Michelle Gagnon - The Gatekeeper

He remembered Jones’s tone as she basically ordered him to do her scut work, and a flush rose up his neck. Then she got all holier than thou about that Emilio punk, as if the murder was somehow his fault. Like she suddenly cared about a dead wetback, when a dozen kids like Emilio had probably been murdered that week.

Rodriguez could call in a team to dust for prints, but a public pay phone would prove a nightmare for any Crime Scene Unit. And he had a feeling about the bar. It was obvious, but the truth was most criminals weren’t that smart. They made stupid decisions, they got caught, end of story. With any luck, he’d open the door and see someone sitting there with a machete. Or maybe he’d find a witness. You never knew.

Deciding, Rodriguez got out of the car and undid the top button of his shirt as he approached the bar. A faded sign on the door announced Happy Hour: $2 Pitchers 4-6 p.m. He pushed open the door with authority. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. And once they did, he realized that he’d just made one of the worst mistakes of his life.

Syd’s eyes widened as she tapped the keyboard. Dang, it had been a long time since she’d seen anything like this. And certainly never with a redneck yokel like Dante Parrish. He’d completely slipped off the grid. It was possible he was working somewhere under the table, paying rent in cash and steering clear of credit cards. After all, banks didn’t generally give ex-cons a line of credit. But some sort of footprint usually remained. A postal address, e-mail account, cell phone. Hell, a video-store card.

Not here, though. If she had to guess, she’d say that someone erased Dante’s existence from every system imaginable. It was the sort of thing the Agency did with operatives on a daily basis, but you never encountered it with civilians. Either Dante had moved to a self-sustaining commune somewhere in the wilderness, or he’d found someone powerful enough to cover his tracks.

Syd reached her arms overhead and stretched. For the millionth time she wondered whether or not she’d done the right thing pressuring Jake to take this case. The irony was that she had been on the verge of breaking up with Randall. Not that they were even dating, their entire relationship consisted of a few random encounters when their paths crossed. She’d met him at an intelligence conference, and one thing led to another. He was so different from the rough-and-tumble guys she usually fell for, she found his geekiness oddly appealing. Neither of them was looking for anything serious, so it seemed like the perfect solution: occasional companionship without the usual muss and fuss.

Recently, though, Randall had become clingy. Late night weepy phone calls, showing up unexpectedly, demanding attention when she was knee-deep in the company launch. And Syd Clement was not one for commitments. She’d never been with anyone for more than a few months, and she was happy to keep it that way. She’d been composing the “Dear Randall” e-mail when he called pleading for help.

Syd surprised herself by pushing for this to be their first case. Madison ’s kidnapping was well outside the parameters of what they’d normally be doing. Beyond that, it involved the kind of messy personal connection that was usually the kiss of death. The whole time she’d been half wishing Jake would refuse. And though she hated to admit it, the worst part of her, the part that the Agency had fed and fanned until it threatened to consume her, was only hoping Madison would survive so that she wouldn’t have to comfort Randall. Awful. But maybe knowing it was awful was a good first step toward reclaiming her humanity.

Syd tucked her feet beneath her and spun in the chair. Not finding Dante on any of the traditional servers was disheartening but not hopeless. Her network of people was bound to uncover something. Until then, all she could do was wait.

Unfortunately, waiting was never her strong suit. She’d thought that a desk job would be a nice change of pace. Lord knew she could use a break from the fray. The past few years had been hell, with the “War on Terror” whipping up small conflagrations throughout the globe. The best and worst times of her life, bouncing from Shanghai to Tbilisi to Tehran. Escaping by the skin of her teeth a few times, and by even less others.

And now here she was, sitting behind a desk, wearing pumps and pearls. You had to laugh.

The phone rang and she lunged for it. “The Longhorn Group.”

A pause. “Is this Sydney?”

“Who’s this?” Syd replied, dodging the question. First thing they taught you, knowledge is power. And she didn’t recognize the voice offhand. Her pulse kicked up a notch and she felt that familiar rush. Old habits died hard.

“This is Audrey Grant.”

Syd sank back into the chair. “Hello, Ms. Grant.”

“I thought it was you.” Audrey’s tone indicated that she knew the exact nature of Syd’s relationship with her ex-husband. Also, that she didn’t appreciate being referred to as Ms. Too bad, Syd thought.

“Randall hasn’t called recently. I was hoping-”

“We don’t have any new information,” Syd said. “But we’re doing everything we can. We’ll be in touch.” She lowered the receiver. Small talk had never been her strong suit, and chatting with her current lover’s ex-wife was too weird, even for her.

“The thing is-” the receiver bleated.

Syd repressed a sigh and raised it back to her ear. “Yes?”

“Bree remembered something. It’s probably nothing, but Madison has one of those toys, the handheld video games. She’s constantly playing it.”

“And?” Syd knew she should probably be more sympathetic, after all, Audrey’s kid was missing. But if half of what Randall said was true, she could end up spending an hour comforting a woman who was deep in her cups.

“Well, it has GPS. Isn’t there some way to track her down with that?”

Sure, Syd wanted to say. All we’d need is a Department of Defense supercomputer and a dozen analysts. “Chances are she’s probably not able to send a signal. But if you get me the serial number, I can look into it.”

“My daughter is very bright, Ms. Clement. For her science project this year she boosted satellite signals, tapping into some sort of network. I didn’t understand it, frankly, but if anyone could manage it, Madison could.”

Syd noted the Ms., decided to let it slide. “Like I said, I’ll check it out.”

“Fine.” Another long pause. Syd itched to hang up the phone, just holding it made her feel dirty and she’d done nothing wrong. “I just want you to know, I was not in favor of hiring you. And if my daughter is not returned soon, I am going to the FBI.”

“That would be a mistake.”

“It’s my daughter, Ms. Clement.” Audrey’s voice hardened as she said, “You have twenty-four hours. After that, I’m making the call.”

Fantastic, Syd thought. Now she could add a pissed-off ex-wife to the list of people who loathed her.

Kelly pulled in behind Rodriguez’s car. Son of a bitch had tried to follow up the lead without her; luckily, someone else had left a note on her desk with the 911 call information. Her eyes scanned the street, alighting on the bar. Obvious. Too obvious, in her opinion, but she knew that an unseasoned agent like Rodriguez would have assumed he could crack the case by leaning on a few barflies. And of course he hadn’t called for backup, despite the fact that they knew nothing about the bar or the area.

Kelly radioed in. Dispatch placed a unit ten blocks away, said they could be there in five minutes. She settled back to wait. It was 4:00 p.m., and the air rose in waves off the pavement. She kept the air-conditioning blasting to counter it.