had incessantly flirted with Evelyn when she’d consulted on a case with the young agent. It was pretty nervy to hit on the head of the squad, but he’d never pegged Jimmy as shy or subtle.
“You want to talk me through the details?” Kyle asked, rolling his new desk chair over. It had been nearly four years since he’d worked in a bullpen. Half a day at the WFO and he already felt hemmed in. Already missed the rush of adrenaline as he wrapped his hands around a thick rope dangling out of a hovering helicopter and glided to the ground at Quantico. It’s what his old partner would be doing right now, as practice for future missions.
He could get used to the routines of regular casework again, that standard blend of 90 percent hard work and frustration for the 10 percent payoff when you finally got the excitement of closing a case. He could get used to the jacket and tie instead of the cargoes and T-shirts, staring at a computer screen all day instead of carrying sixty pounds of tactical gear. Or so he’d been telling himself ever since he found out he’d lost his spot on the HRT because of his injury. Maybe one of these days, those words would ring true.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Mac.” Jimmy’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
Kyle glanced up, wondering if Jimmy knew about his own near-death experience, and saw Jimmy was hanging up his phone. “What?”
“We’re heading to the hospital.” Jimmy scooped a pair of car keys off his desk and double-timed it for the door. “Possible human trafficking case.”
Kyle stood and followed a little more slowly. Nine months ago, Jimmy had been bubbling over with rookie enthusiasm. Apparently having a serial killer try to slice through his carotid artery hadn’t dimmed it at all.
“Come on,” Jimmy called after him, and Kyle picked up his pace, shaking his head and wishing he could tone down his new partner’s excitement—or borrow some.
“We’re heading to the Neville University Hospital,” Jimmy said as he got into his FBI-issued sedan and floored it out of the underground lot before Kyle had even buckled in. “The victim is a student there. Cop on the scene said they’re going to move her soon—she’s in bad shape, and they’re not really equipped to handle it—but she was insistent.”
“Insistent about what?”
“She wanted to talk to the FBI. The cop tried to take her statement, but the girl knows her stuff. She told him she was reporting a federal crime and wanted a fed on the case.”
“Is she pre-law?”
“At Neville University?” Jimmy snorted. “Maybe, but they don’t have a law school, so I doubt it. You know what the locals call that place, right?”
“I can guess,” Kyle said as Jimmy spoke over him, his voice keeping pace with the speed of his sedan.
“Nepotism U. It’s a good degree, don’t get me wrong, but if you’re local, getting in there has as much to do with your last name as it does your grade point average.”
“Jeez. Watch where you’re going,” Kyle snapped as Jimmy jumped a curb, then raced onto an on-ramp for the I-395 freeway.
“Come on, man, what good is the siren if you don’t get to use it every once in a while?”
“I don’t think taking a victim statement warrants a siren,” Kyle said, even as Jimmy rolled down the window and slapped it onto his roof.
“Doctors want to move her to a new hospital. I want to get her statement.”
“Next time, I’m driving,” Kyle muttered, then asked, “What about a victim specialist? If we’ve got a possible human trafficking victim—”
“You’re right.” Jimmy tossed his phone over. “Pull up Aliyah Aman. She’s good. Have her meet us there.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Kyle said as he dialed, but Jimmy must have missed his sarcasm, because he didn’t even glance over, just punched down harder on the gas.
Faster than Kyle had expected, even with Jimmy’s racetrack speeds, they were on campus, winding through the cobblestone roads at just above the posted limit. Students started to cross at random spots instead of crosswalks, and jumped back as their sedan didn’t slow. They passed frat houses that resembled castles and an administration building that boasted the kind of intricate architecture that spoke of old money.
“Here we go,” Jimmy said, sliding into a parking spot in front of a more modern building. “The Neville University Hospital. Let’s find out what we’ve got.”
Kyle grabbed his arm before Jimmy could get out of the car. “The victim specialist is still twenty minutes out.”
“Fine. Let’s at least see if the cop is even right or if we’ve got a totally different situation. If we need to wait to question her, we’ll wait.”
He couldn’t argue with that logic. Dropping Jimmy’s arm, Kyle followed him inside.
The smell hit him first, that antiseptic scent mixed with stale air and sickness. It took him instantly back to a month earlier, when he’d woken up in a hospital in California, pain in his shoulder and numbness in his arm. As the room had come into focus, he’d seen Evelyn first, looking panicked in the chair at his bedside. Then he’d seen his partner on the other side, and the expression on Gabe’s face had told him instantly. He was hurt badly enough to put his whole career in question.
Pushing the memory aside, he glanced around the much smaller hospital he was standing in now. The emergency department was bustling, but most of the people in the waiting room looked bored rather than in distress. Staff behind the counter gossiped as he and Jimmy approached and showed their credentials.
“We’re here to speak with Tonya Klein,” Jimmy said, flashing a big smile at the college-age student behind the desk.
“Is that a real badge?” the girl replied, her eyes widening as she glanced from Jimmy to Kyle.
“It is,” Kyle said. “Can you take us to Tonya? We need to speak with her.”
“Of course, sure,” the girl replied, flustered as she led them down the hall, through a few doorways and toward a room with a police officer sitting on a chair outside.
The officer looked little older than the students he was supposed to protect. He stood slowly as they approached, scowling enough to make the girl back up as she gestured to the room, telling them, “That’s Tonya’s room. The doctor thinks she might need to go to the Inova Fairfax Hospital. She’s real beat up.”
She continued backing away as the officer thrust out a hand, which Jimmy shook.
“I’m with campus police,” the officer said. “I took the call. I tried to take her statement, but all she’d do was demand you guys.” His face flushed an angry red as he continued, “Didn’t matter how much I explained the law to her. She thought she knew better, little bi—”
“She said she was the victim of human trafficking?” Jimmy pulled his hand free, which seemed to take real effort.
The officer huffed an ugly sound through his nose. “Yeah, but it’s pretty obvious what’s really going on.”
“And that would be...” Kyle stepped forward, getting in the guy’s personal space a little, pissed off by his attitude.
The officer’s attention shifted to him, and Kyle could actually see him trying to decide which of them would win in a fight. He figured he’d won when the guy stepped back and muttered, “She’s just a prostitute. Probably got beat up by her pimp.”
“You get much prostitution at Neville?” Jimmy asked.
The officer’s scowl returned. “On campus? No. But there are slums close by. She could have wandered in.”
“I thought she was a student at Neville?” Kyle asked.
“Yeah, well, maybe tuition was a little much for her. I’ll let you guys take it from here,” he said, animosity pouring from him as he strode away.
“Now there’s a guy I’d hire to protect a campus full of college students,” Jimmy said, rolling his eyes as he pushed the door open to the hospital room.
Kyle almost walked into his back as Jimmy stopped short right inside the doorway.
Jimmy’s mocking tone was gone, replaced with a softer, more subdued voice as he said, “Tonya Klein? I’m Special Agent Jimmy Drescott with the FBI’s Civil Rights squad.” He moved over a little and added, “This is my partner, Kyle McKenzie.”
The woman staring back at him could only do so through one pale blue eye, webbed with red from a burst blood vessel. The other was swollen completely shut, and dark purple. Her cheek was swollen, too, and covered with a bandage. Blood still caked her hairline, where her long dark hair had been shaved so a doctor could sew up the kind of cut that might have come from a broken bottle. Her hands, resting on the stark white sheet, were bloody and bruised, a few fingers splinted. Defensive wounds.
Whoever had attacked her, one thing was certain: Tonya Klein had fought back hard.
