When She's Gone

by Palmer, Jane;

  She ran from the bedroom and downstairs, nearly trampling over Luke as he came out of the library.

  “Whoa, where are you going in such a hurry?” He grabbed her arm, steadying her. His grip was firm, and Ara swore she could feel the heat of his palm through her leather jacket.

  “I was coming to find you.” She peered through the open doorway and caught sight of Gannon on the couch, his head in his hands. “What’s going on?”

  Luke passed a glance over his shoulder and shut the door. “Gannon says that in the last few months Sam’s been paying him for time off.”

  Ara’s heart leapt. “Time off? What does that mean?” She blinked. “He was leaving her alone?”

  “Seems so. For hours at a time.”

  “So it’s possible she was meeting with someone.”

  “More than possible given what we know about Sam’s involvement in her kidnapping.” Luke’s mouth tightened at the corners. “Unfortunately, Gannon doesn’t have a clue about who this mystery person might be.”

  “I do.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  There was a flurry of activity happening inside the gallery. Waiters bustled around, a janitor was sweeping the floor, and several people were hanging tags next to paintings. Obviously another event was taking place that night.

  Ara led Luke past the first room toward the back, following the sound of the gallery owner’s voice. Kat was in deep conversation with another woman, her hands gesturing expressively. Her long hair was elegantly styled, accentuating strong cheekbones and a cleft chin.

  Before Ara could open her mouth, Luke stepped in front of her, taking the lead.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” Luke interrupted smoothly. “I was told one of you was the gallery owner.”

  Kat glanced over her shoulder and then did a double take. Her gaze lingered on Luke’s broad chest before moving upward to his close-cropped hair and chiseled jawline.

  “I’m the owner.” She licked her lips and then stuck out a hand for Luke to shake. “Katherine Carmichael, but you can call me Kat.”

  Luke took it, and Kat held onto to his hand longer than necessary. Ara clenched her fists at her side. “Pleased to meet you.” Luke’s expression held a hint of amusement as he released her hand.

  The other woman nudged Kat with her elbow. Kat laughed and stepped back from Luke, gesturing to her friend. “Oh, I’m sorry. This is Megan O’Conner.”

  “Ma’am.” Luke gave her a simple nod but never took his gaze off of Kat. “I need to speak with you about an important matter, and I’d like to do so in private. Is there somewhere we could talk?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. . . .”

  “Patrick. Luke Patrick.”

  She plastered on a polite smile of regret. “I can’t possibly get away . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as Ara stepped around Luke, directly into Kat’s vision. Kat’s eyes widened in surprise before she caught herself and leaned in, brushing both of Ara’s cheeks with her soft lips. “Ara? Goodness, I didn’t even see you there. How are you?”

  “Just fine.”

  “There hasn’t been some kind of mistake with the painting, has there? I have it scheduled for delivery tomorrow.”

  Ara shook her head. “No, no. Everything’s fine. I’m here with Luke, actually.”

  Kat’s eyebrows arched only a touch—not from a skilled practice at hiding her emotions, but because Botox wouldn’t allow them to move more than that.

  “I think Holly would really appreciate it if you would take a few moments to talk with us,” Ara said. “In private.”

  Megan’s curious gaze drifted back and forth among the three of them. She was eating up every word of this, to be distributed later at luncheons and brunches.

  “Of course.” Kat smoothed back a strand of her hair and gave them a winning smile. “But only for a few moments. I have a huge opening tonight, as you can see.”

  “I assure you it won’t take but a few minutes of your time,” Luke said.

  I assure you. Ara nearly snorted before she caught herself. Luke really was a chameleon. A touch of admiration for him blossomed as Kat made her apologies to Megan and then led them to her office.

  The expensive touches in the gallery extended into the office. Everything was high end, from the modern desk to the striped visitors’ chairs. It was also immaculately clean, not a paper out of place or a pen in sight. The effect was like stepping into a decor magazine.

  “Please, have a seat,” Kat said, waving toward the visitors’ chairs as she stepped behind the desk. “Can I get you something to drink? A glass of champagne, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you. And allow me to properly introduce myself. Luke Patrick, FBI.” He flashed his badge. Kat’s eyes widened, and a hand fluttered to her throat.

  “FBI?” Her glance darted to Ara. “What is this about?”

  “Nick,” Luke answered, drawing Kat’s attention back to him.

  “Nick? What in heaven’s name could you want with my delivery boy?”

  Luke withdrew a notepad and a pen. “Let’s start with his last name.”

  Kat’s eyes narrowed. “Not until you tell me exactly what is going on here.”

  “A federal investigation. What is Nick’s last name?” When Kat didn’t answer him, Luke clicked his pen closed. “Fine. We’ll do this the hard way. I want all your documents regarding Nick, and I want them right now. Employment records, addresses, pay stubs. Everything you have.”

  A fine sheen of sweat appeared across Kat’s forehead, and her hands trembled ever so slightly before she flattened them against her desk. “Whatever you think Nick has done, I can assure you, he is completely innocent.”

  “Right now, I’m more concerned with your obstruction of a federal investigation.” Luke cocked his head at her. “Would you like to spend a night or two in jail?”

  Her face paled and then flushed a deep red. She rose from her chair, all semblance of politeness erased from both her demeanor and her expression. “Don’t you dare threaten me. I know my rights. If you want my records or information about Nick, you come back here with a warrant. Anything less and you won’t get a lick of information from me.”

  They didn’t have enough for a warrant. There was no solid evidence linking Nick to Sam’s kidnapping. If they couldn’t gain Kat’s cooperation, they would be walking out of this gallery empty-handed.

  “Please.” Ara stepped forward, her voice low. “We need your help. We don’t want to get Nick into any trouble—we just need to speak with him.”

  “I fail to understand exactly what is going on here, but I’m absolutely appalled you would trick me into a confrontation with the FBI. Does Holly know you are here? Does she know about this horrible meeting?”

  “Yes,” Ara lied. Holly wasn’t in any position to discuss the incident, and given the opportunity, would probably have consented to beating Kat to get the information out of her, if need be. “And she requires your cooperation. Mr. Boone will be very unhappy to learn you’ve delayed an investigation essential to his family.”

  “How is it essential?” Kat demanded. “Just what do you think Nick has done?”

  “I can’t tell you that. I can only say that we wish to speak with him. Nothing more.” Kat hesitated, and Ara’s heart quickened in her chest.

  Please, please.

  “I’m sorry, Ara.” Kat tilted her chin up, the decision made. “But I cannot provide information regarding my employees. Not even for the Boones. Come back with a valid warrant, and I’ll comply.”

  * * *

  “Damn it,” Ara swore as she left the gallery. “Is there any way you can get a warrant?”

  “Not likely, although for the Boones, we might be able to find a judge who will stretch the rules a bit.” Luke ran a hand through his hair. “How sure are you that this Nick might be involved?”

  She shrugged. “I can’t be sure at all, but you saw Kat’s reaction in there. The whole thing seems hinky.”

  Luke nodded and pulled out h
is cell, speed-dialing a number. “Thomas, what do you have?” A pause. “Text it to me.”

  He hung up and started for the car, calling over his shoulder. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?” She hurried to keep up with his long strides.

  “Thomas looked through Sam’s phone records and figured out Nick’s number. He was able to get the address associated with the account.”

  Twenty minutes later, Ara climbed out of the vehicle and double-checked her surroundings. “Are you sure this is the right street?”

  “Yep.” Luke slammed the car door. “It should be down this way.”

  She kept close to him even as she scanned the street. It was dimly lit and ghostly quiet. The buildings were crumbling down around themselves, huge chunks of concrete missing from the sides. Many of the lower windows had old-fashioned bars across the front, a weak attempt to discourage theft. Crumpled newspapers fluttered down the road. In the distance, the wail of a police siren became louder and then faded.

  Ara hunched down in her jacket as a cold wind whipped past her. She tucked her hand in her pocket, feeling the familiar weight of her gun. It reassured her.

  Across the street, a man lingered like a ghost in the doorway of a building. When he saw Ara and Luke coming toward him, he scurried away. She glanced at the peeling number at the top of the building’s doorway. Fifty-two.

  Next door was a single-story. Frowning, Luke pulled out his phone and the text Thomas sent him. “Number fifty-four. This is it.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Ara asked. This couldn’t be where Nick lived. It was a hair salon. And not a very nice one, judging from the dirt caked on the window. The sign on the door listed the opening hours. It was way past closing time, and the inside was pitch black. Ara cupped one hand around her face, trying to peer through the glass. “There’s a back room. It’s possible Sam’s inside.”

  “Only one way to make sure.” He unholstered his weapon. Ara pulled hers from underneath her jacket. Luke paused, but only for half a beat. “Is that registered?”

  She nodded. “I’m legal.”

  Luke leaned back to survey the building and the street. “There isn’t an alley, which means the only doorway is right in front of us.” He put a hand to his ear and winked at her. “You heard that scream, too, right?”

  There was no scream, but without a reasonable belief that Sam was inside, Luke couldn’t break in.

  “Absolutely. It sounded like Sam’s voice.”

  Pushing her aside, he raised the butt of his gun before tossing her a glance over his shoulder. “Cover me. Go low.”

  The familiar words kicked Ara into motion. She changed her stance into a lower crouch, held her weapon with practiced precision.

  She gave him a nod and whispered, “Go.”

  Luke smashed the glass of the door with the butt of his gun and it shattered into a million pieces that danced across the dirty tile floor inside. Ara braced herself for the wail of an alarm, but none came. Slipping a hand inside, Luke flicked the lock open and pulled the door outward.

  Ara’s heart was pounding out of her chest. She carefully stepped across the broken glass, the pieces crunching underneath her feet.

  The main room wasn’t large, just big enough for a single barber’s chair and a tiny receptionist desk. It smelled like fruity soap and sweet aftershave.

  Luke moved quickly toward the one door in the back of the room. She followed right behind him. Efficient, smooth, like a well-oiled machine. If the situation wasn’t so serious, Ara might have been able to admit she liked it. That she’d missed it. But all her energy was focused on what was behind that door.

  On Sam.

  Silently, she took up position on the opposite side of the frame, crouching lower. Luke glanced down at her, questions in his eyes.

  She nodded. She was ready.

  He reached out, his hand steady, and grasped the knob. With a twist, he flung open the door, and they both entered, guns raised.

  The room was empty.

  Ara rose from her crouch, despair and a strong sense of failure washing over her. “She’s not here.”

  The room was nothing more than a storage closet. A broken mirror, a dirty mop and bucket, shelves lined with shampoo and hair dye.

  “Who does this place belong to?” she asked.

  “An eighty-year-old barber with no criminal history.”

  “So the kidnapper gave a fake address when he bought the phone.” Ara tucked her gun back in its holster. A sharp wind whistled down the street, and a touch of it flew in through the smashed window. She shivered inside her coat. “What a surprise. Can we tie the owner to Nick in any way?”

  Luke didn’t answer her but instead whipped out his phone and dialed quickly. “Thomas, I need a team.” A pause. He glanced around the room. “She’s not here. But I need to know if this place has anything to do with Nick.” Another pause. “No, I doubt it. It seems to me he gave a fake address. If I go with my gut, the team won’t find anything linking this place to him, but we have to be sure. Yeah . . . yeah . . . ten minutes. Good.”

  He hung up. “Don’t get your hopes up. Chances are this place has no connection to the kidnappers. The smartest thing for them to do was pick a place at random.”

  Luke sighed. “You could be wrong about the message Sam was trying to send you. Nick may have nothing to do with this. And Kat’s questionable behavior could be nothing more than a coincidence.”

  Ara glanced at the barber’s chair, at the mirror hanging crooked on the wall, at the messy papers littering the receptionist area. “I don’t believe in coincidences. We’re on the right path. I can feel it.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Thwack.

  The sound of the glove hitting the punching bag echoed across the exercise room. Luke watched as Ara paused, wiping sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her shirt before attacking the bag again with a furious intensity.

  She was graceful and far more powerful than her small frame indicated. In hand-to-hand combat, Ara would make a formidable opponent.

  He rubbed his forehead, trying to erase the ache that seemed to have permanently entrenched itself there. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten or slept. This case demanded all his attention, and still it felt like he was going nowhere fast.

  No new leads.

  And still so many unanswered questions. How had the kidnappers discovered the FBI was involved? Who tipped them off? And what about Sam’s message to Ara? Were they interpreting it correctly, or had they missed something?

  No. He shook his head. Nick and the gallery were tied into this somehow. He would bet his entire paycheck on it. The way the gallery owner, Kat, had reacted to the flash of his badge confirmed something wasn’t right.

  But what? He had no evidence or proof to tie anything together. His team was frantically gathering as much info as they could on the gallery, but so far, they weren’t coming up with anything useful.

  And time was running out.

  “How long have you been standing there?” Ara’s voice cut through his thoughts. She swiped a damp strand of hair out of her eyes, her chest heaving with the effort from her blows.

  He swallowed hard, his mouth inexplicably dry. Luke forced himself to follow the line of her neck up to her face. Her expression was guarded, like an uncertain doe attempting to decipher if he was a predator or not.

  “Has there been any news?” she asked, yanking off the boxing gloves and tossing them onto a nearby bench.

  “No. I have my team researching the gallery for leverage, and there’s another group tearing through Sam’s room and computer. So far, no other mention of Nick.” He rocked back on his heels. “I’ve sent the composite you created with the sketch artist out, but we don’t have any new hits.”

  Ara blew out a frustrated breath. “Damn it!” She spun around again and punched the bag, this time with her bare hands.

  “Don’t do that.” Luke stepped forward and grabbed her arm, preventing her f
rom taking another swing. “You’ll tear up your knuckles.”

  Tears shimmered in her eyes, and for a moment, he thought it was from the pain in her hand, but then she whispered, “I can’t stand it.”

  Luke didn’t have to ask her what she meant. The waiting, the tedious running down of lead after lead, the feeling of failure. He got it. He was feeling exactly the same way.

  He wanted to tug her closer, to comfort her and forget for half a heartbeat about this damn case he was losing.

  But he didn’t. Luke had learned long ago to listen to his head, and not his heart.

  She broke his hold and sagged against the wall, sliding down it until her hands rested on her knees. “What are they doing to her?”

  “Thinking about it will only tear you apart.”

  She laughed, mocking and hard. “You really are a cold bastard, aren’t you?”

  Her words knifed through him, but he only shrugged.

  Ara met his gaze and sucked in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry. I’m . . .”

  “I know.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. Ara bit her lip and said, “Truth is, sometimes I wish I could be more like you.”

  “Cold-hearted?” He smiled a bit to take the sting out of it.

  “Contained.”

  “Ah.” Luke crossed and sat down next to her on the floor. “Well, that’s a family trait. A requirement of all Patrick men.”

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “Why?”

  “Because you need it to become an FBI agent.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Just like your father before you.”

  “Is that why you did?”

  “Yep.” He paused. “At least, it started out that way. Now, it’s about more than that.”

  Ara leaned her head against the wall. “What’s your father like?”

  “Hard. Rigid.” He pictured his dad. The dark suit, the stern face with the faint scar along the left cheek. “But he was a hell of an agent.”

  “Was?”

  “He retired. Now he lives on a farm in Tennessee, and every time I call, he never fails to remind me of the Patrick legacy.” Luke realized he’d said more than he meant to. He glanced at her. “Do you miss it? Being a cop?”