by Kylie Brant
“It was good investigative work.” His compliment was sincere. Gonzalez had been one of the best investigators he’d ever worked with. And the details about the harrowing life the children had been leading would tug at the most hardened heart. Maria’s file was no doubt filled with commendations and superior evaluations. But he’d be willing to bet it was that final case that sealed her promotion.
“And Phil Brown was a good MCU assistant director.” Her voice had gone as tired as her expression. “But he was crucified throughout the case. Local kids were being snatched and forced into child prostitution. All of a sudden our long held custom of protecting the integrity of our cases by releasing as few details as possible wasn’t enough. The successful resolution of the investigation didn’t pacify parents who blamed the agency for not releasing more information that might have allowed them to protect their children from being kidnapped. You think Brown had planned to take early retirement?” She shook her head. “Don’t kid yourself. The agency went into full cover your ass mode and he was the sacrificial lamb.”
“And MCU Assistant Director Miller learned a lesson from his fate.” A sense of foreboding filled Cam. Sure he’d read the case files, caught up on agency gossip, but the upper level politics didn’t always trickle down to the agents. He hadn’t known of Brown’s forced retirement from the helm of the major crimes unit. But hearing the story behind it now didn’t surprise him.
“Damn straight.” Gonzalez nodded. “I was promoted with a new set of expectations, and I’m judged harshly on how I handle the media. I’m not complaining, that’s the reality of my job, at least for the foreseeable future. The victim ID will keep them happy for a while. But I have to consider my next move before I need it. I agree that it would be detrimental to the investigation to release the information about how the killer is selecting his victims. That should be for LEO eyes only, at least for now. But we live in a CSI savvy society, and criminal profiles are sexy.” To Gonzalez’s credit, she grimaced as she said the words. “Releasing a portion of the behavioral profile Doctor Channing put together would go a long way toward putting a cutting edge forensic face on this investigation. One the public will understand and approve of.”
“It’s pandering, pure and simple,” Cam argued, losing the tenuous grip on his temper, “and it serves nothing in the long run. You heard Sophie.” He saw the look in the director’s eyes when he used the name. Realized his mistake immediately. But it was too late to rectify it. “The profile is an evolving document. Release one thing now and another later and the media could spin it that we’ve been chasing our tails. Not to mention that it unnecessarily frightens the segment of the public who doesn’t find criminal profiles sexy.”
He could see Gonzalez was unmoved and he mentally cursed. Long nights and a weekend spent working the case had left him even less diplomatic than normal. The rest of his team was working nearly as long hours as he was. And he was forced to argue about what to release to the press?
“Look.” It was a stretch but he reached for calm. “I appreciate the resources you’ve attained for this investigation. And I happen to think it’s paid off. We dug up the last of the bodies a week ago and have ID’d two victims already. We’ve nailed down a pretty solid MO for the killer. The lab’s promised to rush the results on the soil samples, which will help Connerly determine how long the victims have been in the ground and in what order they died. That’s lightning speed on a case like this and you know it.”
The director pressed the flat of her palm to her forehead, a sign Cam remembered. She suffered from migraines. It wasn’t the first time he’d given her one. “This isn’t going to be your decision. Keep me apprised. I want to see the lab results as soon as they come in. And go over the case files on the missing persons’ short list you compiled with a fine-toothed comb. One of them might have a key detail integral to this case.”
He tucked away the rest of his protests and his temper. Was mostly successful. “I know how to do my job.” He got up, intending to head for the door.
She fixed him with a long look. “If I didn’t believe that, you wouldn’t have been named lead agent on this case.”
On the surface the words were innocuous. Complimentary, even. But something in her tone alerted him. He stopped to turn to more fully face her. “You had someone else in mind?”
Maria didn’t look away. Her dark eyes turned shrewd. Assessing. “You’ve only been back on the job from your undercover assignment for a year. Some might say you need more time to re-acclimate yourself to agency work.”
A humorless smile pulled at his lips. “Because I spent nearly two years on a multi-agency task force investigation that my superiors urged me to join? No good deed goes unpunished, apparently.” But it was more than that, he knew. His struggles with post-traumatic stress after returning from undercover had been a factor in delaying his return to his job. Had obviously been weighed in determining his placement on this case.
“You’re lead.” She rose, indicating the meeting was at end. “But both of us have something to prove here. And a lot to lose. It’d be best to support each other in our respective positions.”
Sophia was on her way out of the building, her mind already full with plans for the evening. She needed to send a long chatty email to her parents. Usually Sunday evenings were reserved for contact with them, but they were traveling in Europe. And last night she’d spent most of her time immersed in the profile she was developing. Then there had been calls to return to Dr. Redlow, who was overseeing Sophia’s private practice client list. By the time she’d finished catching up on correspondence, it had been well past eleven.
A frown marred her brow as she considered the fact that she hadn’t heard from her parents lately, either. Both academics by profession and inclination, Helen and Martin Channing had been dismayed by her gravitation toward forensic psychology. With the benefit of hindsight, Sophia could freely admit that her plan to split her time between teaching at the university level and forensic consulting had been doomed for failure. It had been an effort to pacify her parents, and her then fiancée, who’d been equally disturbed by her ‘dark work’, as Douglas had dubbed it. They’d disapproved of her decision to leave the University of Iowa, and her marriage. Their disagreement was civil, barely mentioned anymore. But sometimes silence could be more stressful than the most violent argument.
She hurried her step, heels clicking on the tiled floor. Their reaction was predictable but difficult; in the way that parental disapproval was always difficult for an only child. She’d been a dutiful daughter, always doing the expected. Boring, Cam would call it, and she knew there was truth to that. But it was doing the unexpected that always landed her in emotional quagmires. First by taking up Louis Frein on his tantalizing offer to study at Quantico.
More recently by her short-lived affair with Cam Prescott.
The memory brought a surge of heat to her cheeks. Maybe she was programmed to act totally out of character once a decade. She hadn’t yet come up with any other explanation of why, after knowing Cam professionally for years, she’d decided to take him home one night last month and try him on for a couple weeks.
The ‘fit’ had been devastating. Addictive. And for the always-in-control Sophia Elise Channing, absolutely terrifying.
“Hold up for a minute, would you?”
She jolted at the feel of Cam’s hand on her arm. She’d been so immersed in thought she hadn’t even noticed him. But there he was, as if conjured by her memories.
Ridiculous to feel this zing of electricity at his touch, at his simple request. Juvenile, she mentally corrected. Sophia had never been the type for crushes and overactive hormones, not even as a high schooler. And she was far from a teenager now.
“Of course,” she answered casually. And just as casually stepped out of reach. It was useless to wish she’d done the same weeks ago when she’d looked up from her drink to see him standing there. Until then she’d had a solid guard against the man. How he’d mana
ged to fragment her defenses in a matter of a few days remained a mystery.
He looked at her quizzically. “The way you were tearing by my office I thought maybe there was a fire and I just didn’t hear the alarm.” He gaze swept to her feet. Lingered. “Impressive. Never would have thought you could move that fast on those stilts you wear. There should be an Olympic event for that.”
Though he wasn’t quite smiling, the masculine creases beside his mouth had deepened in amusement. It was surely a measure of her weakness that she found the expression so attractive.
“Care to strap on a pair and race?”
Cam cocked his head, as if considering. “Think those pink things you wore the other day come in twelve wides?”
The mental picture conjured of him tripping along in canoe-sized open-toed pink pumps was ridiculous enough to draw a laugh. “You’d be surprised. But I’d be happy to check it out for you.”
He folded his arms, the stance pulling his suit coat across his shoulders. His suit today was a deep brown, several shades darker than his hair. “On second thought I think I’ll stick to my Nikes. Running will still is torture, but at least I can walk afterwards. I got your email.” The segue was so abrupt it took her a moment to follow. “I think we can probably arrange it.”
She must have looked as blank as she felt, because he added helpfully, “The email you sent today? About travel for the victimology analysis.”
Feeling foolish, Sophia hitched the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. “It’s not imperative, of course. I could conduct the interviews with the identified victims’ families by phone. I just thought the proximity of their hometowns would provide a rare opportunity to see where and how the victims lived. To talk to friends and neighbors…”
“Yes, you said in your email.” This time an actual smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. “Go ahead. I’ll be anxious to hear what you come up with. How long do you plan to take?”
Sophia did a mental calculation. Both Davenport and Kansas City were within three hours of Des Moines, but the distance from one to the other would be closer to five. “Three days.”
“All right. I’ll contact you if a need arises before you get back.” Someone called his name and Cam turned to see Special Agent Franks gesturing to him.
“I’ll keep you updated,” she promised. And watched him move away with a purposeful stride, his mind obviously already on the upcoming conversation with the older agent.
It occurred to her for the first time to wonder if there were any ill feelings about Cam being named lead investigator on this case. With Gonzalez promoted to SAC Franks was the most senior agent in the MCU. She could think of a couple others who had been here longer than Cam, as well. Before transferring to MCU, he’d started out with DNE, the agency’s narcotics enforcement division.
Turning toward the door again, Sophia pushed out into the still bright sunshine and headed to her car. She’d worked with many agents in all four zones of DCI’s Major Crimes Unit in one capacity or the other over the years and knew Cam had always been highly regarded. But the recent multi-task force assignment he’d worked had probably added luster to his reputation.
Unlocking her car and slipping inside, she wondered if anyone else suspected how much the undercover experience had cost him.
The doorbell rang even as she was mentally congratulating herself for her rapid packing. She’d decided to leave tonight, and set up the interviews in Davenport by cell on the way. The bell rang again, signaling a lack of patience or maturity. Sophie was betting on the latter. Livvie Hammel, her neighbor next door, had a seven-year-old who was as charming as he was precocious. Last week he’d come over to proudly show her his frog collection. She could only hope that he hadn’t developed a newfound fondness for snakes.
While she could see the cuteness in the miniature tree frogs, Sophia didn’t do reptiles.
A check of the Judas hole showed a grim-faced Cam on the other side. Her stomach sank as she fumbled with the lock and pulled the door open. “What’s wrong?”
He was already stepping inside, sending a look around. “You packed yet?”
“I…actually yes.” She fell into step behind him as he started for her bedroom. “I had decided to leave this evening. What are you…” He was already lifting her bag from the bed, and his proximity in the room had her stomach doing a slow roll.
They’d ended up here that first night. Some subsequent ones too, but the first time…she’d stood in this very doorway, logic slicing through the sensual haze like a quick cold blade. What am I doing?
The panicked question had dissipated when Cam had pressed her against the doorjamb, his kiss turning the blood in her veins molten.
Exactly what I want to, a dim inner reply had sounded. For once.
Belatedly, she realized he was talking. “…but you didn’t answer. Figured I’d save time and drive over. Wanted to be sure and catch you in case you’d decided to leave tonight.” Two quick strides brought him much too close, her suitcase in his hand. “Is this all there is?”
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Move. We’re in a hurry.” Applying gentle pressure to her shoulder, he nudged her around and through the door.
Her thought processes finally clicked into gear, bringing an accompanying feeling of dread. “I’m assuming there’s been a change of plans.” Responding to the urgency in his manner, she quickly gathered her cell phone from its charger and slipped it into her bag. Grabbing her purse she headed to the door, where he was already resetting her alarm. The sight gave her an odd moment of déjà vu. She’d told him the code once when they’d arrived here, their hands full carrying groceries. It never would have occurred to her that he’d remember it.
“Change of direction.” Cam’s voice, his expression was grim. “Just got a call from the Edina PD. Three hours ago the Edina USTC bank alerted law enforcement of a large withdrawal requested by Courtney Van Wheton, widow of a successful hedge fund manager in the Twin Cities. The woman was last seen getting into a white panel van, plates unidentified. No sighting since.”
His rapid-fire delivery was punctuated by swinging open the door, stepping aside to allow her to precede him. Sophia’s earlier trepidation congealed into a nasty knot in the pit of her stomach.
“You think he’s found a new victim?”
“The longer we go without anyone seeing her, the likelier that becomes.”
Chapter 4
“How long have you had this?”
He was sprawled facedown across her bed, taking up more room, to her way of thinking, than was strictly necessary. “You mean my Adonis like physique? Or my godlike sexual stamina? If it’s the latter, modesty forces me to admit that I had a great deal of inspiration toward that end.” His voice was muffled against a pillow.
She snickered at that, surprising herself. Sophia Elise Channing was not in the habit of snickering. Of course she wasn’t in the habit of lying sweaty and tangled with a hard-bodied sexually ravenous and frankly beautiful specimen of man.
Not that she’d tell him that.
“The tattoo,” she clarified. She stretched her leg to glide along his, not quite innocently. Enjoyed the play of muscles in his back as they jumped in response.
“Which one? The one on my arm or my ass?”
“You don’t…” She stopped mid-sentence to double-check.
“Aha.” He flipped over, his lazy grin quirking the corner of his mouth. “Made you look.”
“Your arm,” she clarified. But couldn’t prevent a small answering smile. Honestly, the man was incorrigible. Which wasn’t surprising, given what she’d already known about him. But the hidden depths she caught glimpses of intrigued her. Before he closed up, shut down, or turned her curiosity away with a well-aimed quip. She expected him to do the same now, and couldn’t prevent a faint tinge of disappointment.
But he surprised her by answering. “Fifteen years ago or so. Army Intel.”
His response was no less surprising than was
the fact that he’d answered at all. He had a number of ways of evading questions that skirted too close to the personal. “A compass?” She traced the black arrows on his bicep lightly with one finger. “What does it signify?”
His gaze was sober. Pensive. And uncharacteristically honest. “Undercover work has lots of gray areas. Easy to lose your way if you don’t remember which direction you’re heading.”
“And did you? Lose your way?” she dared to ask.
Bleakness settled into his eyes. His voice. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”
It was a three and a half hour drive on I-35 from Des Moines to Edina, Minnesota. Cam passed the time acquiring more background and periodic updates from Paul Boelin, the Edina Chief of Police. Upon arrival at the wealthy Minneapolis suburb, they followed Boelin’s directions to the USTC bank building where Van Wheton had last been seen. The branch was closed now, but a few of the employees had remained at Boelin’s request.
Cam, Jenna and Sophie got out of the agency issued Dodge Charger and approached the officers stationed in front of the darkened bank doors. Immediately the doors opened, and Boelin, a tall angular looking man in his early forties, came out to greet them. Jenna had done some research while Cam had driven up here. So he already knew that the man was a twenty-year law enforcement veteran, but a relative newcomer to his current position. He’d face some unique challenges in Edina, which was an elite suburb of Minneapolis. With over eighty thousand residents, its upscale shopping area and plentiful parks would attract a constant stream of visitors from neighboring cities. And the three major highways leading out of the city meant that easy access and exit were unlimited.
“Thanks for coming so quickly.” The chief acknowledged introductions with a perfunctory nod of his head and led them both inside the bank. “Still no word on Van Wheton. The private school her kids attend has a year round calendar, and she didn’t arrive to pick them up at dismissal time. The oldest, a daughter, missed a dentist appointment this afternoon. No one has heard from the mom. Not the kids, dentist’s office or school. She’s been widowed for nearly five years…car accident. Husband left her very well-fixed.”