by Tess Diamond
Maggie rounded the last curve of the Thebeses’ driveway, gravel crunching under her heels, and came to an abrupt halt as she saw the gate up ahead. Flashes of light filled her vision, and the sounds of shouting against a background of cameras clicking rose around her. A throng of journalists was grouped behind the gate, blocking the car—and her escape route.
She stumbled backward, and her childhood terror, the familiar feeling of being trapped, rose to the surface. For weeks after her parents had gotten her back, journalists had followed her around. They’d circled like vultures, ready to pick her off, until they’d found a fresher target. Her wrists ached, and she couldn’t stop herself from rubbing at them as questions were shot at her from all sides.
“Agent Kincaid! Agent Kincaid! Can you comment on Kayla Thebes’ kidnapping?”
“Is it true you left the FBI two years ago? If that’s so, why are you in charge of this case?”
“Max Grayson’s been a political fixture in the community for over two years. Any theories on why he would do something like this?”
Maggie squared her shoulders and strode up to the gate, careful to keep her face neutral. The journalists would read into every look, every frown, every smile. They’d pick it apart, analyze it, theorize on it, whipping everything up into a frenzy. She nodded to the security guard who manned the gate, and he opened it wide enough for her to squeeze through.
They descended on her, shoving their microphones and cameras in her face, their shouted questions overlapping, surging into a confusing cacophony. Maggie froze, panic exploding inside her, zipping along her skin in icy bursts. She was trapped, unable to move, as everything inside her screamed run away, run away, run away. People jostled her from all sides, a camera nearly clipping the back of her head. She wanted to collapse on the ground, her arms around her head, her knees clutched to her chest. Any second, her legs would give out, and the mob would trample her . . .
“Hey, clear out! Get out of my way!” Frank came muscling through the crowd, grabbing Maggie’s arm and pulling her through the throng. He practically shoved her into the back seat of the car he’d just emerged from, shutting the door behind her. Inside, in the warmth and safety, she was able to breathe again, to calm the trembling of her hands. She let out a long breath, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, trying to rid herself of the cold.
“I’ve got this,” Frank told her, leaning in through the half-opened window so he could see and hear her. “You going to Grayson’s apartment?”
Maggie nodded and sank back into the leather seat, relieved at the sudden silence and privacy. Frank was always on her side. “I need a better handle on this guy.”
“Get to work,” Frank said. “I’ll deal with this bullshit.”
He straightened, a calm smile on his face. All annoyance at the press vanished as he turned to the crowd, ready to work it like the expert he was. “Ladies, gentlemen, if you’ll just get out of the way of the car, I’ll be happy to answer your questions.”
“Let’s go,” Maggie told the driver.
Only when she was a good mile away did she breathe easier.
Chapter 28
Max’s apartment was in a downtown DC high-rise called the Berkshire Arms. A tall, imposing brick building right in the thick of the action, it was the perfect pick for a man like him. Or rather, for the man he wanted everyone to think he was.
The degree of deception Max Grayson had pulled off was staggering. It made Maggie nervous, because it spoke to a high level of intelligence and organization. He would be hard—maybe even impossible—to manipulate unless she had leverage over him. And so far, he’d been steps ahead of her in every way.
Maggie still couldn’t decide as she flashed her ID at the doorman and he directed her to the twelfth floor: Had this been a crime born out of opportunity, or had Max Grayson orchestrated his entire job with the senator for the sole purpose of accessing the mysterious file he wanted so badly?
Her gut told her it was too much of a coincidence for it to be the former. But she didn’t want to take anything off the table—not with Grayson so far ahead of them.
It was time she got ahead of him.
Please let his apartment tell us something, Maggie thought as she punched the elevator buttons impatiently. It finally opened, and she stepped inside, riding up to the twelfth floor.
The Berkshire Arms had been built in the 1920s and had long, softly lit hallways with curved alcoves that held trailing ivy plants—a touch of life in a quiet, nearly sterile setting. Maggie couldn’t imagine most of the Berkshire’s residents spending much quality time in their apartments. Washington types, they were always out hustling. Home wasn’t something to be treasured—it was merely a place to lay one’s head.
She could relate, sadly. At least she had Thwonk, her cat.
Maggie stopped outside apartment thirty-eight, where police tape crossed the door and an officer stood outside. Automatically, she reached inside her coat for her badge, only to remember she didn’t have one anymore.
“I’m Maggie Kincaid,” she said. “I need to get in.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the officer. “I can’t let you in without a badge. This is a possible crime scene. Law enforcement only.”
Maggie bit her lip. “I’m the lead on this case, Officer. Please get Grace Sinclair, the profiler who’s inside.”
She got a blank, almost suspicious look from the officer. “Long hair, very pretty, well dressed, killer heels?” she prompted.
His eyes took on a glazed, enraptured expression as he remembered Grace. Maggie tried not to roll her eyes. “Oh, yeah, she’s here,” the officer said with more than a little appreciation.
“Please get her,” Maggie said.
He went inside, and moments later, Grace came out. Even in blue booties and gloves, she looked perfectly put together. Her bright pink lipstick matched the angora sweater she’d tucked into her houndstooth A-line skirt, her long dark hair pulled up in a crown of braids around her head to keep it out of the way as she worked the scene.
“For goodness’ sake, Arthur, let her inside,” Grace said to the officer. “I said to keep out civilians, not Maggie.”
“She doesn’t have a badge, ma’am,” the officer said, looking at Grace as if she was some sort of goddess.
“She doesn’t need one,” Grace replied, holding out a pair of blue plastic booties. Maggie slipped them on over the soles of her leather ankle boots, ducked under the police tape, and walked into the apartment. She snapped on the gloves Grace handed her, automatically keeping her elbows tucked in and her hands at her sides. It’d been two years since she’d been to a crime scene, but some habits were ingrained.
Forensic techs were milling about, using tweezers to place carpet fibers and hairs in evidence bags.
“Anything yet?” Maggie asked, stepping out of the way of an evidence tag.
The apartment was plainly furnished, with very few personal effects. Political magazines were strewn across the glass coffee table that was set in front of a beige couch that Maggie recognized from IKEA. A bowl of overripe fruit sat on the kitchen counter, a dirty blender soaking in the sink. A tub of protein powder was left next to the blender’s base near the fridge.
“No sign Kayla’s been here at all,” Grace said. “All the hair samples that were taken to the lab are short, similar in color and texture to Grayson’s. No blood spatter anywhere, no signs of violence or struggle. If he’d been keeping her here, he would’ve needed to soundproof the hell out of his spare bedroom—these old buildings have thin walls—but it’s just full of gym equipment.”
Maggie turned in a slow circle in the living room, getting a feel for it. She could picture Grayson sprawled on the couch, reading the magazines. There wasn’t a TV in the living room. It must be in the bedroom. He’d have a TV, just to keep up with the news. She imagined him walking to the kitchen, opening the fridge. It was probably full of takeout and juices. Maybe his favorite kind of hot sauce. A typical workaholic’s
home.
“What do you think?” she asked Grace. “Can you give me a profile?”
“He’s neat. Highly organized. Take a look at his desk.” Grace led her down the hallway, into the second bedroom turned office where three flat-screen TVs hung on the wall. Grace picked the remote off the desk and flipped them on. Each one was already tuned to a major news channel.
“Notice how he has everything arranged,” Grace said. In the center of the desk lay a yellow legal pad, a cup of pens, and a perfect row of pencils sharpened to fine points. Maggie bent down, looking closer at the legal pad. It was brand new, never used.
“Looks like your typical DC wannabe, right?” Grace asked.
Maggie nodded, but she had a feeling that Grace was going somewhere with this. “Yeah, it all seems to fit. What of it?”
“That’s the thing,” Grace said. “It fits too well.”
Maggie frowned, looking around Max Grayson’s home office. It looked exactly like she’d guessed it would, honestly.
“I’ve gone through the entire apartment,” Grace said. “Come see.” She led Maggie into the bedroom, where a king-size bed with rumpled sheets took up most of the space. A white end table next to the bed held nothing but a lamp and a spare phone charger.
“Every book he owns fits the profile,” Grace continued. “Every movie—and the boxed West Wing DVD set, of course. His clothes, the sheets on his bed, even the premade meals in the freezer. Everything falls into the ‘bachelor politico’ profile.”
“Okay,” Maggie said. “And you’re saying it shouldn’t?”
“I’m saying that people, humans, we’re messy,” Grace said. “But this is perfect. No detail out of place. Nothing out of place. Nothing deviating from the profile—the persona—he wants to project. Regular people don’t fit in every single box. There’s always something off, something that makes us us. Even for a neat freak, there’s always something that reveals an individual personality. You have that idiotic cat, for instance.”
“Thwonk is very sweet,” Maggie said.
“But you’re so not a cat person, Mags.”
Maggie had to give her that one. She wasn’t.
“And if you looked at my life, you wouldn’t immediately think ‘Grace loves MMA fighting.’”
“So you think Grayson’s pretending,” Maggie said.
“Not necessarily,” Grace said. “But he’s so deliberate it makes me nervous.”
“Is he a psychopath?” Maggie asked.
“I don’t think so,” Grace said. “I think he’s a control freak with a mission. One that means a lot to him . . . maybe more than anything else.”
Grace gestured at the space around them, at the carefully curated life Max Grayson had left for them to examine. “He’s stripped his life of anything personal,” Grace explained. “And it was clearly in pursuit of playing the part well enough to get this far without anyone suspecting or questioning him. That kind of dedication speaks to a deeply rooted motivation. An unbearable emotion, maybe an obsession. Or both. Whatever’s in that file is something Max Grayson’s willing to do anything for. He’s prepared to die for it. More importantly, he’ll kill for it.”
“We have to get Kayla out,” Maggie said.
“And soon,” Grace agreed. “You messed up his plan. He’s probably pissed and scared. Even though he must have planned for the possibility of getting caught, I don’t believe he really thought it would happen at this stage. He expected taking Kayla would be enough to sway the senator. He didn’t count on the senator refusing to hand over the file. He didn’t count on you.”
“Can I see the bedroom again?” Maggie asked.
Grace nodded, leading her back into the room. This time, Maggie didn’t head toward the bed or its side cabinets. She went for the closet.
“I looked through it,” Grace said. “Even the workout clothes are the right brands, but they’re impersonal. There isn’t one worn-out college tee or charity shirt from a 5K in his hometown. Nothing identifiable. It’s just . . . it’s too careful, Maggie.”
Maggie peered inside the closet. There was a row of suits and button-down shirts, expensive Italian leather shoes. She pushed them aside to make sure nothing was stashed in the corners. She was about to step away and join Grace when she paused, peering at the back of the closet again.
It was too small, even for an apartment closet. The wall had been moved in several inches, as if to accommodate plumbing even though the bathroom and kitchen were on the other side of the apartment.
She smiled, shoving the suits out of her way, and stepping in. It was rare moments like this when being short came in handy. She fit easily in the tiny space without any awkward bending.
“Did you find something?” Grace asked over her shoulder.
“Give me a sec,” Maggie said, tapping the wall with her gloved hand. About halfway up, the sound turned distinctly hollow. Running her fingers along the wall, she felt the hint of a seam in the drywall.
“There we go!” Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. Hidden compartments meant secrets. Secrets that could lead her to Kayla’s location.
Please, please let this be a lead, she thought.
“Get me a knife?” she asked. Grace hurried out of the room, only to return with three. Maggie smiled, appreciating her friend’s characteristic thoroughness. She selected the utility knife and ran it along the seam in the wall, pushing hard to cut through the drywall in a square. With a delicate touch, she fished out the segment with the flat of the blade, revealing a hollow spot with a file folder tucked inside.
Maggie grabbed it and stepped out of the closet, away from the drywall dust and the suffocating presence of all those suits embedded with a trace of Max Grayson’s overpowering cologne. Grace would probably have something to say about the brand and how it fit his fake persona.
“Well, well, well,” Grace said as Maggie opened the folder. “Looks like Max isn’t so smart after all.”
The first thing Maggie saw were surveillance photos, shot from far away with a long lens. Kayla at school. Kayla at lacrosse practice. Kayla riding her horse at the stables. Kayla kissing Lucas in his car. Kayla with her parents. Maggie flipped past them to find a series of newspaper clippings and magazine articles, all about the senator and his family. In one clipping, a magazine profile about his reelection campaign, Grayson had underlined a passage about Kayla’s diabetes.
Maggie silently handed the folder to Grace, whose face tightened with concern as she flipped through the pages. She glanced at Maggie in alarm.
“He’s been planning this for more than two years,” Maggie said.
“This guy plays the long game,” Grace said, shaking her head as she returned her attention to the file. Maggie could practically see the gears of her mind working as she added all the information into the profile she was working to build, already analyzing how it changed the variables and might affect the outcome.
Kayla’s outcome.
Maggie looked around the room. At the perfectly arranged—perfectly fake—life Max Grayson had created for himself. Frustration and confusion swamped her. What was going on here? She felt lost in the woods with nothing to light her way. Nothing to grasp, no solid leads to follow. There were too many secrets being kept, too many agendas to juggle. And at the center: an unsub she couldn’t nail down.
“Who the hell is this guy?” she asked.
And how the hell was she going to beat him?
Chapter 29
Jake hurried up the steps of the Capitol Building, taking the steps two at a time. Walking past the tourists and students with cell phones extended as they posed for selfies, he took a right, heading toward security. He handed over the badge the senator had given him to the agent standing in front of the metal detectors.
“What’s your business on the Hill today?” the guard asked.
“I’m a member of Senator Thebes’ security team,” Jake explained, tossing his phone, keys, and wallet into the tray to be scanned. “With all the chaos of t
he last few days, it took the senator until now to realize he’d left his briefcase in his office. He sent me over to pick it up.”
The guard walked him through the metal detector and then a full-body scan—Jake had left his guns and knife secured in his SUV—and nodded an all-clear, allowing him to walk through the doors and down the hall into Thebes’ office.
No matter how many times Jake had been in this building, the feeling of history always seeped into his bones. Great men and women had walked these halls, helping shape and protect the country he was so proud to serve.
He wasn’t a complicated man: His faithfulness to his country, to his team, his family was paramount. It defined him.
And it pissed him off that Senator Thebes, the very man he was supposed to be serving, was acting so unconcerned about his own daughter’s safety. His decisions appalled Jake. They were not the choices of a great man. They weren’t even the decisions of a good father. Something in those files mattered more to Thebes than his daughter’s life. What was it? That question ate at Jake, and he was determined to find the answer.
The senator wasn’t going to spill—if anyone could’ve gotten him to, it would’ve been the firecracker that was Maggie Kincaid. So Jake had to take matters into his own hands and find out what the hell was going on. Starting now.
Maggie would be pissed if he got the drop on her. Maybe she’d do that cute outraged thing with her mouth again. Her lips were impossibly, distractingly rosy pink, and he knew it had to be natural. She wasn’t the kind of woman who’d bother with lipstick on a run. He liked that about her. DC was full of a lot of women who had perfect hair and perfect nails and perfect lipstick that never smudged. And he understood why—it was a way to be taken seriously and be considered professional in a world run by men who hadn’t quite woken up to the twenty-first century when it came to women. His last girlfriend had been a lobbyist who hated the idea of his seeing her without makeup. He’d grown up on a ranch with country girls who wore mud spatters more than they did perfume. Maybe that was why the slight messiness to Maggie Kincaid—the natural brightness, her clear, dogged focus—lured him toward her like a sailor to a siren.