Elizabeth Heiter - Stalked

More than half a million people were reported missing every year in the US alone. The first twenty-four hours were crucial, the first forty-eight the most likely time to make a live recovery. After a month, the chances were practically nonexistent. Especially when the victim was a beautiful teenage girl.

It wore her down, being asked to provide profiles on case after case where the victims would probably never come home. Sometimes, all she could hope for was to bring some closure to the family left behind. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe they could really find Haley, give her back that bright future.

No matter the outcome, she vowed to help find the answers Sophia had been so desperately searching for over the past month. She didn’t care how many secrets she had to expose to do it.

Sophia and Quincy looked back at her, both solemn and serious.

“What’s next?” Sophia finally asked, her upbeat tone sounding forced.

Before Evelyn could answer, a plainclothes officer raced down the hall, her eyes bright with excitement as she skidded to a stop in front of them.

“Detective Lopez,” she panted. “We just got a note.”

When she took a breath, Sophia asked, “What sort of note? Someone else claiming to have knowledge of Haley’s—”

“No. Not a whack-job letter. This one matches the handwriting from the note you brought in yesterday.”

“What?” Quincy barked. “The note Haley left in her bedroom? That means—”

“This is from Haley. She’s still alive.”

4

Of all the agents in the Washington Field Office, what were the chances he’d be paired with Jimmy Drescott? Kyle wondered as the Supervisory Special Agent in charge of the Civil Rights squad introduced them.

Kyle had spent the morning filling out paperwork, before finally making his way into the WFO’s bullpen. It looked a lot like the field office in New York where he’d started his FBI career in counterterror, years before joining the HRT. Really, it resembled any other office building in the DC area. Only this particular office happened to be populated by men and women carrying Glock pistols.

“Mac,” Jimmy said, using the nickname Kyle had been given by the HRT. Jimmy stood slowly as the squad supervisor glanced back and forth between them, having just brought Kyle over to introduce him to his new team.

Apparently he’d just missed the rest of the group—two were testifying in court and the other four were out on a case. So, just Jimmy Drescott waited in the Civil Rights squad’s little corner of the bullpen.

“You two know each other?”

“We’ve met,” Kyle said, holding out his hand. The last time he’d seen Jimmy, the man had been lying under a big fir tree in Evelyn’s front yard, a near-fatal knife wound slicing through his neck.

“You moved out of Violent Crimes?” Kyle asked. That was where Jimmy had been assigned the last time they’d met, working a case that Evelyn had consulted on nine months ago.

Kyle was actually a little surprised Jimmy had stayed in the FBI. He’d lost his partner that night, and he’d almost lost his life.

But here he was, standing in the WFO, a neatly groomed beard covering the ugly scar Kyle knew had to be underneath. Otherwise, he looked pretty much the same, resembling a TV version of an FBI agent with overgelled hair, a nicer suit than most agents could afford on a government salary and his jacket open to display his gun.

“Yep,” Jimmy replied, shaking his hand vigorously, as if they were old friends.

Maybe because the last time they’d seen each other, Kyle had helped save his life.

“I needed a change of pace. I figured a new challenge would be good for me.” He grinned widely, showing off straight, white teeth.

Same old Jimmy apparently. Except maybe amplified, if that was possible.

This was going to be interesting, Kyle thought, but what he said was, “Good to see you.”

“Great,” his new supervisor said, looking frazzled as she glanced at her watch. “Because I have a meeting with the Director in twenty minutes. Since you guys are already friends, Jimmy can get you up to speed on the squad’s open cases.”

She nodded at Jimmy on her way out, and he winked back.

Kyle might have thought they were involved, except he remembered how Jimmy had incessantly flirted with Evelyn when she’d consulted on a case with the young agent. It was pretty nervy to hit on the head of the squad, but he’d never pegged Jimmy as shy or subtle.

“You want to talk me through the details?” Kyle asked, rolling his new desk chair over. It had been nearly four years since he’d worked in a bullpen. Half a day at the WFO and he already felt hemmed in. Already missed the rush of adrenaline as he wrapped his hands around a thick rope dangling out of a hovering helicopter and glided to the ground at Quantico. It’s what his old partner would be doing right now, as practice for future missions.

He could get used to the routines of regular casework again, that standard blend of 90 percent hard work and frustration for the 10 percent payoff when you finally got the excitement of closing a case. He could get used to the jacket and tie instead of the cargoes and T-shirts, staring at a computer screen all day instead of carrying sixty pounds of tactical gear. Or so he’d been telling himself ever since he found out he’d lost his spot on the HRT because of his injury. Maybe one of these days, those words would ring true.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Mac.” Jimmy’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

Kyle glanced up, wondering if Jimmy knew about his own near-death experience, and saw Jimmy was hanging up his phone. “What?”

“We’re heading to the hospital.” Jimmy scooped a pair of car keys off his desk and double-timed it for the door. “Possible human trafficking case.”

Kyle stood and followed a little more slowly. Nine months ago, Jimmy had been bubbling over with rookie enthusiasm. Apparently having a serial killer try to slice through his carotid artery hadn’t dimmed it at all.

“Come on,” Jimmy called after him, and Kyle picked up his pace, shaking his head and wishing he could tone down his new partner’s excitement—or borrow some.

“We’re heading to the Neville University Hospital,” Jimmy said as he got into his FBI-issued sedan and floored it out of the underground lot before Kyle had even buckled in. “The victim is a student there. Cop on the scene said they’re going to move her soon—she’s in bad shape, and they’re not really equipped to handle it—but she was insistent.”

“Insistent about what?”

“She wanted to talk to the FBI. The cop tried to take her statement, but the girl knows her stuff. She told him she was reporting a federal crime and wanted a fed on the case.”

“Is she pre-law?”

“At Neville University?” Jimmy snorted. “Maybe, but they don’t have a law school, so I doubt it. You know what the locals call that place, right?”

“I can guess,” Kyle said as Jimmy spoke over him, his voice keeping pace with the speed of his sedan.

“Nepotism U. It’s a good degree, don’t get me wrong, but if you’re local, getting in there has as much to do with your last name as it does your grade point average.”

“Jeez. Watch where you’re going,” Kyle snapped as Jimmy jumped a curb, then raced onto an on-ramp for the I-395 freeway.

“Come on, man, what good is the siren if you don’t get to use it every once in a while?”

“I don’t think taking a victim statement warrants a siren,” Kyle said, even as Jimmy rolled down the window and slapped it onto his roof.

“Doctors want to move her to a new hospital. I want to get her statement.”

“Next time, I’m driving,” Kyle muttered, then asked, “What about a victim specialist? If we’ve got a possible human trafficking victim—”