5
I have news on the kidnapping.” Lance stopped in the doorway of Steve’s office. “Is now a good time?”
Steve slid the file he’d been reading into a folder and motioned him in. “No time’s good for a kidnapping. Solving a kidnapping—different story. What do you have?”
“The ME said the dental records were conclusive. No need to bring in an odontologist.” He sat in one of the two chairs across from the man’s desk. “It’s not Ginny Reed. I just called her sister with the news.” He’d have preferred to deliver it in person, but he’d promised to notify her as soon as their suspicions were confirmed.
Steve rocked back, fingers linked over abs that would be the envy of men half his age. The man must do some serious working out to be that fit on the cusp of fifty. “This one’s on the bizarre side.”
“It’s not like anything I studied at the Academy, that’s for sure.”
“Or encountered in Delta Force, I’ll wager.”
“No. That was a whole different ball game—and a whole different enemy. However, a fanatic is a fanatic.”
“You think that’s what we’re dealing with here?”
“I’m beginning to wonder. Based on everything I’ve learned from the victim’s sister, it doesn’t appear . . .”
Steve lifted a hand and glanced toward the door. “Mark!”
His colleague backed up and stuck his head in the office.
“You have a few minutes?” Steve waved him into the empty chair on the other side of his desk.
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.” Mark detoured into the office and took the chair.
“Lance was briefing me on the case he’s been working, which is now officially a kidnapping. He’s going to need some extra hands on this. I’d like you to be available.” Steve motioned toward him. “Give Mark a topline, then answer the question I asked before I interrupted you to pull him in.”
He complied, ending as Steve had directed. “Based on interviews with the victim’s sister, ransom isn’t a likely motive. There’s no significant money to be had. So I think we could be dealing with a fanatic who has some serious mental issues.”
“Given the extreme lengths this person has gone to, a vendetta or revenge seem strong possibilities for motive—except for the sister’s claim that neither of them have any enemies.” Steve steepled his fingers.
“But people can have enemies without ever knowing about it.” Mark exchanged a look with their boss that Lance couldn’t interpret.
“That’s why I called you in on this.” Steve tipped his head toward Lance. “You want to tell him about your first big case here?”
Mark crossed an ankle over a knee. “In a nutshell, my wife was being targeted by a man she’d ticked off who thought he was doing God’s will. He made more than one attempt to take her out. For the record, she wasn’t my wife at the time.”
The parallels on a personal level were closer than either of these two men knew.
“By taking a lot of disparate pieces of information and shuffling them around until they began to fit together. But it was a race to the finish. Literally. A few more minutes, Emily would have died.”
Not the kind of close finish Lance wanted for this case.
“The problem is, at this stage we don’t have many pieces to shuffle around. Quantico has the newest letter and photo, and we’ll run the DNA through the missing person database once we have it, but an ID on the body might not end up being that helpful. I’ve got a list of friends and acquaintances for the victim and her sister, but Christy—I mean, the sister— claims everyone will come out of a background check smelling like a rose.”
“She could be wrong. Let’s get the checks done ASAP, see who’s worth interviewing. Fill Mark in on the ruse we developed to explain the reason for our questioning this long after the fact.” Steve leaned forward and pulled the file folder toward him.
His colleague rose.
The meeting must be over.
Lance stood too but paused before following Mark to the door. “The sister’s obviously worried that if the kidnapper finds out we’re looking into this, even if he doesn’t think it was at her request, the victim could be in imminent danger.”
Steve transferred his attention from the folder back to him. “That’s a valid concern. Do you have an alternate investigation technique?”
“No. I’d just like to keep this as discreet and low-key as possible.”
“That would be SOP in a case like this.”
“Right.” Lance felt as if the word rookie was stamped across his forehead—in green, not rosy, letters. “I just wanted to make certain we were all on the same page.”
“Tell the sister we’ve discussed this and everyone involved is aware of her concerns.” He opened the folder, but as Lance started to turn away, the squad supervisor added a final wry comment. “Now you have a legitimate excuse to call her again sooner rather than later, in case you were having trouble coming up with one on your own.”
Great.
Steve was living up to the reputation he’d earned in his street-agent days as an astute observer of human nature. According to Mark, the man’s acumen was almost legendary in the office.
He could see why.
Lance didn’t respond to his supervisor’s comment.
Instead, he made a fast exit.
Mark grinned as he emerged. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Steve is a force to be reckoned with.”
“No kidding. My buddies in Delta Force were sharp, but they wouldn’t get anything past that guy.”
“Former HRT operators, either. You want to grab a conference room and divvy up the list of contacts?”
“Yeah. Give me five. I want to refill my coffee. You need a top off?”
“I’m still nursing the venti Americano with two extra shots of espresso I grabbed on my way in this morning.”
“Late night?”
“Long night. We have a three-month-old who hasn’t yet figured out that dark is for sleeping and daylight is for crying. Last night was my turn to entertain Little Mary Sunshine—every hour, on the hour.”
“Ouch.”
Mark smiled. “I don’t mind. She’s a sweetheart. Now go get your stuff or I’ll be pulling out my wallet to bore you with a bunch of pictures.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing one or two.” Lance eased away as he responded.
“Yeah, right.” Mark chuckled. “See you in five.”
Lance continued to his cube, pulled up Christy’s email, and began printing out copies of her lists. Funny. He wouldn’t have pegged Mark as the softhearted family-man type. The SWAT team leader might be an FBI agent now, but the distinctive macho, special-forces aura lingered. The HRT guys were as tough as they came.
You just never knew about people.
He gathered up his copies. Odd that he’d never given much thought to the whole family gig himself. After all, the McGregors were a close bunch. Mom and Dad were the best, and despite the grief they gave each other, he couldn’t be closer to his two brothers. But settling down in suburbia with one woman? Not so much as a blip on his radar screen—and none of the women he’d dated had tempted him to put that notion there.
Of course, he’d never dated anyone like Christy Reed.
Copies in one hand, coffee in the other, he headed for the conference room.
It was way too soon to be entertaining any white-picket-fence notions about the appealing figure skater. He had a case to solve. That had to be his first priority.
But afterward . . .
He smiled.
With someone like Christy by his side, maybe suburbia wouldn’t be so bad.
Mevlida Terzic shuffled down the hall, scooting the walker ahead of her inch by inch, taking care to avoid the frayed spots in the carpet that liked to snag the wheels. She couldn’t trip again. Neven didn’t like it when she got sick or hurt—and keeping him happy was important.
But a seventy-eight-year-old body that had been through as much as hers didn’t always work right, no matter how hard she tried to stay healthy.
After skirting the last worn patch, she pushed into the kitchen, picking up her pace as her stomach growled. Lunch had been a long time ago—and the peanut butter and jelly sandwich hadn’t kept her full for very long. Not like cevapi on a sliced lepinja. Oh, the wondrous beef sausages and flour-dusted bread of her homeland! Now there was a lunch.
She continued toward the refrigerator. Nothing like that would be waiting for her tonight. But perhaps Neven had left her a little treat, as he sometimes did when he was gone for the evening. A small act of kindness, yes—but surely a sign his heart was good, deep inside, in spite of all he’d been through. As for his eruptions of anger . . . who could blame him? He had reasons to be cross.
And she was one of them.
Pain that went deeper than bone and muscle ricocheted down her arm and through her body as she reached for the freezer door. But that was nothing new. Pain was a daily burden now—of body and spirit and heart.
With a shuddering sigh, she inspected the stack of frozen dinners, labeled by day. Today was Wednesday, wasn’t it? Yes, it must be. That was the dinner on top, and Neven was very organized.
Balancing herself on the walker, she leaned forward and pulled it out. The words on the label were gibberish, but she recognized the photo. Salisbury steak. That was one of the tastier meals, even if no prayer had been said over the butchering. But halal was forgotten these days, like so much else. Still, it was more appetizing than the food in the homeless shelters that had been her lot until Neven rescued her. She had her own room here too, instead of a cot among many.
It was a better life than before.
Yes. Of course it was.
Dinner in hand, she crossed to the microwave and slid her food inside. As the turntable began to rotate, she shuffled to the other side of the small kitchen to retrieve a knife and fork.
An apple turnover, covered with plastic wrap, was on the counter above the utensil drawer, her name written on a piece of paper beside it.
Mist clouded her vision, and she reached out to touch the plate. It wasn’t jabukovača; apparently no one in this country had ever heard of the beloved apple-stuffed phyllo dough of her youth. But Neven had tried, bless him.
See? He was a good boy, despite his faults. She should be grateful he’d taken her in—even if her life was much calmer when he was away from the apartment, like tonight.
The microwave pinged, and she removed a knife and fork from the drawer. Step by painful step, she retrieved her dinner, placed the apple dessert beside the microwave container, and lowered herself into the chair.
Picking up her fork, she stared down at the patty of meat, the slices of carrot, the pasty mound of mashed potatoes. It was sustenance, yes—but nothing like the dinners in the old days, when laughter rang at her table and food was plentiful and family and friends knew no fear.
A sob caught in her throat, and she groped for a paper napkin from the holder in the center of the table.
Ah, Mihad, how I miss you and those happy days when the world stretched before us with such promise! My heart pines for your stories about the patients who came from far away to benefit from your gift of healing . . . for our evening strolls in the park where happy music always played . . . for the beautiful home you built and furnished for me because you said a lady deserved the best.
But most of all, I miss your gentle touch, and the tender way you called me “pile moje.”
My wonderful Mihad—you were my dear one too.
A tear leaked out of her eye, and she wiped it away as the food cooled in front of her, the gnawing hunger that had awakened her from her nap subsiding to a dull ache.
But she had to eat. The food might be better since she’d moved in with Neven, but it wasn’t plentiful. Skipping meals wasn’t smart.
She picked up her fork as another tear slipped down her cheek. Thinking about the past wasn’t going to change anything. That life was gone. As dead as Mihad. And Daris. And beautiful Sonja.
So much death.
The yearning for escape swept over her, like it always did when she thought of the old days—and of all she’d lost. She needed oblivion. A place where life’s hard edges softened. Where pain faded.
There was no escape, though. Neven had seen to that—and he was right. Running away was for cowards. She needed to be strong. To learn to survive without a crutch.
Except it was so very hard.
Oh, my Mihad, if only you were here!
A tear dropped onto her food. Another. She closed her eyes to stem the tide. Wiped her nose. Drew a quivering breath.
Eat, Mevlida. You must eat.
Gripping her fork, she opened her eyes . . . and gasped.
Neven stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the door frame, watching her with an expression of . . . pleasure?
Shock rippled through her.
No.
Surely she was wrong.
No one smiled at another’s tears.
She blinked, and when she looked again, the small smile and the odd glitter in his eyes were gone.
She must have imagined his reaction.
Nevertheless, a cold cloak of foreboding dropped over her shoulders.
The silence lengthened, and she searched for words. “You no . . . work?”
He pushed off from the door and strolled closer. “No. I’m only filling in at night a few times a week while the other guy recovers. I told you that already.”
Had he? It was possible. Her memory wasn’t what it once was.
“I forget.”
“You forget a lot.”
Not enough, though.
Not nearly enough.
“I old.”
“Yes, you are.” He moved to the refrigerator and withdrew a beer, counting the cans as he always did.
She summoned up a smile. “You eat?”
“Yeah.”
Tugging the apple turnover closer, she dipped her head toward the plate. “Tank you, Neven.”
With a muttered oath, he slammed the beer on the counter.
Her hand jerked, and her fork clattered to the floor.
How could she have made such a stupid mistake?
He stalked across the room to loom over her. “That is not my name. I’m Nathan. Nathan! How many times do I have to tell you that?”
She cowered, pulling herself into a protective tuck. Not that he would hurt her physically. That didn’t happen very often. But the flush on his face, the anger in his eyes, the feeling of barely leashed violence—they always sent a rush of fear through her.
Just like the fear from all those years ago.
“I sorry.” She whispered the words.
“That’s one of my rules, old woman.” Fury nipped at his words. “How many others have you forgotten?”
His angry words muddled into an incomprehensible jumble in her mind. Even after all these years, the language was so hard to understand.
He leaned close. Into her face. “What’s my name?”
“Natan.”
“Say it again.”
“Natan.”
He glared at her, his face inches from hers. “You remember that. I worked very hard to become an American. To erase my past. To get rid of my accent. You may still be living in the old country and using the old language, but I want no reminders of that life. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Not all of it, but enough.
After a moment, he straightened up. “Finish your dinner.”
She leaned down, fingers of one hand gripped around the edge of the table for balance, and fumbled on the floor for her fork.
When she retrieved it, his gaze flicked to her trembling hands, and that odd light came back into his eyes. “Eat.”
Bending to her food, she scooped up a forkful of potatoes. Forced herself to swallow them. Tried not to gag.
He retrieved his beer and stood over her, watching in silence as she choked down her meal.
At last he sat at the table, picked up the apple turnover, and took a big bite. “No treat for you today. Mistakes must be punished.”
She said nothing as he finished it off, grateful he’d taken it. The food tasted like cardboard anyway. All she wanted to do was return to her room, fall into the nothingness of sleep . . . and pretend that tomorrow would be a better day.
Because that was the only way she could face another dawn.