Chapter One
Cold case investigators really should stay away from karaoke machines and alcohol. The combo was criminal.
Especially when fellow investigators from the FBI, AISOCC, and dozens of experts from cold case units around the country were gathered together in the same bar listening.
Taylor Sinclair scanned the room as she swished the two fingers of scotch around in her glass. The country’s top minds in forensics, law, behavioral science, and medicine had gathered together this weekend in DC to share the latest in solving cold cases, and yet, a handful of them were now killing off brain cells and possible career advancement opportunities while belting out Prince songs in the wrong key.
The woman on stage singingI Wanna Be Your Loverwith a bright orange drink in one hand and the microphone in the other hit a high note—flat, of course—and Taylor flinched.
Her bar buddy didn’t seem to notice as he jabbered on beside her, nursing a light beer. A journalist who’d applied to the American Investigative Society of Cold Cases but had been rejected, Tom—or was it Ted?—explained his lifelong obsession with missing persons. She understood the passion; it was hers too.
But she also knew why AISOCC had turned him down for their Academia Committee. They only accepted people with the credentials and motives to fulfill their mission of assisting law enforcement professionals with solving cold cases. Tom/Ted might have the passion, but he didn’t have the experience, even though he was boasting about his professional skills in the hopes of wooing her to his room upstairs.
He was sort of handsome in that academic way—wire-rimmed glasses, bow tie, and a large vocabulary—but she’d sworn off sex, and alcohol, for the weekend.
At least she hadn’t failed on both counts. The scotch had been a prop to help overcome her social awkwardness. To make her seem friendly and normal. Approachable.
Like that’s ever going to happen.Who was she kidding? Put her to work on a case and she was a rock star, but in a social situation where she had to make small talk and pretend interest in drunk people’s lives? Failure with a capital F.
It was enough to make her drink.
Which she was, thank you very much.
Sex, though, no way. Out of the question. The last thing she needed was to hook up with some random conference attendee and risk the fallout from that. Being the best of the best required keeping her nose clean in public—Meredith’s orders. Her boss ran a tight ship and had no patience for agents who let their personal affairs interfere with their careers.
No problem there. Taylor had no personal life.
Even if she did need alcohol to numb herself to the stares and advice from all the experts dying to ‘help’ her find Isabel.
Like Leo.
Cutting her eyes to the huddle of three men at the bar on her right, she could practically feel the power oozing off Leo Wellington. The FBI profiler was six feet of confidence, nerve, and a close record that made Taylor green with envy. Only last month, he’d helped her and her cold case team nail the Coffin serial killer, a man who had victims he’d buried alive stretching back thirty years. She had to admit, working with Leo had been no hardship. The man profiled killers and other high-profile criminals with the ease and accuracy Taylor’s one-time mentor had until he’d gotten himself fired from the FBI.
She missed Grey. A lot. She’d learned so much from him in the few short months they’d worked together. Before he’d shredded his career.
Now she had Leo. Amazingly proficient and incredibly sexy. Listening to him on the Offender Profiles and Crime Scene Assessment panel at the conference that afternoon, Taylor had toyed with the idea of making Leo Wellington her nextunofficial case. One that involved one-on-one, in-depth investigation…and a lot fewer clothes.
He was her perfect match—smart, driven, successful. Sex with Leo and a bottle of scotch—the perfect cocktail to kill the anxiety humming under her skin over this conference.
Leo had his back to her, casually leaning on the bar and close enough for her to touch. He smelled like a warm day at the beach all sun and water. He smelled like power.
Taylor looked away, shaking her head to rid it of the thoughts tumbling around in her brain. She wasn’t about to shred her career like Grey, and Leo,the shark, wasn’t about to play nice. He’d use her, like he did everyone else, and take her team away from her if she wasn’t careful.
No way in hell. No one was worth that.
Her cold case team had gained national media attention with their success rate. Nothing played on the nightly news as sweetly as missing kids being found alive and reunited with their families. Taylor and her team had returned three this year alone.Three kids still alive, and by God, she intended to find more.
The statistics were daunting, but she wouldn’t stop until she found every kid who’d disappeared, dead or alive, and gave their families closure.
She owed it to Isabel.If only Isabel were still alive.
Maybe she is.Maybe she’s still out there, waiting for me to find her.
Taylor knocked back the last of the liquid in her glass along with the familiar twinge of guilt over Isabel.
“Agent Sinclair.” Leo turned, suddenly at her elbow. “Nice to see you. My friends and I were just discussing your case.”
AgentSinclair? She’d thought they were on a first-name basis after working so closely together only last month. “Enjoyed your panel today, Leo. Your insights on the Yvonne Coleman case were fascinating.” Leo’s friends eyed her with equal parts eagerness and smugness. She recognized both of them from the same panel. “Exactly which case of mine were you reviewing?”
