Taylor wasn't a fan of people. To hear others talk, even people whom he considered his friends, it was his defining character trait. He hadn’t been a people person for a long time, thanks to some traumatic experiences years before during his days in the service. Except for a few individuals he made exceptions for, Taylor tried to avoid close contact with other human beings as much as possible. The one thing flying economy class guaranteed, though, was close person to person contact.
He was amazed every time a flight didn’t devolve in some rage-induced episode, ending with him in cuffs on the ground.
Stepping through the doors of baggage claim and out into the brisk February air, Taylor saw the one thing that always helped him keep from taking a last, crazed leap.
Loretta Whitaker leaned against one of the many black SUVs that dominated the streets of the nation's capital. She was propped against the front of the vehicle, arms pushed back with elbows resting on the hood. Keeping her weight on her left leg, she had extended the right out, the overall pose giving her an air of confident patience. It had the added benefit of showing off a finely polished gold shield and Bureau service weapon hanging off her belt at one hip. These acted as a repellent for the DC police or airport security who regularly made sweeps of the area, preventing people from sitting in front of the terminal while they waited for their passengers to show up. Which, of course, was exactly what she was doing.
Shoulder-length dark-brown hair was pulled back into a tight, no-nonsense bun, and her plain pantsuit obscured any hint of the toned, athletic body Taylor knew she kept hidden while in her work persona. Sadly, it was one of the many concessions a woman in law enforcement had to make, to be taken seriously in her job.
His walk shifted from an annoyed and tired shuffle, to a purposeful stride as he headed toward her, dropping his bag on the cement curb as he reached her. Leaning in, Taylor pressed her harder against the hood of the SUV, his arms lifting her slightly off the ground as their mouths met, each expressing a mutual feeling of how much the other had been missed.
“That bad?” Whitaker said as Taylor set her back on the ground and stepped back to retrieve his bag.
“Princess, you have no idea!”
Letting out a chuckle, Whitaker circled around the vehicle while Taylor slid into the passenger seat and tossed his bag in the back.
“So, she was at the house I take it?” Whitaker asked as she started the vehicle and pulled away from the curb.
“Yeah. He had soundproofed a back room and permanently boarded the window,” Taylor said, images of the room Samantha had been kept in flashing back to him, turning his stomach. “Apparently he also kept the lights off unless he was making a 'visit.'”
“You should have called us in to take the house. The agent assigned to her case was pissed when he heard you went in by yourself. Especially after he heard you shot the guy.”
“I told the detective I wasn’t waiting. Everything I'd found said he didn’t keep the other girls more than a week, and the time limit was up. Hell, he had a knife at her throat when I went through the door. Five minutes later, and we would have brought back a body, not a missing girl.”
“The detective didn’t have the authority to give you clearance. Once you found he had operated across state lines, it became a Bureau case.”
“Come on, Lola! You guys didn’t even want the case when it first popped up. That’s why my name got passed to her mother in the first place. It goes from a missing person case to a possible serial killer then it becomes important? That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
“Yeah, I know, but that’s the way it is. There are rules, John, and we have to go by them. We can’t step into a case unless the locals call us in, or something turns it federal.”
“You know your rules are going to get people killed, right?”
She rolled her eyes, “Whatever.”
This was a fight they’d had many times before.
“Hey,” he said, putting a hand on her leg. “I wasn’t trying to attack you. I know you’re not like that. It’s just the flight back, and everything, has me keyed up.”
Whitaker patted his hand and said, “I know. And yet, we always end up back here.”
“You could quit and come work with me,” he said. “Then we’d have nothing else to fight about.”
Letting out a snort, she said, “Now we both know that’s bullshit. Plus, I make more than you do.”
He just gave a shrug.
“I am proud you got her back. The Bureau may have a problem with your methods, but you know a lot of us root for you.”
“I know,” he said, looking out the window as they pulled out of the winding streets leading between Reagan International’s terminals, and onto the freeway that would take them to their Alexandria apartment.
They drove in silence for several long minutes, the sounds of a top forties radio station playing softly in the background, when Taylor asked, “Have you ever thought of having kids?”
“What!” she said, her head whipping around toward him.
The car swerved partially into the other lane, and blaring horns sounded as she corrected from her sudden jerk of the steering wheel.
“What?” she asked again, more calmly, with the vehicle once again back under control.
“Kids. Short people who would call you Mom. Have you thought about having any?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I haven’t really thought about it,” she said, her eyes darting to Taylor and back to the road.
“OK,” he said, his voice sounding neither disappointed nor relieved.
“Where did that question come from?” she said, sounding more surprised than annoyed.
“I don’t know. Just something that popped into my head.”
“I guess I’m not against the idea of having kids. It’s just, I’ve worked really hard to get where I am in the Bureau, and children would bring my career to a screeching halt. Plus, we’ve only been together for a year. Aren’t we skipping some steps?”
“I wasn’t saying let's go make a baby right now, or anything. Not that I’m against going home and practicing,” Taylor said with a smirk. “I just meant, as an idea. You know, down the road or whatever.”
“As an idea, down the road or whatever, maybe.”
“OK. That’s all I was wondering.”
They both lapsed into silence again, Whitaker fighting Washington rush hour traffic, and Taylor staring out the passenger window lost in thought.
“As much as I’m for going back and getting some practice in,” Whitaker said eventually, trying to make her tone sound light, with only partial success. “We have to put a pin in it. Someone’s coming by the house to see you.”
“With a job?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you have them meet me at the office tomorrow.”
“Because this is,” she said, pausing to work out what to say, “more sensitive than you normally deal with?”
“So it’s a politician?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You might as well have. A mysterious client who has to sneak out at night to meet an investigator in a place where watching eyes might not put two and two together. Hell, I bet he shows up in a trench coat, wearing a hat and sunglasses.”
“It’s just someone I met through work. She has a situation with her daughter, and she needs some help. It’s not a Bureau kind of thing, and she’d heard of you, so I told her I’d set up a meeting.”
“I just got off a plane, Lola,” he said, half-whining. “I’m totally beat.”
“I know, but this is apparently time sensitive.”
“You don’t know what it’s about?”
“No. She didn’t want to talk about it in public. Just hear her out, and for the love of God try to be friendly. Just see if the case is worth taking.”
“Fine to parts one and two, but I’m not promising anything on the middle thing.”
“Be nice, John. This one time. For me,” she said, lookin
g over at him pleadingly.
“Fine, I’ll meet with her. If you weren’t smoking hot, I’d tell you to go pound sand,” Taylor said with a scowl on his face that didn’t match the mirth in his eyes.
“I use what I got,” she said with a smile.
A few minutes later they were pulling into a parking garage attached to a corner apartment building in the heart of Alexandria, Virginia. Alexandria was a medium-sized city serving as home to many of those who worked in Washington DC, but couldn’t afford the multi-million-dollar price tag living in the nation's capital demanded. Pulling their things from the car, the couple rode in comfortable silence to the apartment they had shared for almost six months.
It wasn’t overly spacious, but it was still very nice. It was tastefully decorated, thanks to Whitaker’s superior eye for decoration. Had it been up to him, Taylor would have been fine with a trailer at the far end of a country road.
He’d barely put his bag on the floor next to their bed when the doorbell rang. Letting Whitaker answer the door, Taylor pulled the pistol he had disassembled for travel through airport security from the duffle bag and placed it on the dresser. He would need to clean it before reassembling the weapon, and he didn’t want to forget.
Leaning against the dresser, Taylor rubbed his eyes and tried to fight off the sleep that threatened to overtake him.
He hadn’t mentioned it to Whitaker, but the previous night had been spent combing the neighborhoods of the Boise suburbs, looking for Samantha Thompson. With no nap on the plane, Taylor was more than exhausted.
After a brief detour at the restroom to splash some water on his face, Taylor made his way out into the living room and stopped dead in his tracks. It took every ounce of willpower in Taylor’s body to keep from bursting out laughing.
In the middle of the living room was an older woman wearing a tan trench coat, a big floppy hat, and a pair of large, round sunglasses, exactly as he’d predicted. Reading his mind, Whitaker gave him a look that threatened all sorts of bodily harm if he followed through on his first reaction.
She didn’t have to worry though. Once the woman took off her hat and sunglasses, all thoughts of laughing vanished from his mind.
Her disguise removed, Taylor instantly recognized the woman. There was no way he couldn’t have. She was a constant presence in televised campaign ads, reporters talked about her on nearly every evening broadcast, and her face showed up on half the magazines in the checkout line.
Suzette Caldwell was the senior Republican Senator from South Carolina, a one-time Governor, heiress to a multi-million-dollar fortune, and the front-runner for the Republican nomination for next year's Presidential Election.
This was, literally, the most powerful woman in the United States. And she was standing in his living room.
CHAPTER 2
“Senator,” Taylor said, unable to come up with anything more intelligent through his surprise.
“Mr. Taylor, I’ve heard good things about you,” she said, her Southern accent partially hidden by years of speech training, forming a pleasant, almost melodic sound.
Taylor opened his mouth then stopped. How had she heard anything about him? The obvious answer was Whitaker had told her, but how in the world did Whitaker know the senator?
Sure she was a rising star at the FBI. But that did not put her on the level of hobnobbing with future world leaders. His mind whirled through scenarios, and not a single one could explain why the senator was standing in their apartment.
While those thoughts tumbled through his head, Taylor just stood, mouth slightly opened, staring at Senator Caldwell. Normally, Taylor would bluff his way through a situation like this, but the combination of lack of sleep and total surprise had managed to briefly overload the rest of his brain.
“You were right when you said he was a man of few words,” the senator said to Whitaker, her eyes dancing with mirth.
Whitaker smiled back and walked over to Taylor, taking him by the arm and leading him over to stand next to the couch.
“That’s my fault. I’m afraid I kept your identity secret. Mostly because I hardly ever catch him by surprise, and I wanted to see the look on his face.”
“Joe said you had a sense of humor,” the senator said, letting out a dignified chuckle.
Taylor’s brain finally clicked into place, making the connection. Joe would be Joe Solomon, the current head of the FBI. While he was several pay grades above Whitaker, she had been working as the right-hand woman to one of Solomon’s deputies at the moment, and Solomon would have enough contact with Whitaker to know who she was.
Having successfully put the puzzle together, Taylor rallied from his momentary meltdown.
“Sorry about that, Senator. I just got back in town, and I’m jet-lagged. Loretta said you had a problem?”
“Ahh, there we go, straight to business then. A man after my own heart. Yes, I do have a problem, and I’ve been told by multiple sources you are the person to talk to.”
“I’ll do what I can to help, ma’am.”
“Suzette, please,” she said with a charming smile.
Taylor didn’t spend a lot of time around politicians, and those he had met always came off as slimy. He was taken aback by the sheer charisma this woman radiated. Of course, she was a significantly different caliber of politician than those he’d met before.
“Suzette,” he said and gestured for her to take a seat in a large, stuffed chair while he sat next to Whitaker on the couch.
“My problem,” she said, continuing after gracefully perching on the edge of the chair, “is my daughter. Maybe it’s because I’m away so often, but she’s always been a . . . free spirit.”
“How free of a spirit?” Taylor pressed.
“She’s always done what she wanted, with no regard for the consequences and for what I have to say on the subject. For example, at her prom two years ago, she showed up high as a kite carrying a bottle of some sort of alcohol, with a mangy boy wearing ripped jeans and a leather jacket. It was an absolute scandal.”
“I see,” Taylor said.
“She started at Georgetown two years ago, although I am beginning to lose hope she will ever graduate. It’s been a rough start, but we did, however, manage to get her to settle down enough to begin campaigning with me this fall.”
“From your description, I’m surprised you got her to help campaigning.”
“Independent as she is, once the credit cards start getting cancelled and the trust fund manager stops the monthly stipends, attitudes tend to adjust.”
“I see,” Taylor said again.
“This past weekend we had a family photo session planned for the next big phase of our media strategy, and Mary Jane didn’t show up. She failed to answer her phone, did not respond to texts, and the staffer I sent to her dorm to retrieve her found no one home. Simply put, she has vanished.”
“Are you concerned she . . .”
The senator waved her hand, interrupting Taylor, “No, no, nothing like that. I think she went out, got blackout drunk, and ended up in the apartment of whatever boy was around when she started drinking. It is, sadly, not the first time this has happened.”
“So what can I do for you, Senator?”
“Suzette, John. Please call me Suzette.”
“What can I do for you, Suzette?”
“I’ve been told you excel at finding people. I would like you to find my daughter and, if you can’t bring her home, at least let me know where she is so I can have one of my people dry her out. We have the first primary debate in one week, and it would be noticeable if she were missing from the audience.”
“Plus, word getting out your daughter's hammered and shacking up with lowlifes would not go well with your family values platform,” Taylor said.
He had to clamp his jaws tight to keep from letting out a sound as Whitaker pinched him in the side hard enough to bruise.
“There’s no need for that, Loretta,” the senator said, not missing the byplay betwee
n Taylor and Whitaker. “I was amply warned your Mr. Taylor is known for being particularly candid.”
“That’s one word for it,” Whitaker said, looking at Taylor with a glare that promised future retribution.
“I admit my family has problems, John, but I still stand by my belief that strong family values are what make this country great. Sadly, we are not always successful. Despite trying to raise my daughter with the values I was taught as a girl, she has wandered from the path. But I refuse to give up on her, which is why I’m here.”
The Wrong Girl (John Taylor Book 3) Page 2