by Amy Wallace
As Gracie hung up the phone, a new idea took root. She remembered Steven’s sad eyes as he and his son left Hope Ridge back in June. Maybe he needed a friend too. And his job as a federal agent could prove helpful to her search.
Even if talking to him came to nothing, at least the possibility had given her an inroad into her sister’s heart once more. And that was a place she wanted to be again.
Deep in the heart of her family.
He’d spent a month casing his old college haunts.
Georgia State hadn’t changed much in the two years he’d been in DC. Five long years he’d slogged at this institution for higher learning. Mother Dear had been proud of his MBA with honors and his appointment by her snooty school board to the job of vice principal at her highbrow school.
She didn’t know about the drinking.
Or the DUIs he and his fraternity buddies had narrowly escaped.
Or the accident.
Tom rubbed his brown beard and looked into the rearview mirror. The past should stay in the past. Right where he intended to keep it.
Even his old girlfriend, who still worked in admissions, hadn’t recognized him. Or she’d have slapped him. Hard. Like the last time they talked. The day after her obstetrics appointment when he questioned whether her positive pregnancy test was his concern.
Kimberly still looked good. Slender and young. Not married either.
He took a swig of his Starbuck’s iced frappe. No use wasting good coffee while waiting across the street from Gwinnett County police headquarters. Gracie Lang shouldn’t be in there much longer.
Far as he could tell, her quest had turned up dead ends. So today’s visit must be to say good-bye. At least Tom hoped that was what her bringing a cake to the station had meant.
He’d snoop through her e-mails later tonight to make sure. A gold mine he’d found from prowling around Georgia State. Meeting with an old frat-budd-turned-computer-instructor and laying on a thick sob story provided the wealth of information he’d needed to tap into Gracie’s ISP With a quick trip to the electronics store, he was in business. And with paying cash, they didn’t care to learn his name or anything else.
He loved technology. And all the information money could buy.
Gracie exited the police station without wet cheeks this time. His top-dollar binoculars gave him a sharp picture of her peaches-and-cream face.
His coffee gone, he decided to follow her home once again. Then he’d head back to DC, mission accomplished.
Gracie had found nothing. And once she settled back into DC life, he could keep an eye on her from the comfort of his office desk chair. Far away from her stupid, too-observant dog.
He’d invent extra work for her to do if the sleuthing bug bit her again. He’d dream up ways to scare her if that didn’t work.
Or worse.
He had all sorts of ideas and lots of time to perfect them. But that didn’t matter. For now, the past was safe.
As long as her search ended here.
5
Nauseating described the Baltimore club scene before him.
Pulsating strobe lights distorted the two giggling girls flitting round and irritated Gordon’s throbbing temples. As did the smell of sweltering bodies dancing to American “oldies.” The late July heat ramped up the displeasure of his chosen assignment.
Olivia Kensington. Daughter of his brother’s killer.
While he kept vigilant watch, he drank his bitter with the chill off. Just like home.
Olivia and her seventeen-year-old American friend wouldn’t even use the lavatory without hooking arms. Interesting turn of events that fact could bring.
Almost time to play American and dumb down his language. Something he had to do many a day he spent slaving for. The Regiment. Something his sister, Charlotte, did with ease, living in this uncultured pastureland.
He rang his sister to reestablish specifics. “Petrol up, my dear?”
“Stop it, Gordon. And yes, everything is as you requested.”
A loud wail split his eardrum. “Little one’s not happy trapped in his pram?”
“He’s like Harry always moving.” Charlotte’s words drove his cause. “If you plan to stay out of prison this time, dear brother, I suggest altering your word usage.”
He looked like an American; now he needed to sound like one. No need to rouse suspicions. Though he doubted the estimable Sir Walter Kensington even knew his name.
Or his brother’s.
Intelligence officers were a dime a dozen to the Crown. That’s what Harry had said in their last row on the phone. Too little evidence to send Sir Walter Kensington to jail. Not enough blood to return his brother to him.
Harry’s blood had been spent for the corrupt ambassador. Now Sir Kensington’s daughter would be returned to him in like manner.
“Remind me again why there’s no security for the young beauty queens?” Gordon watched for his moment, when they were too tired to fight and too intoxicated to know the difference. Piece of American cake.
“They’ve outgrown bodyguards. At seventeen, unless there’s a threat, they are on their own.”
“Good for us.”
“Good for you. I’m not laying a hand on those children. I’ll do my part at the embassy.” She huffed into his ear. “I never approved of your gray ways, Gordon. And I don’t still. But Harry’s fresh in his grave, and the ambassador’s got to be stopped.”
“Always loyal to home, eh?”
“Americans believe loyalty is paramount.”
“Be loyal to me, Charlotte. You’ve little else left and no mum to run home to.”
“Be done soon and go home, Gordon.”
He shut the phone and considered his approach. Should he offer to buy Olivia a drink? He shook his head and watched the two recent high school graduates dance the Electric Slide. They were sloshed already and Olivia and her friend, Jordan, were far too young for his nearly forty years. Socializing wouldn’t appear proper. All business was right on.
He straightened his black suit and tie. A regular Secret Service bloke—he stopped himself. Even his thoughts had to be American.
A regular Secret Service agent if there was one. Drinking-up time for Sir Walter Kensington’s eldest had come.
Weaving through a sea of gyrating bodies, he found his mark at the edge of the mass. “Miss Kensington?” Gordon grabbed her elbow and directed her toward the back door. Jordan followed as predicted. “Your father felt midnight was late enough for your party. It’s time to return home.”
Both teens, dressed in similar black-and-white minis and halter tops, pouted as they moved through the crowd surrounding the dance floor.
“When’s your dad going to figure out all the good stuff happens after midnight?” Jordan drew her overly painted red lips down and huffed her bangs out of her eyes.
Relief that he had no bratty offspring filled him. “Right this way, ladies.”
Jordan covered her red cheeks with matching manicured nails as her eyes grew wide. “Livvie! How’d your dad find out about our fake IDs? He’s gonna kill you and me too.”
“Hush, Jordie.”
They slipped out of the blustering dance club without further chatter and didn’t arouse a bit of suspicion. He even held the door open for them.
The back alley devoid of any cars or bodies, felt muggier than the dance club.
Olivia blinked as the sound and smell of the nightclub was silenced with the clank of the heavy metal back door. “You don’t … look … like …” The woozy youth cleared her throat and stiffened. “You’re not … part of our regular detail. What’s your name? I mean, who are you?”
Gordon broke into a grin. Which passport ID to choose? He had to match the dye job and contacts. “Harry Smith. Now if you’ll step across the way our car awaits.”
Jordon stumbled over a stray glass bottle. “We don’t go out the back way anymore.” She waved a hand in front of her nose. “Besides, it stinks out here.”
Gordon g
ave the little snot a push as she fell into the backseat of his rented limo, which was far too easy to land without much of a background check.
Jordan reached out and jerked Olivia’s arm to follow her into the car.
A lanky teen tripped out the club’s back door. “Hey, mister, where are you taking my date?”
Gordon lowered Olivia’s head and thrust her into the car next to Jordon, locking the door with a button’s click. Their giggles ended as they watched out the tinted window.
The boy kept walking toward them. As he scanned the license plate, Gordon knew options were limited.
He pulled his silenced Glock 17 and aimed true.
Jordan screamed. He turned back to the car, and Olivia’s wide eyes searched his face.
The young fool never knew what hit him.
But these two girls would if they didn’t cooperate.
Gordon opened the door, blocking any escape attempt with his body “Give me your purses. Now.”
The two birds turned over their shiny treasures with quivering hands.
Gordon slapped cuffs on both their wrists. All remained quiet as he settled into the driver’s side and pointed the black car into traffic. Before they reached the expressway he threw Jordan’s purse out the window. Clue number one would take federal agents weeks to trace, buying him ample time for step two.
But Olivia’s purse had a message to deliver.
His calling card of sorts.
Right up to the British embassy front door.
6
There a reason you won’t talk about Ryan’s funeral?”
Clint Rollins leaned on the partition and watched his long-time best friend stiffen like a poker. No matter. Steven needed to talk, or he’d be back like he was when Angela left. Clint had given his partner over a month to process Ryan’s death his way. It was time.
“It took all I had to look Ryan’s parents in the eyes.” Steven kept clicking away at his keyboard. “Besides, what good does it do to rehash it? Doesn’t help.”
“Neither does stuffing it.”
Steven looked up at him. “You’re an old mother hen.”
“And a darn good-lookin’ one at that.” He pulled his desk chair near Steven’s and sat down. “I figure pushing you might backfire, but it’s better than watching you close in like you did five years ago.”
“Did I tell you about meeting Gracie Lang? She’ll be James’s teacher next year.”
“Is this a clever diversion, or are you going to shoot straight with me?”
Steven held up his hands. “I’ll talk about Ryan if it’ll stop your bleeding heart.”
He shrugged. “Depends on what you say.”
“I’m still wrestling with the guilt about being too late to save him. Your praying doesn’t work for me, partner. It didn’t save my marriage and it doesn’t change the fact that kids die. On my watch.”
“God’s still in control, Steven.” Clint lifted his eyebrow. “Not gonna sermonize this, but if you can’t pray my way, pray like you did when we first met. With the passion that keeps your backside in that chair when you’d rather be anywhere else.”
“Too hard to live like that. It’s for younger men.” Steven adjusted his favorite photo. One of only two on his desk. “Remember graduation day at Quantico? Ten years ago. Man, we’re getting old.”
“Speak for yourself. Old is a state of mind and muscle.” And his were both in prime shape. So said his beautiful red-haired wife, who still looked as good as that picture his partner liked so much.
“You, me, and Sara bunched together looked like we could take on the world.”
“We still do.”
Steven sniffed. “A little worse for wear now.”
“I remember that my Irish princess tried to get Angela to join us for that photo. Tried for years to get her to open up and let us in.”
“This is supposed to help me?”
Clint leaned back in his chair. “Sorry I just don’t get it, even after all these years. She’s missed so much of James’s life.”
“So have I.” Steven swiveled his chair to look him in the eyes. “But after I got the call that Ryan died and I had James to take care of without my dad and Sue to help, I realized my little man is too important to keep missing time.”
“It’s not like you’re an absent father, Steven.”
“You know as well as I do that I haven’t given him everything I can.” He straightened his Looney Tunes tie.
Some quirks you never lost. Clint wished Steven played poker because his tie adjusting would be the perfect tell to wipe him clean.
“Don’t get stuck here again, Kessler. Think about graduation. How you led our group in prayers. How those young agents looked up to you then.” He nodded toward Michael Parker’s cubicle. “They still do now.”
“I’m pulling seniority. Agent Rollins. I think we need to get back to work.”
He pushed his chair back to his desk. “If I had my cowboy hat, I’d tip it to ya.”
“Save that for Sara. She’s the one who turns to mush when you’re in jeans and your Stetson.” Steven smirked and waved him on.
“Wonder what your sons teacher would do if she saw you in your workout garb.”
“Not gonna know if we don’t get work done, will we?”
Clint would leave it there for now. But they’d return to this subject soon. Real soon.
Agent Maxwell’s bellow could be heard across the room.
A portent of great things to come. Steven hit the save icon and waited.
“Kessler!” The unit chief stalked toward his desk. “I want you, as the top Crimes Against Children coordinator, heading this investigation and doing lead interviews.” Maxwell slapped a file down on his desk and rattled off the highlights. The senior agent reeked of cigar smoke, which only added to Steven’s increasing distaste for the assignment.
“This one is a high diplomatic priority Ambassador’s daughter abducted early this morning. Choose your team carefully, Kessler. If all goes well, this will be another one for the books.” With a slap on the back. Maxwell disappeared around the corner.
Steven scanned the documents in front of him. So much for an easy Saturday morning at work.
“What’d I tell you? You’re a legend in your own time.” Clint stood at his side.
Michael Parker joined them. “Who’s the vic?”
“Olivia Kensington, seventeen-year-old daughter of the British ambassador to the United States. Kidnapped from a dance club shortly after midnight. The Evidence Response Team has already been dispatched.” Steven reached for the phone. “I’m going to set up an organizational meeting with Assistant US Attorney Kenneth Marks, and Special Agent David Adams. He’s over the Kensingtons’ security details. After that, we’ll do a short intro for our team, then head to the embassy.” He handed the case folder to Clint. “Ask Jan if she’ll prep this for briefing. Then you can push for the ERT’s report and round ’em up.”
“And head ’em out,” Clint said.
Thirty minutes later, Steven drove east across the steel blue Potomac to Massachusetts Avenue. Michael and Clint clicked keyboards, shuffled papers, and talked on cell phones the entire drive. Made of red brick and stone. Sir Walter Kensington’s home away from his London home looked like a sprawling English country house.
The place was still crawling with local police and ERT agents. A steaming British ambassador stood right in the center of everything. Clint and Michael jumped out of the car and into the thick of it to organize the scene and take charge of the investigation.
Steven invented a quick parking space amid all the police cars and then rushed up the cobbled sidewalk. Sir Walter made a beeline for him, eyes blazing. The diplomat’s slight rugby build and graying hair didn’t soften the rage roiling in his features.
“My assistant said you were in charge.” Sir Walter began his clipped speech before any typical British formalities. “You’d very well better be the last person I have to deal with today. Your president h
as given his word, and I expect my daughter returned to safety with haste.”
Sticking out his hand, Steven steeled his shoulders and held his chin high. This terrified father needed to see confidence and didn’t give a flip about past cases—successes or failures. Ryan’s bruised features intruded into Steven’s thoughts anyway. He shoved them away.
“I’m Agent Steven Kessler, FBI. Our Rapid Start Team is already tracking investigative leads.” He motioned toward the embassy residence. “Can we find a quieter place to talk?”
Sir Walter shook his hand with a firm grip. But his bloodshot green eyes told a different story. The story of a father whose daughter was God knows where. “In here. Follow me.” The ambassador turned with a snap and entered the residence, striding past local officers and FBI personnel with no acknowledgment.
Steven nodded in passing and followed Sir Walter. The high ceilings and ornate decorations as they swept beyond bedrooms and formal halls were cataloged in his memory Choosing to take the teenager at a dance club rather than her residence was strategic. Small-scope operation. Few people involved.
Leaving Olivia’s purse just over the outer fence of the residence hinted at a far more personal motive. One he intended to flesh out today.
On entering the ambassador’s library, Sir Walter slammed the outer door. Motioning for Steven to sit, the ambassador stood by a sculpted cherry desk and yelled into the phone. “I will not be disturbed, Charlotte. Is that understood?” He slammed down the receiver.
“Sir Walter, tell me about Olivia and her friend Jordan.” Steven hoped the pacing older gentleman would soon take a seat. While he waited for the ambassador to respond, Steven scribbled notes the old-fashioned way—with a pen and yellow legal pad.
“They were impetuous and foolish, but I never dreamed they’d manufacture false identification to go out pubbing.” He swore under his breath. “I should have never let them go out celebrating graduation without protection. Seventeen or not, they should have had a Secret Service agent with them.”
“You knew about their IDs?”