RECEDING AWAY LIKE A DREAM
Later, Gaia tried to forgive herself for the mistake she made in that moment. After all, she was confused and distracted. She was staring at the bed, focusing on the two black hairs, trying to get all her thoughts in order. And to be fair, all her “crime scene” rhythms were thrown off. In all the crime scenes she’d visited (in her short career with the FBI), she’d known what to do. You got the forensic machinery moving. You cleared the area, you canvassed the witnesses, you collected the evidence. You contacted the crime lab, you began profiling, you put out descriptions and APBs if you needed to. But all of that involved having the force of the bureau behind you. And Gaia was completely on her own. She didn’t even have envelopes to collect the hairs and fingerprints she could see in front of her.
So, maybe Gaia could be forgiven for letting her guard down—for facing away from an open door, for missing footsteps on the living room floor over her head, for not catching the careful, silent tread on the wooden steps behind her. It was precisely the sort of lapse she’d been trained not to make, and afterward Gaia had plenty of opportunities to curse herself for getting caught up in her thoughts.
The blow crashed into her lower back with such sheer brute force that Gaia lost her balance completely as well as losing her grip on the Walther. Her breath was driven completely out of her body as the gun twirled neatly from her fingers and dropped to the cement floor like a stone. She lost her footing, her shoes slipping in the dust. She toppled to the floor like a fallen statue, a searing pain spreading through her back like fire. “Oompf” she grunted as her face smashed into the edge of the cot, which flipped over. Her ears rang as a tremendous weight landed on top of her. With her head pressed to the floor, she could see a sudden kicking movement to one side and heard the unmistakable thump of her gun being kicked across the floor and out of view. As the weight on her back increased, a stinking, fetid smell washed over her head.
“Well, hi there,” a rasping male voice whispered in her ear. “Welcome. Won’t you come in?”
Gaia gasped for air. She couldn’t breathe—the weight on her back was tremendous. The man—James Rossiter, she had to assume—had to be lying full on top of her, with his hands now wrapped around her neck. She could feel his whiskers scraping against her cheek as he leaned closer. “By all means, jus’ walk right in and make yourself at home.”
With a tremendous effort Gaia strained her back muscles, her hair tossing as she bucked and twisted, trying to get free. It was no use. She might as well have been bolted to the floor. Now her vision was filling with spots. Her need for oxygen was becoming more and more urgent with every passing second.
“Who are you?” Rossiter—if it was he—screamed in her ear. “What the hell are you doing in my house? I told you to get out of here and take your stupid questions with you, but you didn’t listen.”
The diner across the street, Gaia realized weakly, remembering the scruffy-looking man who’d given her attitude a half hour before. That was Rossiter. She could finally put a face to the voice in her ear. She remembered the sneer with which the man had regarded her badge and the enormous bulk he carried that had seemed to spill off the edges of the diner stool he’d occupied.
Gaia was losing consciousness. There was no question about it. Her vision was now totally black, flooding with iridescent shooting stars—she was trying to will it all away like she’d been able to do when the exhaustion from the fighting wasn’t that severe. Rossiter’s heavy breathing, the pain in her back, and the feel of the man’s overwhelming weight holding her down against the cold cement—all these sensations were receding away like a dream. She was blacking out.
Sorry, Catherine, she thought weakly. Some rescue—I didn’t get very far, did I?
The pinpoints of light kept swirling against the darkness—and suddenly Gaia felt a surge and a thump, and she could breathe.
What the hell?
The weight was off her. Faintly, as if it was all happening far in the distance, Gaia heard another thump. Her head still felt light. She was drinking in great gulps of oxygen. Her strength and her vision were returning, but slowly. She felt another surge of spinal pain as she tried to roll over onto her back. She couldn’t make it—she was still too weak. Now her head was clearing, and there was a ringing in her ears, but she could begin to make sense of what she was hearing. Behind and above her, the sounds were unmistakable: an intense fistfight.
“Get up!” an unfamiliar male voice was yelling at her. The voice was interrupted by more scuffling and punching sounds—and Gaia felt another sharp pain, this time in her lower leg, as a foot in a heavy work boot slammed into her shin. “Get up! Quick!”
Talking to me, she realized. Her strength was returning. Wincing against the spasm of pain in her back, Gaia turned herself over.
Two men were fighting. They were right there—nearly on top of her. It was like watching a boxing match from beneath the ring. Their movements were silhouetted by the blinding fluorescent lamp that hung over the worktable.
Gaia recognized James Rossiter—he was the burly, unshaven hulk on the right, his sweatshirted arms pinwheeling through the air as he tried to fight off the other man.
And to her surprise, Gaia realized that she recognized the other man, too.
It was the thin, older man in the neat black suit, from the diner. The one who had reminded her, for a moment, of her father. His face was pulled into a tight grimace as he jabbed a series of karate kicks on Rossiter’s shoulders and arms. His necktie was swinging in circles as he bobbed and weaved. His black leather dress shoes squeaked on the dusty floor.
There was no question about it—the newcomer had been trained to fight. As she weakly pulled herself up off the floor, bracing herself on the cot, Gaia watched as the man in the black suit began to win the fight. It was impressive—from the floor Rossiter seemed as big as a truck—and he was barely pulling it off. The man in the suit ducked his head, and Gaia heard the swoosh of air as James Rossiter’s beefy fist swung over the suited man’s head, clanging into the hanging lamp and causing it to swing crazily on its chains.
“Stand back!” the black-suited man yelled out at Gaia. He was incredibly fast—as he ducked, his upper body surged forward and he drove his flattened hand upward into Rossiter’s chin. Blood spurted from the bigger man’s mouth and nose. Rossiter stumbled backward, hitting the desk. The computer monitor slid to the floor and exploded with a bright flash of light, filling the air with an acrid electrical smell.
Rossiter’s eyes rolled up. He slipped back against the desk again, swayed, and toppled to the floor.
Gaia stood next to the man in the black suit, looking down at James Rossiter. She firmly resisted the urge to kick him in the face. As angry as she was, she knew that a great deal of her anger was shame. This man should never have gotten the better of her.
“What did you touch?”
“What?” Gaia looked over, surprised at the question.
Beside her, the man in the black suit had already gotten his breath back. He was adjusting his clothing, tucking his drab tie back into his jacket. His eyes avoided hers—he was gazing around at his immediate surroundings, peering keenly at the floor, the worktable, the desk, the cot. Gaia suddenly realized he was looking for his own fingerprints.
“What did you touch?” the man repeated. He had a guttural, deep voice that was not unpleasant—he sounded almost theatrical, like a seasoned actor. His unshaven face had Nordic features and high cheekbones. His weather-beaten eyes were blue. As the man reached to wipe off the edge of the table, he finally looked at Gaia. “Did you touch anything? Come on, think fast—we’ve got to move.”
Gaia was so surprised that she didn’t stop to question what the man was saying. “I didn’t touch anything,” she told him. “You’re interfering with a crime scene, sir.”
The man laughed humorlessly. “Tell me about it,” he said, smirking. He had finished with the table—he was looking down at Rossiter now, trying to gauge his condition. “It’s just a minor concussion—he’ll wake up soon. Let’s go.”
“Wait,” Gaia said firmly. “Mister, I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing, but I’m an agent with the Federal B—”
“Stop,” the man said sharply. Now he was looking right at her. “We don’t have time. I saw the door upstairs—you broke in.” The man pointed at the bulky body on the floor, which was already starting to move. “I’m sure he called the cops before he came downstairs. You want to spend the rest of the day in a jail cell?”
Gaia looked back at the stranger. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t start arguing because everything the man said was true.
“No,” Gaia told him. “No, I don’t want that.”
“Then let’s not hang around here,” the man said quickly. He was brushing the dust from his suit as he stepped over James
Rossiter’s legs and moved toward the basement door. “Come on—we’ve got about five minutes before the cops get here.”
“Listen, you want to tell me who you—”
“Come on,” the man snapped over his shoulder impatiently. “We’ll take your car. Believe me, you don’t want to stay here.”
And that was the truth. Gaia stepped over to retrieve her gun and then vaulted forward, following the man in the black suit out of the basement. Behind her James Rossiter moaned and stirred on his cold basement floor, his mouth and nose still dripping blood, lit in crazy light patterns as the fluorescent light kept swinging overhead. Gaia took one last look and turned to run up the stairs.
MYSTERIOUSLY SAVED
Sirens, Gaia thought. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed like she could hear sirens in the street behind them. She was back in her car, ignoring the fading pain in her back as she gripped the wheel, trying to pay attention to the traffic. Her Walther was back in its shoulder holster, pressing uncomfortably against her rib cage.
A lot of good that did, she thought.
“You hear that?” the man in the passenger seat said. He was twisted around, peering behind them through the Altima’s rear window. “I told you. He called 911, gave an intruder alert, and then surprised you. The station house is ten blocks away—the cops’ arrival time is less than five minutes once the call is—”
“Wait a second,” Gaia said tersely, flicking her hair away from her cheekbone as she turned her eyes on him. She was in no mood for this. “Just shut up for one second and tell me who you are and what this—”
“Shhh,” the man said, raising a finger. He was squinting, seeming to concentrate on listening to the sirens. Gaia gazed forward along the car’s hood, navigating the sparsely populated, seedy residential streets. “Follow the signs to the interstate. Don’t speed—drive normally.”
Well, that’s obvious, Gaia thought ruefully. That’s what you do when you’re fleeing a crime scene—especially when you’re the criminals.
Somehow everything had gone hopelessly wrong, and her pursuit of her missing friend had turned into—what? What was happening now? In the space of a half hour she had become a fugitive from the police, guilty of breaking and entering. Not to mention how close she’d come to being strangled for it—before being mysteriously saved.
The sirens slowed and stopped behind them. The man seemed to visibly relax.
“Good,” he said, turning back around and facing forward. Gaia saw that he’d injured his hand during the fight—he was nursing it with his fingers. “We’ve got plenty of time now. They’ll question him, question the diner patrons, question the waitress—it’s going to be at least an hour before anyone remembers your car. By then we’ll be miles away.” He glanced over at her. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Gaia glanced at the man and saw that he was smiling. The smile crinkled his eyes agreeably—in another context, she realized, he was a man whom a woman would be happy to meet in a hotel bar for a blind date—if you took away the stubble, the bruises, and the black suit that had seen better days. Up close, the resemblance to her father was more striking, yet more elusive. It wasn’t that he looked like her father, exactly. He was a decade too young to begin with, despite the graying hair. It was the way he moved, the way he carried himself—and the precise, lethal way that he had fought. Gaia realized that he probably could have killed Rossiter if he wanted to.
“Thank you,” Gaia said.
The man nodded crisply and then inclined his head, indicating that she should turn her attention back to the highway. Gaia did, just in time—a Plymouth SUV honked angrily as she darted out of its path.
They were moving toward the interstate highway, according to the signs. Now Gaia could see telephone lines, billboards, fastfood restaurants, four-lane traffic, and other signs of civilization. Gaia was far from calm. Her driving was still shaky, and behind her, she kept thinking, was a cot with two black hairs and the only clue she’d found about her missing friend and partner.
“Start talking,” Gaia said. “Now.”
“My name is Winston Marsh,” the man told her. “I’m a private investigator. I’d like you to just try to stay calm and listen to what I have to say. Will you do that?”
“No promises.”
Marsh frowned, pushing the corners of his mouth down. He didn’t look unpleased. “Fair enough. Like I said, I’m a private detective, but I’m also ex-FBI.”
“FBI—” Gaia’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And you happened to be sitting in the, what, the Moscone Diner this afternoon? Come on—that’s ridiculous.”
“Of course it’s ridiculous.” Marsh’s voice was resonant, even if he sounded like he’d smoked his fair share of cigarettes. The blue-green light from the windshield’s antiglare strip shone on his prominent cheekbones. “I guess you’ve been with the bureau long enough to know there’s no such thing as coincidence.”
“What—you were tracking me?” Gaia squinted skeptically. “And I never saw you?”
“Impossible, right?” Marsh smirked, still gazing forward at the road like a rifleman lining up a complicated shot. He turned his head and squinted his blue eyes at her. “Nobody ever gets the jump on you, despite what I’ve seen after knowing you five minutes. No, I’m not tracking you. This isn’t about you, Gaia. It’s about your friend. It’s about Catherine Sanders.”
Gaia slammed the brakes. The tires screeched as the car lurched to a halt. Luckily she was in the rightmost lane and there was nobody immediately behind her, although a woman in a bright red Honda honked very angrily as she sped past.
Gaia had turned around in her seat and was glaring at Marsh. Maddeningly, he didn’t look remotely frightened or intimidated. He was leaning casually in the car seat, a smile playing over his face as he gazed calmly back at her. He hadn’t even flinched.
And why should he? Gaia thought ruefully. He’s seen me get my gun taken away and my ass kicked—it’s not like I seem dangerous or anything.
“Keep driving,” Marsh said lightly, gesturing forward with one hand. “We’ve got some time now—I know a place nearby where we can talk. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because it’s logical,” Marsh said levelly, staring calmly out at the Baltimore street. “Right now you need help. It’s obvious. The fact is, you’re confused and tired and you don’t know what to do next.
All true, Gaia thought.
“Look, I know you’re concerned about time,” Marsh told her earnestly. “But think it through: no matter what kind of field agent you are, you must realize that the smart move right now is to listen to what I have to say.”
Gaia thought about it. She couldn’t come up with a counter-argument.
“I’m a detective, all right?” Marsh added earnestly. Up close, across the front seat of the car, Gaia could see the deepening wrinkles around his sharp blue eyes. “I find missing people—it’s what I do. It’s why I was hired to find Catherine. We’re doing the same thing, Gaia. Right now you need my help—and I need yours.”
“You were hired to find her?”
“Want to hear more?” Marsh pointed out the windshield again. “Start driving.”
Will
Only a day since she vanished.
Only a day since the last time I saw Gaia Moore—saw her perfect blue eyes and heard her charming New York voice. New York by way of California, and if that isn’t a fine vintage of wine, I don’t know what is.
Our crack team of investigators—the unstoppable foursome of Taylor, Lau, Sanders, and Moore—has dwindled down to two. Just two depressed FBI trainees who, in the course of just a few days, have gone from getting envious stares and high fives over their Hogan’s Alley victory (not to mention a lot of ribbing in the men’s dorm about being partnered with the two prettiest women in Quantico) to this.
Now in the cafeteria, on the athletics field, I can see them looking at us. Carefully tearing their eyes away and then whispering when they think Kim and I can’t hear.
That’s them, the other trainees are saying. They’re the ones.
… missing partners …
… some kind of manhunt …
… serial killers …
I can’t pretend that I mind being talked about. Otherwise my life would be close to unbearable. I mean, I’m no stranger to getting a lot of attention. Growing up back in South Carolina, that was the story from the very beginning. On the football field, on the track field, in the classroom. Smiling at girls and watching them react. Getting them to smile back even if they thought they didn’t want to. Getting them to glance at me a second or third time, even though they knew better.
But this is different. Now we’ve got notoriety. And not the good kind, either. The kind that can taint you for a long time. I can picture myself getting out of here and going back home—getting a posting in an FBI field office south of the Mason-Dixon line—and still getting those stares and hearing the whispers.
… failed at an important case …
… something wrong with his Quantico team …
… undisciplined, irregular …
… don’t want to partner with him …
No, thank you. That’s not what I signed up for. I came to Quantico for one reason only—to be the best damn FBI trainee anyone had ever seen. Easy, right? Just be better than everyone else. I’ve been doing that since I was ten, when Uncle Casper took me to that ball game and I saw my first major-league home run and realized what excellence was. I figure there’s no point to doing anything if you’re not going to force yourself to be the best.
Of course a stunning blond girl—from New York City, no less—turned all that around the first day. What do you do when someone’s just better than you at everything—and to make matters worse, she’s really cute?
Fall in love with her, I guess. At least, that was my brilliant solution.
And now she’s gone.
Kim’s sad, too. I can see it in his eyes—the way he looks tired all the time—like something’s weighing him down. Things have gone bad here. And I don’t know what to do about it. For Kim, Catherine was almost like a sister; I think he misses her more than Gaia. Misses Catherine’s jokes, and her easy manner, and her brilliance.
Catherine may be gone. She may be—she may be dead. Kim knows it, of course. I think Gaia knew that, too. But if anyone can find her, can bring her home, Gaia’s got a chance at it. I just can’t think of anything more difficult for one girl alone to do. I mean, it’s a big world to search.
Why did Gaia have to do what she did? Why be so stubborn as to go for the big heroic gesture—the solitary quest or whatever you want to call it? Does Gaia just need to be alone, like she keeps suggesting? Is it in her nature?
I don’t think so. If I could have her back in front of me for just another couple of minutes, that’s what I would tell her. You don’t need to be alone, Miss Moore—that’s a fact. And maybe someday you’ll believe it. I might even have been the one to convince you, if we hadn’t left things the way we did. That’s probably all my fault, too.
Anyway, I hope she’s all right.
NEARLY INSULTING
Kim Lau didn’t enjoy being summoned to the chief’s office.
The problem was, you couldn’t predict anything. Kim had a knack for figuring out what was on people’s minds—for reading their gestures and their faces. But when you got a text message telling you to come to the top floor of the Quantico admin building and report to Special Agent Brian Malloy’s office, there was no way to interpret it. There was nothing to go on—just words on a cell phone screen, telling you what to do.
The Virginia sun was bright and warm as Kim walked across the FBI quadrangle toward the gleaming glass facade of admin. Kim was beginning to perspire in the heat, but not too much. It was under control.
He could see the tall figure of Will Taylor over by the dorm building, walking to meet him. So Will had gotten the summons, too. That wasn’t surprising. He could tell that they were being watched. These days they always were. It was part of their Quantico lives now. In the bomb-training and antiterrorism classrooms, on the shooting range, in the cafeteria—everyone was looking at them. Kim was incredibly sensitive to it. It appalled him how badly people hid what they were doing. It was nearly insulting every time. Nearly, but not quite.
Sometimes Kim had an irrational impulse to stand up suddenly in the cafeteria, spread his arms, and yell out to the assembled trainees with their plastic trays and their vitamin supplements and their protein shakes and turkey sandwiches. It’s all true, folks! he imagined yelling. We got partnered up with the weird girl—the one from New York. We almost got expelled, and then she won the game for us … and she and the girl with the glasses got promoted to full agents and assigned to a real serial killer hunt—except it went nowhere, and now one of them is missing and the other one’s AWOL and nobody knows what to do with us. It’s all true, so stare all you want! Stare at the black sheep and be glad it’s not you.
He never did it, of course. He never even came close. But he could tell from Will Taylor’s chiseled face that Will was reading his mind. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Just smile.
“Hey,” Will said absently.
“Hey. Where were you?”
“Working out. You?”
“Library,” Kim said as they approached the security desk—Will flashed his entry badge, got waved through, and waited for Kim to show his trainee pass to the guard and sign in. Even the Quantico security personnel were watching them, Kim realized ruefully. “You know what this is about?”
“No idea.”
On the way up in the elevator, fingering the temporary pass the guard had handed over, Kim realized again how nervous he was. Security in this building was as tight as it got anywhere on the Quantico base, and the extra procedures with passes and electric gates didn’t exactly have a calming effect. And Brian Malloy was a very mysterious man. Decades in the FBI had made him into the human equivalent of one of those tribal masks you saw in anthropological museums—the carved wooden masks designed to remind worshipers of the immobile, untouchable faces of the gods.
“Anything happening with the case?” Kim asked Will.
“What?” Will glanced over, the harsh elevator lighting shining in his blond crew cut. He seemed puzzled—and then he laughed derisively. Clearly the lollipop case was the furthest thing from Will’s mind. “Don’t even ask me about that.”
“Nothing, huh?”
Will shook his head. “Permanently stuck at square one.”
He misses her, Kim realized sadly. He doesn’t want me to see it, but he really, really misses her.
The elevator door bonged softly and slid open, and Kim and Will unconsciously straightened their backs as they strode out into the carpeted hallway, past the enormous Federal Bureau of Investigation seal on the wall, heading toward the chief’s office. Kim remembered when all four of them had been summoned here, early one morning not long ago, nursing hangovers as they tried to explain how they’d ended up in a knock-down, drag-out brawl at the townies’ local bar. Kim could remember it like it was yesterday—but at the same time, the image of the four of them moving down this corridor together seemed like it came from impossibly long ago and far away.
“Kim,” Will said, stopping in his tracks and turning back toward him, his fist already raised to knock on Malloy’s door. “Anything we need to get straight? Before we go in there?”
Kim narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think so.”
And what do you mean by that, Mr. Taylor?
Will nodded tersely, rapping loudly on the door.
“Come,” Agent Malloy’s harsh voice barked out from inside the office. Hearing it, Kim could feel his gut tightening with apprehension.
Here goes, he thought as Will turned the knob on the high-security metal lock plate and they strode into the chief’s office.
CATCH THAT KILLER
Will’s first impression was how tired Malloy looked. He was seated behind his smooth, empty desk, the bright sunlight gleaming on the edges of his high-backed leather chair, his hands folded neatly on the leather desk blotter in front of him. Will could see the redness in his eyes, the rawness of his drawn face.
It’s cold in here, Will noticed. He’d noticed the same thing the last time he was here. For some reason, the chief seemed to thrive in a dry, frigid office air-conditioned to within an inch of his life. He and Kim stepped to the front of the desk and stood side by side at parade rest, waiting for Malloy to say something.
He let them wait. The leather chair squeaked as Malloy leaned back, flicking his dark eyes back and forth between the two young trainees. As usual, it was utterly impossible to guess what he was thinking.
“You can sit if you’d like,” Malloy began. He sounded tired, too, Will realized. The chief’s computer was running, but the afternoon sun gleamed on its screen, rendering it unreadable from this side of the desk. He and Kim remained standing. “Taylor,” Malloy went on. He was rubbing his eyes with fatigue. “First things first. Progress report on the lollipop case.”
“The lollipop case—yes, sir,” Will began, clearing his throat. It was a bad beginning, but he couldn’t help it. The problem was that he had almost nothing to report. All he was thinking about were Gaia’s piercing eyes and her soft, shimmering hair. “I can’t report any progress beyond the written statement I submitted at 1430 hours yesterday. We’re still wailing for lab results, as I reported in writing. Beyond that, I’m afraid the case has hit a dead end, sir.”
Malloy nodded. He didn’t look mad—but you could never tell. It was like trying to predict which number a roulette wheel would land on.
“Kim Lau,” Malloy went on, turning to face Kim. He hooked a thumb at his computer monitor—Will still couldn’t see what was on it. “Agent Bishop and I have been looking over your course data, and in particular your performance in the Hogan’s Alley exercise. You really did quite well—I didn’t have a chance to focus on your individual performance before.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kim said. To Will’s ears, he sounded surprised.
“I’m sure your friend Taylor has followed the rules and hasn’t told you anything about the murder investigation he’s working,” Malloy observed dryly. “But assuming you can speculate about the case, do you think your particular insights might be of help in this matter?”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir,” Kim said fervently. Will wanted to make a shushing gesture—Kim was so excited, he seemed like he was about to grin from ear to ear. Will knew how badly Kim wanted to put his formidable skills to use on a real case. Not just for personal advancement—they all wanted that—but as an intellectual exercise, to find out if his methods and techniques would work outside of the classroom, out in the real world.
Malloy abruptly reached into a desk drawer and produced a small object that he slung across the table at Kim. As Kim picked it up, Will saw that it was an active duty badge—exactly the kind Will had been given days before. Kim took an avid look at the laminated card and then slipped it into his pocket. Glancing sideways, Will saw that Kim couldn’t quite contain the triumphant smile that played across the corners of his mouth.
“You’re hereby promoted to full active duty,” Malloy told Kim. “I want you and your partner Agent Taylor here to do whatever you can to catch the serial killer before he strikes again.”
“Yes, sir,” Kim repeated happily.
So now we’re partnered up, Will thought. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He hated to admit it, but the idea made him nervous. What if Kim performed so well on the case that he actually caught the killer on his own? Will had worked too hard just to let Kim come in and figure out the whole thing by himself.
“Now, Taylor,” Agent Malloy went on in his gravelly voice, leaning forward on the desk and staring keenly at Will. “Here’s how we’re going to work this. Right now, you’re going to open your mouth and tell me everything you know about Gaia Moore’s whereabouts and actions.”
Will was already shaking his head. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know, sir.”
“Think before you speak,” Malloy went on, tapping his fingers on the desk. His voice was low and dangerous. “You have no idea how important this is—how much pressure I and this whole division of the bureau are under because of that damn girl. Twelve hours ago she left this facility, and as far as I know, you were the last person she saw. It’s inconceivable for me that you don’t have some inkling of where she went.”
“I don’t, sir,” Will insisted, staring straight back into the chief’s eyes. It wasn’t hard to keep up the staring contest because what he was saying was the truth. He had no idea where Gaia was. They were supposed to meet for dinner, but she’d never shown up. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. She refused to tell me anything about her plans.”
Because she saw this coming, he realized. And she didn’t trust me to keep my mouth shut.
Malloy didn’t blink as he returned Will’s stare. Then finally he leaned back in his chair, nodding sadly. “All right,” he told them both. “Back to work on this case. And Will, if I find out you’ve withheld evidence about Agent Moore, I swear I’ll make you wish you never even heard of the FBI.”
“I understand, sir,” Will said tightly.
“And if either of you receive any kind of contact from Moore, I want you reporting it straight to me. Is that clear?”
They both told him that it was.
“Dismissed. Catch that killer,” Malloy said briskly. He had already turned his attention back to his computer screen.
Will and Kim glanced at each other and then turned in unison to leave. Will could read Kim’s face easily. He was absolutely thrilled to be working the lollipop case. Will wished he felt the same way.
Damn it, Gaia, Will thought helplessly as they walked through the freezing office air away from Malloy’s desk. Where are you?