by Layla Reyne
“’Cause he’s nothing but piss and vinegar. You’re more sweet and sour.” Bobby shot him a wink. “We have hope for you.”
Cam chuckled, but it petered out as he thought about his angry little brother. And the hand he’d played in making him that way. “I don’t want Keith to hate me more than he already does.”
“You bring Mom peace, he won’t.”
Cam feared the other possibility more. If he couldn’t solve his sister’s disappearance, all he would’ve brought any of them was more unrest.
Chapter Eleven
Jamie’s rainbow-colored file folders had seemed like a good idea when Cam first returned from the hospital. Cases had been color-coded by district, then organized by year and status. Everything else in the hotel suite’s shared living area had been a disaster—soda cans, Kit Kat wrappers, and scribbled-on notepads covered every surface—but the facts he’d needed were at his fingertips. Hours later, sitting on the hotel room floor, surrounded by his own all-nighter detritus, the bright folders were more frustrating than anything. A reorganization of facts he’d been through a time or twenty before. Add to that the other loop running in his head, replaying over his talk with Bobby and his call with Nic, and it’d all become a headache-inducing blur. Resting back against the couch, he laid his head on the cushions and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, it was to a rumpled Jamie, in St. Mary’s sweats and an FBI tee, standing over him. “Did you sleep?”
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
“Your snoring woke me up.”
Cam righted himself and sure enough, it was at least an hour brighter in the room. “Okay, so maybe I slept a little.”
“I think you need to sleep some more.”
Cam waved him off, then waved at the folders. “Thanks for putting some order to this.”
Jamie sat on the couch next to his shoulder. “I see you’ve put more order to them.”
“Gut instinct, basically.” He pointed to the pile on the left. “Possibly related.” Then to the pile on the right. “Not likely related.” Unfortunately, the new names on his mother’s list had all fallen in the not-likely-related column.
“What are the possibly related factors?” Jamie asked.
“Age, description, neighborhood, and other similarities. The same thing that tagged them as related before.”
Jamie dropped onto the floor next to him and drew the probably related stack closer. “Setting aside the first three, which I get, what other similarities?”
Cam opened the first folder and handed it to Jamie. “Brandi Maynard, abducted on the way home from the library.” He picked up the next two. “Two girls from the same middle school, but not Erin’s.” The three after that were the same socioeconomic status as their family, blue-collar working class. The last had left behind a gemstone necklace—not a topaz like Erin’s, but a ruby.
Jamie flipped through the folders, then set them aside. His baby blues were skeptical when he looked back over at Cam. “Those are rather disparate.”
“Which is why age and description are the better bet, plus one.” He took the folders back, tossed out two and added three more from the probably-related stack. “Eight disappearances over the past twenty years where the victim is between twelve and fourteen, with dark hair and dark eyes, from large families that are barely scraping by.”
Jamie nodded. “Same as Erin.”
“Eight cold cases spread over two decades. We could never tie them all together. Hell, two had brothers who also went missing.”
“So the girls were deemed runaways too.”
Cam nodded, scrubbing a hand over his beard. Then voiced what he must. “All of which assumes Erin wasn’t a runaway too.”
Jamie shifted, drawing up a knee and angling toward him, elbow propped on the couch. “Do you really think that about your sister?”
God, he wished he did. As terrible as it would be to learn his sister had voluntarily left, had turned her back on her family and stayed away for two decades, it would be better than learning for certain she was dead. But the latter was far easier to believe. Things had not been easy for their family back then—Dad always out on the boat, then stressed over managing the other boats when he expanded, Mom running a tight ship on a tight budget at home—but Erin was their princess, worshiped and adored by her parents and brothers. She’d never wanted for anything, except the one day she’d wanted Cam to pick her up and he’d been selfish instead. “No,” he croaked hoarsely.
Jamie rubbed a hand over his shoulders, soothing, while he recited back the pertinent case details, giving Cam something else to focus on. “So then we assume she was taken because she fit a profile the kidnapper targeted.”
“Is still targeting,” Cam said, making a connection he hadn’t considered until they’d laid it all out. It was right there in front of him. A case that wasn’t cold. He shot to his feet and grabbed his laptop, heading for the table.
“What’ve you got?” Jamie asked, following him.
Brushing aside Kit Kat wrappers, he made a place for the computer, opened a search window, and called up the BPD roster. “Remember what Di said yesterday, about the officer with the missing daughter.”
“You said you knew the family.”
Cam nodded. “I went to school with Randy, the oldest. This—” he opened an officer profile page “—is Officer William Murphy, whose daughter is missing.”
“Dark hair, dark eyes, daughter could be the right age, if he married young.” Jamie yanked out his phone, tapping away at it, while Cam searched social media sites for Shannon Murphy.
“Yep,” Jamie said. “Per Social Security, he’s thirty-two, married at eighteen, and had Shannon when he was nineteen.”
“Making her thirteen.” Cam stood back from the screen, giving Jamie a view of Shannon’s online profile picture. She was a pretty girl, with big dark eyes, long brown hair, and a bright smile.
“She looks like her dad,” Jamie agreed.
Cam drew up another picture, one of his sister he had saved on his laptop. “And if you didn’t know better?” he asked Jamie.
“I’d say she could easily be mistaken as Erin’s sister.”
* * *
Nic waited in Cam’s office, looking at the framed pictures on his windowsill. A basketball team photo from Boston College. One with his family, all of them in ugly Christmas sweaters. A photo of him and Jamie, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, on a fishing boat. Cam was smiling wide while Jamie’s expression was somewhere between grin and grimace, face a sickly shade of green. One of Cam, Danny, Jamie and Aidan in their tuxes at the wedding.
Nic hadn’t been in the wedding party, but seeing that picture, he felt a certain sense of disappointment that he wasn’t. He’d been holding himself back from his newfound family, and more than a little of him regretted it now.
But not the kiss that day. Nor any of the kisses since.
Every day he’d spent in San Diego, he’d missed Cam. This separation, however, was somehow worse. Even knowing what he did, that there were leaks in both their shops and that the safest course of action would be to stay apart, Nic wanted to be there for Cam, as a team member and more.
He’d have to settle for what he could do here. At least Cam had asked for his help, which he was more than happy to give. Grabbing the file he’d assembled off Cam’s desk, he made it as far as the door before his phone rang. He retreated into the office, pulling out his cell and recognizing a DC-area number.
“Nic Price,” he answered.
“Hold for the Deputy Attorney General,” a woman said, and a moment later, the line clicked over. “Morning, Price,” the Deputy AG greeted. “Thanks for taking my call.”
“Of course.” Not that he’d been given a choice; the man was his ultimate boss, after all. One he actually liked, unlike his immediate supervisor. “What can I d
o for you, sir?”
“You can take the US Attorney position in San Diego, permanently.”
Staggering, Nic reached out a hand to steady himself, narrowly avoiding Cam’s framed diploma on the wall. “I’m sorry, what was that?” he managed around the shock.
The Deputy AG chuckled. “I should be the one apologizing for that abrupt lead in. I’ve been on the Hill all morning and have to go back this afternoon.”
“Then you’re the one in need of condolences.” He pushed off the wall and circled behind Cam’s desk, tossing the file on the blotter. “You caught me off guard is all. Daniels just got back.” Daniels had been the US Attorney he’d filled in for last month.
“He dropped the news today that he’s leaving year-end for a private practice position.” The Deputy AG didn’t sound too surprised; it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, more money and more flexibility in private practice. “Your name’s at the top of the replacement list.”
“I’m sure there are more qualified—”
“Beg to differ. You closed cases faster than Daniels, and they were cases the staff there wanted to work on. Three calls in with the SD AUSAs and all of them recommended you for the job. I’m sure the others will do the same.”
“I’m honored, sir.” Nic rested back against the edge of the desk, thumb drumming a steady beat against the wood. He appreciated the admiration and respect of his colleagues—there really was no higher honor—and they’d been a good team there in San Diego. But looking again at the pictures on the window ledge, he couldn’t deny he had a good team here too.
More than a team. Family.
He’d spent half his life a virtual nomad—going wherever the Navy sent him. His life was settled now, here, with Gravity, the family Aidan had somehow sucked him into, and Cam. But with homesickness growing louder in Cam’s voice each time they spoke, could Nic afford to ignore this offer? Did he want to stay here, if the most important part of his team—of his family—were to leave? And there was no denying everyone would be safer if Nic wasn’t here; he’d proved his point this summer, and on his first night back with the fire.
“The confirmation hearings won’t be easy,” he said, reminded of the skeletons that would no doubt be shook loose.
“Is that a yes, then?” the Deputy AG asked.
“It’s not a no,” Nic said, hedging. He needed time to think, and to see how other things shook out. “Can you give me to the end of the week to decide?”
“By all means, but the sooner we can strategize on the hearings the better.”
“Understood, sir.” He thanked him again for the offer, then arranged with his secretary for a call on Friday.
When he hung up, it was to the whoosh of blood in his ears, held at bay somehow during that brief yet momentous conversation. This was not a decision he’d anticipated having to confront so soon. Mel had vaguely hinted at it on the plane ride back—had she known?—but he’d not known of the opening, hadn’t even contemplated it in the current political climate. Truth be told, if he could have any position, it’d be the one Bowers held, here in San Francisco with his friends and family and Gravity. But that position wasn’t open and even if it were, would staying here put all those people and things he valued most in more danger?
“We’re ready.”
Turning, Nic found Lauren waiting in the doorway. “She’s here?”
“Holding Room Two.”
With a witness in holding, and Cam on a clock that could stop at any minute, a decision, much less deliberation, on San Diego would have to wait. He had to focus on the here and now.
Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the folder again and followed Lauren across the FBI bullpen, sparsely populated at the lunch hour. She handed him a comm device that she’d use to feed him analysis from the room’s biometrics equipment. “You sleep any last night?” she asked, glaring up at him.
“Not much.” He tucked the comm in his ear. “You?” he asked her back as she trudged into the observation room. She looked as tired as he felt, now helping on this matter, digging into Vaughn, and covering who knew how many other cases. She was FBI-San Francisco’s best hacker, a top-notch analyst, and more than capable in the field. Great for job security; hell on sleep.
“Nada.” She returned with two coffees, a third visible on her desk in the room. “That’s why God invented Starbucks.”
“I don’t think it was God who did this,” Nic said, claiming one of the cups. “More like the devil.”
She shrugged. “On zero hours of sleep, I’m not choosey.”
Nic nodded at the other cup in her hand. “Who’s that one for?”
“Becca.” She waited for Nic to tuck his folder under his arm before handing it to him. “I guarantee she hasn’t had good coffee since you put her behind bars. It’ll grease the wheels a bit, hopefully.”
“Good thinking.” She wasn’t a crack analyst for nothing. “All right, let’s do this.”
Nic pushed the door open, revealing Rebecca Wright sitting on the other side of the table, looking radically different from the heist crew ringleader he and Cam had busted. Maybe it was realizing she’d been played by her client on that job. Or maybe it was the orange jumpsuit versus her leather boots and bustier. But sitting there, purple streaks gone from her limp black hair, sans makeup, in an oversized jumpsuit and with one hand chained to the desk, she looked far removed from criminal mastermind and far younger than her thirty-one years.
But her dark eyes still spit fire and cased every corner of the room and everything in it, including him. Assessing, needing to be in control, no matter how tiny the confines. “Well, if it isn’t the attorney my girl picked over me.”
“She picked her sister over you.”
Becca tried to hide her flinch, but Nic saw it and the monitors read it, Lauren reporting so in his ear. It was a good test, if unplanned.
“Your ex, and her sister, are doing well.” Nic pushed a cup toward her. “If that matters to you.”
She took a dainty sip, pretending like it was any other coffee. “I realize I might not have treated her well.”
“Sucks being betrayed, doesn’t it?”
Becca took a longer swallow, unable to fight the flutter of her eyelids. “What would you know about betrayal?”
“More than you think,” he answered, and ignored the intrigued flare of her eyes. “We’re not here to talk about that.”
“Why did you spring me from the joint? I know it was for more than just good coffee.”
Sitting back, he crossed one leg over the other, hands in his lap, giving her as much space as the room allowed. “You went missing when you were fourteen.”
Her movements were measured, as she set the cup down without answering.
“There’s a missing persons report filed with the Boston PD.”
“You act like this is news,” Becca replied. “I had a record. It must have been in my file.”
“It was, but we weren’t focused on it. We need to know more about it now.”
Forearms on the table, she wrapped her hands around her cup. Nic was surprised the cap hadn’t popped off already. “Why?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
“Why do you care?”
She clammed up again, hiding behind another sip. She was clearly holding something back, but the coffee hadn’t been enough to secure her cooperation.
“She wants to play,” Lauren said. “Let her.”
He needed to tell her more, but how much more before he risked compromising an active investigation? But it wasn’t, really. And it’d been a while since she’d worked a job. Her brain used to regularly put pieces together much the same way his and Cam’s did, just on the other side of the law. Lauren was right. He had to offer Becca a chance to solve the puzzle too.
“We’re working a case.” He withdrew a stack of pictures from the folder and spread them out o
n the table. “Eight missing girls over twenty years in Boston and the surrounding areas. All of them bear a striking resemblance to you.”
She looked at each picture, then back to him. “What’s it matter to you?”
He slid the last picture out of the file, a pen rolling out with it. “This is Agent Byrne’s sister. She’s been missing for twenty years.”
“So Hot Stuff really was from Boston? I didn’t know if that accent was real or his cover.”
“Southie, born and bred,” Nic said. “You’re from a few neighborhoods over, but you have no accent.”
“Because I trained myself not to use it.”
Nic startled at the full blast Boston drawl. Not exactly like Cam’s but close.
“We’re not all lucky enough to be born in accent-free California,” Becca said, cutting through his shock. She reached for the pen and Nic tensed, ready to draw his sidearm if she tried to use the pen as a weapon. She put it in her mouth instead, speaking around it. “Trick for enunciating words and masking an accent.”
“Why’d you need that trick?”
She dropped the pen out of her mouth, pushed the photos aside, and pulled the missing persons report toward her. “I wasn’t taken. I left.”
Not surprising, seeing as she was sitting here before him and there were no follow-ups or charges related to the old missing persons report. Nic, however, continued to push, searching for any connection, no matter how tenuous. “Who were you running from?”
She tapped the “Filers” box with the pen. “Them. My parents.”
Nic drank his coffee, waiting her out. He’d had enough experience with witnesses to recognize Becca was ready to tell this story. She’d started down the road and couldn’t turn back, but she had to go at her own pace. And Nic had to let her.
“I wasn’t the easiest kid,” she said after another minute.
“I would have never guessed.”
She glared at him over the rim of her cup. “I came out to them as bisexual when I was twelve. One of my uncles thought that meant I was a slut—that he had free access—and my parents let it happen.”