Kelly MacIntyre, like Anastasia, was taken from her yard. Kelly didn’t live with her parents, but with an aunt who had sobbed on my shoulder while I made promises I wasn’t sure I could keep.
Mia Huntington was grabbed off her bike in a local park—a blue bike with the training wheels still on it. The tinsel hanging from the bars. The little bell that tinkled in the wind. It haunted my dreams.
Gabriella Santiago had been walking to an ice cream shop down thestreet with her big brother. Cookies and cream was her favorite flavor. He had gone to the bathroom while waiting for their order. When he came out, she was gone. After calling for and not getting an answer, he ran the whole way home.
Then there was sweet Ruby Johnson, the girl who started it all. Her mother was a hollow shell, her father doing everything he could to keep his wife from drowning in sorrow, while he himself searched tirelessly for her.
They’d been grabbing two girls a month, which meant they would be taking another any day now—and I’d do just about anything to prevent it. Four hours of reliving every detail did nothing except make my heart ache, so we broke for a late lunch. Shelly ordered from a local Chinese place. I was completely lost in thought, almost hypnotized by the fluorescent lights and buzzing from the nearby hallway vending machines, until she cleared her throat pointedly and gestured behind me with a nod. I gave her a questioning frown, and dropped my boots from my desk, before turning around in my chair and coming face to face with Lieutenant Hartwell. Well, more like face to chest.
“Afternoon, sir.”
My lieutenant had been in homicide for longer than I’d been a cop, and he looked it. Built like a linebacker with more grey hairs than he should have at his age, and a permanent frown on his lined face, Lieutenant Jason Hartwell played hardball and took cases without progression personally. Unfortunately, this was just such a case. Gosh freaking dang it, and I got caught with my boots on my desk. Literally. This was going to be a fun conversation.
“Detective McGrady, Detective Rameriz—enjoying your break?” He spat the last word like it left a bad taste.
What would he have us do? Starve? I keep that thought to myself.
“Would you like us to order you something?” Shelly offered with a self-deprecating smile, and he turned his frownon her.
I tried to appease him. “Sir, we’ve been working on the case all morning. We found the backpack, and—”
He leaned past me and riffled through the files scattered on my desk. “And what? Has the lab come back yet?”
I swallowed the anger that came with being interrupted, and Shelly shook her head at me, a silent warning not to say something smart. I gritted my teeth. “No, sir, the lab hasn’t gotten back to us yet. We’ll find something; I know we will.”
Shelly and I were two of his best detectives, despite also being the youngest.
But he shook his head. “No, you won’t. Not like this.”
He had this look in his eye that I’d never seen before, and it put me on edge. Shelly and I exchanged a glance. He started to leave, then looked over his shoulder at me with a frown. “You coming, McGrady?”
I stood quickly and hurried after him. As he walked out the door, I turned and walked backward, mouthing to my partner, “What is happening?” She shrugged and mouthed back, “Good luck!”
Gee, thanks, pal.
As I followed Hartwell to his office, my mind was racing. Was I getting fired? Demoted? Reassigned to a unit in Alaska? Mailed to Alaska in a box? Hartwell gave me no clues. One of his strides was about three of mine, and I was nearly running to keep up. I hate running. Especially twice in one day. I puffed in irritation and nearly ran smack into him as he abruptly stopped outside his door.
“You keep your mouth shut. No smart shit. No spouting off. You stand there, you listen, you speak when spoken to.”
I smiled sweetly and said, “Absolutely.” He glared at me, probably doubting my ability to be good. Which was fair, usually, but he’d got my curiosity piqued, so I decided to play nice. For the time being.
He swung the door open and went to stand behind hisdesk. “Folks, this is Detective McGrady. She’s the one I spoke to you about.”
It was then that I noticed the four or five other people jammed in the room, and I froze halfway through the door. What in the actual fuck was going on? I looked over each of them, my eyes landing on the FBI jackets and badges, before turning my gaze back to Hartwell.
One of the agents stepped toward me. “Detective, I’m Agent Michael Braxton. And this is Agent Williams,” he nodded to a woman about my height who scowled at me like I kicked her puppy, “Agent Bridges,” a tall, lanky guy by the desk who gave me a friendly grin, “and Agent Justice.” I snorted at the irony, but covered it up with a cough, and looked away from the dark guy holding a briefcase and leaning indifferently against the wall. Agent Williams rolled her eyes, and Hartwell glared at me, but I stared at Braxton, pretending not to notice.
He was cute in a boy-next-door kinda way; his brown eyes were sharp, and he looked me up and down before continuing. “If you choose to accept this assignment, I will be your handler.” That brought me back to earth. “Handler?” My voice was sharper than I intended, and Hartwell’s glare started to burn holes in my jean jacket.
“Yes, detective. Handler. You’ve been working that case with the missing girls, correct?” I nodded, and he continued. “I’ve been working a case, too, and I believe they’re connected. Your lieutenant here tells me you’re one of the most dedicated detectives he has, and I’m wondering just how far that dedication can go.”
Justice handed Braxton a thick file which he held out to me, and Hartwell gave me a nod, which I take as permission to open it.
“The Mafia? You’re working a case on the Mafia? And you think they have something to do with my girls?” I thumbed through the file, scanning what I could, since much of the information was redacted.
Agent Bridges stepped forward. “We’re looking at one family in particular—the DiAngelos. Most every illegal trade in the U.S. can be traced back to them. Sex trafficking, drug trafficking, weapons trafficking…”
I glanced around the room, wondering if I was being played. “You think they’re in South Carolina?”
