Vanished: A Beautiful Mess Series Novel

by T. K. Leigh

  Alexander turned his attention to the group of six-year-olds in front of him, a sudden bout of nerves overtaking him. He had no problem being put on the spot in meetings, confrontations, or interrogations, but there was something uninhibited about children. They asked whatever came to mind. They hadn’t yet grasped the concept that there was a time and place for everything, that certain questions just weren’t asked.

  Based on the previous few parents who had been in the proverbial “hot seat”, Alexander knew he could expect anything and everything from these kids. Melanie’s teacher certainly encouraged them to ask questions and learn. He had a feeling they would have a lot to ask him. In the grand scheme of things, the other parents worked relatively mundane jobs — real estate investors, hedge fund managers, stockbrokers. Alexander doubted they’d ever had a bullet fired at them, let alone shot a gun.

  “Yes,” he answered. “I joined the navy when I was eighteen.”

  “You didn’t go to college?” one of the kids asked.

  “Thomas,” Miss Killingly scolded. “Remember what I told you about not speaking unless you are called on.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Killingly.” He raised his hand. Alexander nodded at him to go ahead. “Did you go to college, Mr. Melanie’s dad?”

  “Burnham,” Miss Killingly corrected.

  “Mr. Burnham,” Thomas said, grinning.

  “I went to college for a semester, but decided I wanted to serve my country instead. At first, I had planned on going back after leaving the navy, but I became an officer, then went to BUD/S training.”

  “Why don’t you explain to the class what BUD/S stands for, Mr. Burnham,” Miss Killingly encouraged.

  “It’s Basic Underwater Demolition / SEAL training.”

  Hands shot up all around him. Alexander nodded to a little girl with perfect blond curls.

  “You trained seals?” Her eyes were wide and innocent, and she could barely contain her excitement. All the students were on the edge of their seats, honestly believing he was a seal trainer.

  “No,” Alexander replied, trying not to laugh.

  Miss Killingly gave him a grateful smile. Teachers were so underappreciated. This moment reaffirmed that belief. She dealt with the absurd on a daily basis, keeping her composure when Alexander was sure she wanted to laugh at some of the crazy things these kids said.

  “A Navy SEAL is a special type of seaman. That’s what people who are in the navy are called…seamen.” Alexander thanked his lucky stars this was a class full of six-year-olds and not sixteen-year-olds. That sentence would have had a completely different reaction if the latter sat before him.

  “That’s right, kids,” Miss Killingly said. “Do you remember when we talked about 9/11 and the bad man responsible for that?”

  They all nodded.

  “Well, it was a team of Navy SEALs, like Melanie’s dad, who captured that bad man so he wouldn’t do something like that again.”

  “Oh,” several of the kids said, a look of understanding crossing their faces, although there was no way they could truly comprehend exactly what that meant at this age.

  “So you killed that bad man?” the little boy named Thomas asked.

  “Thomas,” Miss Killingly berated. “Remember to wait until you’re called on.”

  “It’s okay,” Alexander said. “No, I didn’t kill that bad man. I left the navy more than a decade ago to take over my father’s private security firm.”

  Hands shot up all around, and he nodded to a sandy-haired boy sitting in the front row.

  “Have you ever killed someone?”

  He rubbed his hands on his pants and turned his eyes to Miss Killingly. She gave him a look, as if saying he were on his own.

  “My team had been responsible for taking down numerous threats to the safety of our country. When I joined the military, I took an oath to do everything in my power to protect this country. I still keep that promise, even to this day.”

  “I want to be a seal trainer when I grow up,” Thomas said, a look of awe on his face.

  Alexander smiled, scanning the intrigued faces in the classroom, catching Melanie’s eyes. She had a look of pride on her face. He hoped the day would never come that he did something to make her resent him.

  Alexander’s phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him. He blinked, reacquainting himself with his surroundings. He glanced down to see that Olivia had fallen back to sleep. He must have dozed off at some point, too. He had been running on maybe five hours of sleep over the past three days and his limbs ached from exhaustion. His back throbbed from falling asleep in such an uncomfortable position. After everything Olivia had been through today, she deserved better than sleeping on the floor.

  He gingerly extracted himself from her and stood before picking her up and cradling her in his arms. Heading toward the door, he pulled it open and carefully ducked under the yellow police tape, then padded down the long corridor and into their master bedroom. The bed had been left unmade, everything precisely as it was the last time he stepped foot in this room…before he realized Melanie had been taken. It was like it had been frozen in time, a moment of their history he would do anything to change.

  Olivia stirred slightly when he placed her on the bed and pulled the duvet over her. A small moan escaped her lips as she nuzzled into the warmth of the silky sheets and down pillows, comforting her, regardless of how short-lived the relief was. Alexander paused and gazed upon his wife lying in the bed they had shared for years. Too many nights, he’d worked late in the office and came home after she had fallen asleep. There was nothing like waking from a dreamless sleep to the feeling of his wife and daughter, who had found her way into their bed at some point during the night, snuggled next to him. He had taken those moments for granted.

  Never again.

  When this was all over, he wanted to give his wife and Melanie something he’d yet to provide them with…a normal life.

  He placed a soft kiss on Olivia’s forehead and retreated from the bed, allowing her this time to sleep and forget about the reality of what had happened twenty-four hours ago.

  Stepping into the hallway, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and saw a missed call from Simpson. A momentary flash of hope filled him. He’d been having Simpson do everything he could to keep tabs on the FBI’s investigation. Alexander was more than aware that Moretti probably wouldn’t share everything with him, but Simpson would, and he had the talent to access the FBI’s computers without their knowledge. Most of his other agents had the brawn and training from years of military service. Simpson had never worn a uniform of any kind. Alexander often joked that he was born with a computer glued to his hands. He knew more about firewalls and secure IPs than most people could ever fathom. He truly was the brains behind the security firm.

  Dialing his number, he waited for the call to connect. Simpson picked up almost immediately.

  “You called?” Alexander muttered quietly as he headed down the stairs and toward the east wing of the house where his office was located.

  “Sorry for calling so early, sir, but this couldn’t wait.”

  “What is it?” He glanced at his watch and saw it was after five in the morning. He wondered if Simpson ever slept. He kept stranger hours than Alexander did. Regardless of the time of day, Simpson answered whenever he called, sounding as if he were wide awake.

  “I’ve been keeping an eye on the FBI’s investigation into…” He cleared his throat, “well, everything.”

  Alexander knew this was his way of trying to avoid saying Melanie’s name. Aside from Martin and Tyler, Simpson probably knew Alexander better than anyone else at the office.

  “What did you find?” he pushed, running his hand over his face and rubbing his tired eyes. His body screamed for rest, but his brain wouldn’t allow it, not until Melanie was safe. He’d already wasted too much time sleeping tonight. So much could have happened in the last five hours.

  “The forensic report on the explosion at the press conf
erence came back.”

  “I don’t follow.” Alexander entered his office and sat behind the desk. He had hoped Simpson was calling with some sort of identification from the sketch he had sent him.

  “Well, normally I wouldn’t think anything of it, especially when an extremist group is involved…”

  Alexander’s pulse quickened. He straightened his spine, staring out the windows at the dark, snow-covered lawn, only shadowed trees visible.

  “The design and chemical makeup of the bomb was pretty much identical to an explosion credited to the Islamic Union that happened one year ago.”

  “One year?” Alexander tightened his jaw, a sinking feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to ward off the words he knew were about to come out of Simpson’s mouth, but nothing could stop the truth.

  “Yes, sir,” he said reluctantly. “It could certainly just be a coincidence, but the chemical makeup of the bomb that caused the explosion at City Hall is practically identical to the bomb that destroyed the shelter in Afghanistan Mr. Tate was operating.”

  Alexander let out a slow breath, running his hands through his hair. All day long, he had held out hope, regardless of how small, that Melanie’s abduction was completely unrelated to him and what he did for a living. That hope had been squashed in the blink of an eye. Now he knew, without a shadow of doubt, that Melanie’s abduction was tied to his company’s involvement overseas and Landon’s disappearance.

  “Anything new on Mischa?” Alexander asked.

  “I thought the same thing. I’ve been looking through Boston PD’s files on her death. Aside from her being Landon’s sister, there’s nothing in her background to tie her to the shelter, so any connection to Melanie’s abduction would be tenuous at best.”

  Alexander sighed, his mind pulled in a thousand different directions. He knew he should stay close in case the sketch of Maleek yielded new information, since he was the only concrete lead they had at this point, but he was itching to have the opportunity to rummage through Mischa’s house.

  He had spent the hours leading up to Melanie’s disappearance looking into Mischa’s background. Even with all the tricks Simpson had up his sleeve, there was nothing to tie her to his company’s short-lived shelter in Afghanistan, aside from being Landon’s sister. They never rebuilt after the explosion. They had done everything within their power to find the women they had provided safe harbor to, but it was as if they had disappeared off the face of the earth.

  Working with NCIS, Alexander had come to the conclusion the explosion was most likely a distraction. They had found enough evidence to suggest that the women were, in all probability, returned to their families and the antiquated, barbaric traditions of the tribal communities within the country carried out. Years from now, a body may turn up that they may be able to connect to one of the women he failed to help. Until then, all he could do was assume the worst. That was the only option when someone vanished into thin air.

  The idea that someone was now targeting Alexander and Mischa for their connection to the shelter seemed outlandish and improbable, especially considering a year had passed. Memories of the last time he saw Landon forced their way to the forefront of Alexander’s brain. He couldn’t help but wonder whether his friend’s odd request was related.

  “What do you think’s going on?” Alexander asked Simpson.

  “I wish I knew, sir. All I can tell you is what I find, and I find all of this to be too suspicious to simply be a series of isolated, unrelated events.”

  “I agree.” He paused. “If you find anything else, let me know.”

  “Of course, sir,” Simpson replied, then the line went dead.

  Alexander slumped in his chair and rubbed his temples as he tried to collect his thoughts. He looked to the corner of his desk, his eyes falling on a framed photo of Olivia and Melanie. He needed to share this new information with her, but didn’t know how. How could he possibly tell her Mischa was murdered and their daughter taken because of his company’s involvement in Afghanistan?

  Alexander snapped out of his thoughts when he heard a knock on the door, followed by the creak of it opening.

  “I apologize for interrupting, sir,” Martin said, standing in the doorway. His voice was low, exuding the exhaustion he couldn’t hide on his face. They had gone days with little sleep before, but had never been put through the emotional ringer of losing a family member. And Melanie was family to him. “There’s someone to see you.”

  Alexander furrowed his brow, eyeing the early hour on the clock. “Who?”

  “O’Malley. He just came from the command center where he’s been answering tip line calls.”

  Nodding, Alexander ordered, “Let him in.” His skin prickled with anticipation as Martin retreated from the office. In the cloud of trying to figure out what was going on, Martin had the forethought to have a few of their agents volunteer to answer tip line calls, unbeknownst to the FBI. Crises like these always seemed to bring out the humanity in people, and the command center had been flooded practically all day by neighbors and other people wanting to help. Most of them had been arranged into search parties to comb through the heavily wooded areas that made up this part of the state. However, a few volunteers came with a background in law enforcement or social services, like Alexander’s agents. Fortunately, the FBI decided to put them to work on the overloaded tip line.

  Alexander certainly hadn’t expected any of his agents, or anyone else, to actually get any information by answering those calls. Based on his experience, tip lines were simply a way for law enforcement to make it appear like they were doing everything they possibly could to find a missing person. These days, most people barely looked up from their phones long enough to avoid getting hit by a car when crossing the street, let alone identify a rough sketch of someone.

  “Mr. Burnham, sir,” O’Malley said quietly as he entered the dim office. “I’m sorry for barging in at such an early hour.”

  “It’s quite all right.” Alexander gestured to the seat across from him.

  He lowered himself into the chair, glancing at Alexander with a nervous expression. He was a newer agent, but Martin had appeared confident he was perfect for this task, said he could get a monk who had taken a vow of silence to talk.

  “Have you found anything?” Alexander asked.

  “Yes, sir. I was answering calls when I noticed a bit of commotion. An FBI agent got a call on his cell, spoke for a few minutes, then went to get Agent Moretti.”

  “He’s still there?” Alexander raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes. There’s a room with a few cots set up so the agents can get a little sleep, but are still close by in case there are any new developments.”

  Alexander nodded. “Go on.”

  “I tried to make it appear as if I wasn’t eavesdropping on what was going on and kept answering calls. I’m able to read lips, though. Apparently, a man who works at a convenience store in Roxbury called, responding to the photo the FBI released of Maleek. He claimed a man matching the description of the sketch has come in at least once a day for the past several months to buy cigarettes, that he lives in a two-level house across the street from the store. At first, the clerk wasn’t sure whether the sketch was the man or not, then he remembered seeing something suspicious after one in the morning on Saturday.”

  Alexander straightened his spine. That was in the same time frame in which Melanie had been taken.

  “The clerk saw him drive up to the house and back into the driveway. Then he saw someone get out of the passenger seat.”

  “Did he leave a description of his passenger?” Alexander asked.

  “No. He said it was dark and couldn’t make out any details. He did mention his passenger was on the shorter side, maybe a few inches over five feet. They both went around the back of the SUV and opened the rear hatch. The clerk watched as they carried what appeared to be a heavy object around the back of the house. They didn’t enter through the front door, so he assumed they used t
he back door or the storm door leading to the basement.”

  Alexander’s heart raced in his chest as he absorbed O’Malley’s report. “And how did Agent Moretti respond to all of this?”

  “He put together a team to head over to the address in question right away. One of the other agents asked if they should inform you and he said no. That this may turn out to be just another caller looking for his fifteen minutes of fame. That he didn’t want to get your hopes up until he was certain it was a viable lead.”

  Alexander slammed his fists on the desk and opened one of the drawers, withdrawing a pistol and securing it in his holster. “Bullshit. He knows damn well it’s a viable lead.” He bolted from his seat. “Martin.” He turned to him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As much as I want your help,” he began with a sigh, “I need you to stay with Olivia.”

  “Sir,” he responded, nodding, as Alexander headed out of the office and down the hallway.

  “How does he know it’s a viable lead?” O’Malley called after him, following him toward the front door.

  “Because, O’Malley.” Alexander spun around. “The FBI never said this man was wanted in connection with Melanie’s disappearance. They simply said he was a person of interest wanted in connection with an ongoing investigation. This wasn’t just another caller looking for his fifteen minutes of fame. This is the real deal.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  December 20

  7:10 AM

  OLIVIA’S EYES FLUTTERED OPEN and she looked around, disoriented. The last thing she remembered was falling asleep in Alexander’s arms as they sat together in Melanie’s room. Now, she was in their bed…alone. Pushing back the covers, she noticed she was still in the clothes she wore the night before, but it was no longer night. The sun had risen, trying to break through the heavy gray clouds blanketing the sky.