Chris Mooney - The Secret Friend

Two years later, the trail went cold. The case was still listed as active.

Bryson sat on the edge of his desk. 'Anything jump out at you?'

'No. I called the state lab. The only evidence they had was Jennifer Sanders' car. Judging by what I was told over the phone, they really went through it – vacuumed the carpets, everything. They found some interesting fibres but they didn't lead anywhere. They said they'd send over copies of what they have.'

'Great. More shit to read to read through. This asshole is going to bury us in paper.' Bryson stood and grabbed an empty office chair.

'I spoke with Danvers PD,' he said, rolling the chair across the floor. 'The Sanders case wasn't transferred to their computer system, it's somewhere in storage. If we're lucky, we'll get a copy by the end of the week.'

'How did your interview with the mother go?'

'The pregnancy thing bothers me.'

'Not all pregnancies are planned.'

'I'm talking about the fact that she didn't tell her mother. Could be she was ashamed, you know, Catholic guilt about having a baby out of wedlock.'

'Wedlock,' Darby repeated. 'Where did you pick up that word, Tim, the Dictionary for Old Farts?'

Bryson tossed his paper coffee cup into the trash. 'Watts went over to Brighton and interviewed Hannah Givens' two roommates. Givens' backpack is inside her room. He went over to Northeastern and got a copy of her class schedule. Hannah failed to show up for her Shakespeare and history class. Nobody has seen or heard from her.'

'What about the parents?'

'Watts talked to the mother this afternoon. She was worried. Hannah calls and talks to her mother every Sunday. The mother says Hannah always calls. Watts is interviewing Hannah's boss, flashing the picture the roommates gave him to people who work in the area. The picture's going to run on all the news cycles and it will be in tomorrow's papers.'

Was Hannah Givens being held in the same place as Hale and Chen? A trickle of fear ran through Darby, cutting through her fatigue.

'Chadzynski is holding a press conference tomorrow morning to address what's going on with Hale, Chen and Givens,' Bryson said. 'She's debating about releasing Fletcher's name. Personally, I think it's a good move. It might force him to crawl back under his rock. This asshole has us jumping through hoops and, frankly, I'm getting sick and tired of it.'

'I don't blame you. I feel the same way.'

Bryson wasn't finished. 'He sends us to Sinclair, and we waste a day and a half searching empty rooms and hallways for what? Because he left a picture of a missing woman tacked up to a wall?'

'We know who she is.'

'Yeah, and the only reason we know is because the son of a bitch sent the mother down here. And what do we do? We drop what we're doing, and now we've wasted part of the day looking into a woman who's been missing for twenty-six years. For all we know Fletcher consulted on this case years ago, and now he's rubbing our nose into it.'

'I'm not following.'

'It's bullshit. Fletcher is jerking us around.'

'I keep coming back to the statue. It's the same -'

'Darby, I know about the goddamn statue.' Bryson's face was mottled red. 'I was there with you, remember? I saw it with my own eyes.'

She didn't answer.

Bryson waved a hand in apology. 'I don't mean to take my frustration out on you,' he said. 'I'm operating on about four hours of sleep.'

'If it's any consolation, I'm feeling the same way. Fletcher's using the statue as a carrot, dangling it in front of us, and every time he calls or does something, we drop what we're doing and jump.'

'Maybe that's what he wants.'

'We need to find out what he's doing.'

'It's a waste of time.'

'We don't have much of a choice, Tim. Malcolm Fletcher is here, and he knows something. He's not going away.'

'Let's talk about your surveillance,' Bryson said.

'If Fletcher calls you at home or at the lab, we can trace his location in about forty-five seconds,' Bryson said. 'The moment your phone rings, the trace starts. Let it ring three times before you pick up.'

'What about my cell phone?' Darby asked.

'That's where it gets dicey. Cell signals bounce through towers.' Bryson reached into his pant pocket. 'It could take anywhere from one to three minutes to pinpoint his location. If he calls you on your cell, the key is to keep him talking as long as possible. Once we get a lock on his signal, we can trace it even if he hangs up, as long as he keeps his phone turned on. I also want you to carry this.'

Pinched between his fingers was a small rectangular piece of black plastic, thin, with a grey button in the centre. The device reminded Darby of the medical alert units some elderly people carried in case they fell and couldn't get up.

'This is what we call a panic button,' Bryson said. 'If something happens, if you believe you're in danger, you press the button – you have to do it hard enough to break the seal. Once that happens, we come running. There's also a GPS transmitter in there, so we'll know where you are at any given time. You're to carry this with you, even when you go to bed.'

'Do you think Fletcher's going to attack me in my sleep?'

'I don't think you should take any chances. During the day, keep the device tucked inside your pant pocket. What time are you leaving work?'

'I don't know.'

'Let me know when you do. We need to install privacy devices on your phones. If you get a private call and don't want us listening in, you press the button on the privacy device and the trace stops, nobody hears a thing. When you're ready to leave, call and I'll meet you at your place.

'One other thing,' Bryson said. 'When you leave work, don't look around the streets to see if you can spot surveillance. If Fletcher is watching, he may suspect something and run. Keep up your normal routine and act natural. Do you have a boyfriend?'

'No.'

'Someone you're seeing?'

'I hope you're not asking to fix me up on a blind date.'

'I'm asking because I was hoping someone was staying with you.'

'Coop is.'

Something flickered across his eyes. Was it disappointment?

'He's not my boyfriend, just a very close friend,' Darby said. 'He's very protective.'

'The surveillance team will be watching you when you leave work today, when you leave your condo – eyes will be on you at all times. Again, just act natural. Try to relax. If there's a problem, we'll call and give you instructions.'

Bryson handed her his business card. 'My home phone number is on the back. Programme it into your cell phone. If you need anything, give me a call.'

'What's Hannah's address?'

'She never made it home, never got on the bus.'

'I want to look through her things.'

Bryson wrote the address down on a sheet of paper, tore it off and handed it to her. 'I'm going to head downtown and help Watts.'

'I'll call you if I find anything at Hannah's place,' Darby said. 'After that, I need to collect makeup samples.'

She told him about the makeup stain on Chen's sweatshirt.

'Sounds pretty thin,' Bryson said.

'It's the only evidence we have to work with at the moment.'

'Before you go, I have a present for you.'

He opened his desk drawer and handed her a small box. Inside was a tactical light for her handgun.

Darby smiled. 'You certainly know the way to a woman's heart.'

On her way back to her office, Darby called Coop and gave him a quick rundown of her meeting with Tim Bryson.

Coop was already driving back into town with the fingerprints he'd collected from Tina Sanders' mailbox. He agreed to meet her at Hannah Givens' home in Brighton.

The events of the day crowded her thoughts. Darby wanted to hit the gym. A run on the treadmill would sweep her head clean but there wasn't any time. She put on her coat, grabbed her forensics kit and headed out. Walking outside in the dark, frigid air, she wondered where the surveillance was. She also wondered if Malcolm Fletcher was watching.