David Kent - The Triangle Conspiracy

It faded quickly, though. Sean, she thought. What to do about Sean? She’d called him seven times from the moment he walked away from the AA meeting, up until this morning, and he never picked up. She had no idea where he was or what he was into. For all she knew, he could have gone out and gotten even drunker, then driven his Jeep off a bridge somewhere.

Aside from times in her teens, Faith had rarely felt powerless. There was always something that could be done. She relied on her intellect, and then took action. At least there’s one thing I have in common with my father, she thought.

She tried to remember everything Sean had said and done since he’d shown up outside her house the other morning. He’d gone searching for a hooker, who, he’d said, had pointed him in the right direction. Then he’d stayed gone all night and had come to her for help. He’d wanted a safe house.

Faith tapped a pen on her desk, then did what she always did when deep in thought: she doodled on her legal pad.

He had talked to her about an incident at an apartment complex. Shots had been fired, and the girl who lived there was missing.

It’s part of this job I’m doing. Yes, I was there, he’d said.

He’d mentioned Department Thirty for the first time, said he wanted Faith to provide a safe house.

Faith, I need your help. I need to keep this girl safe and out of sight for a while.

They’d argued. She finally agreed to let him use the department’s Edmond safe house temporarily, since it wasn’t currently being used for any Department Thirty recruits, with Bankston being kept at the Yukon house. Then she’d demanded that he do something for her, and she’d dragged him to the AA meeting.

“Stupid,” Faith said aloud. It had been the wrong way to approach it. Not only had it not worked, Sean had disappeared and another wedge had been driven into their relationship.

I need to keep this girl safe and out of sight for a while.

So Sean knew where the missing girl was. Or at least he had yesterday morning.

Faith knew nothing about who the girl was, or how deep Sean’s involvement went.

But I’ll find out what I can, she thought.

She picked up the phone.

“Hey,” she said when Hendler came on the line.

“Hey, yourself, beautiful. What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Do you know anything about this missing persons case, a girl who disappeared from an apartment complex? Neighbors reported a disturbance, then a shot, then the girl is gone. Ring any bells?”

“Don’t beat around the bush, Faith. Tell me what you really want to know.”

Faith smiled. “Sorry. You know subtlety isn’t my strong suit.”

“No, really? I know what case you’re talking about. I don’t think we’re in it, though. Oklahoma City PD’s handling it.”

Faith doodled a few more shapes on her pad, ending with a triangle. She traced over each of the three sides of it several times with her pen. “Do you know anyone there who could tell you anything?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Why?”

Faith scribbled Sean’s name along one side of the triangle. “I think…” She stopped.

“What?”

“I think my brother might have something to do with it.”

Hendler waited a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure.” She explained some of Sean’s activities, ending with his request for a safe house, and the disastrous AA meeting.

“Holy shit,” Hendler said softly when she’d finished. “I don’t know which part of that is worse, the fact that your brother might have a real drinking problem, or that he might be mixed up in something with this girl, whoever she is.”

Faith was touched. Leave it to Scott Hendler to think of the family aspect of any problem before the law enforcement aspect.

“Well,” Hendler said, “we can’t just go to the city PD and start talking about Department Thirty safe houses here in town. Number one, local cops aren’t going to know what Thirty is, and number two…”

“…They don’t need to know,” Faith finished.

“Exactly. We could try to find out who’s working the case and see what they know. You could use your DOJ ‘special projects’ line if you need to tell them something.”

“Okay. Do you have time to make the calls?”

“Yep. Today’s a computer day for me, writing reports. I’ll call you back.”

Faith hung up and doodled a bit more. She scribbled her own name on the triangle’s second side, then wrote Mystery Girl along the base, followed by several question marks.

Hendler called back in half an hour. “The lead detective is named Rob Cain. I know him. He’s a pro and a nice guy. We’re taking him to lunch at Barry’s Grill. Meet you there at twelve thirty?”

“Got it,” Faith said. “Thanks, Scott.” She thumped her pen some more. “You want to come over tonight? I…I don’t think I want to be alone tonight.”

The last few words were so unlike her that Hendler waited a long, long moment on the phone.

Faith closed her eyes, gripping the phone. “Come on, say something,” she said irritably. “Here I am, being all vulnerable…the least you can do is speak.”

“I’ll be there, Faith,” Hendler said.

“Okay. Okay, then.” The awkward silence descended. “Barry’s at twelve thirty. Detective Cain. Got it.” She hung up quickly.

Barry’s Grill had always seemed to Faith to be a small-town diner that had been plopped down in the inner city, just off the intersection of Northwest Thirtieth Street and May Avenue. It didn’t have the “retro diner” décor that so many restaurants tried for these days, with vintage Americana road signs and such. Barry’s didn’t need them-it was the real thing. It held the standard tables in the center, booths along the wall, old wood paneling that was cracked in a few places, a long ordering counter behind which was the grill.

Faith and Hendler arrived first, and each ordered one of Barry’s legendary cheeseburger baskets. All the burgers at Barry’s were double meat and double cheese, with extras piled on, fries, and a drink, all for only about six dollars. In Chicago, Faith thought, the same meal would have cost twice as much.

Detective Rob Cain arrived a few minutes late, briefcase in tow. He raised an index finger at Hendler, dropped his briefcase at the table, and went to the counter to order before sitting down.

In movies and books, police detectives were often depicted in one of two ways: either as veterans just shy of retirement, rumpled, overweight, and wearing bad suits; or, as young hotshot studs, with three or four days’ growth of beard, tight jeans, and bad attitudes. Rob Cain was neither. Faith thought he was a pleasant-looking man in his late thirties, with light brown hair and soft hazel eyes with a few worry lines. He looked trim and fit, but not overly so. Cain clearly didn’t haunt the gym. His clothes were simple-clean, pressed khakis, a navy blue polo shirt, brown loafers. He wore a simple silver wedding band and a white ribbon on the breast of his shirt.

He and Hendler shook hands. “Sleepy Scott Hendler,” Cain said, in a pleasant voice. “Good to hear from you. I haven’t been to Barry’s in ages.”

Hendler nodded. “Rob, this is my friend Faith Kelly. She’s in special projects for DOJ.”

“Sounds ominous,” Cain said easily.

“It is,” Faith said with a smile.

Cain smiled back “And I really don’t want to know. Not even mildly curious. Trust me, I have enough special projects on my plate these days.”

“What’s the ribbon?” Hendler said.

Cain fingered the little white ribbon pinned to his shirt. His smile widened. “Parental pride. Once a month my youngest daughter’s preschool gives these out to parents to wear for the day, just to show you’re proud of your kid. Neat idea.”