Captured (2 page)

“Shrimp and peach?” I ask when we’re once again alone.

“Trust me.” Zack winks before taking a long drink of his stout.

“So the Nicolson case. It was assumed to be a kidnapping for ransom from the beginning and you were called in.”

“Right. Mikey was taken from a shopping center parking lot mid-morning on the sixteenth of February. The Nicolsons are wealthy. Robert’s an attorney, criminal defense. He was able to produce a list of possible enemies that was as long as my arm, and everything about him screams money. From the house he lives in, to the car he drives, to the five-thousand-dollar suits he has custom tailored. We were all over this one from the very beginning. A comprehensive investigation was conducted. Forensic teams were on-site at the parking lot and within a couple of hours, we established a command post in residence. We followed every lead, interviewed scores of people. Waited for a ransom call to come in. None came. None of the leads panned out. Mikey’s body was recovered on the third of March. He’d been returned to the same parking lot he’d been taken from. A homeless man found him out back in a dumpster. He’d been dead less than a day. Cause of death was drowning.”

The waitress returns with our wine and the hushpuppies. Because I’m starving, I reach for one and pop it in my mouth. Unfortunately it’s piping hot. My eyes widen and tear. Zack slides his ice-cold beer across the table. I take a few quick swallows.

“Thanks!” I use my napkin to wipe the foam from my upper lip.

Zack smiles. “Don’t mention it. Those just came out of the fryer, by the way. They might be hot.”

I toss one in his direction. He plucks it out of the air, drops it on his bread plate, then uses his fork to cut it in half.

“Good reflexes,” I say, picking up my fork to follow his lead. But I’m thinking it’s just what I’d expect, from a Were.

“You should see me play ping pong. I’m unbeatable.”

“I’ll bet.”

I crunch down on half of the cooled hushpuppy and savor the taste—a combination of rich batter, sweet peach and bits of shrimp.

“Good?” he asks.

“Delicious,” I admit, covering my full mouth with my napkin. Then, back to business. “Tell me what you have on Anderson.”

“Cooper’s another blond, blue-eyed four year old. Believed to be abducted from his home around noon. The mother called the police as soon as she realized he was missing. They called us. I called you. The Nicolson case is still fresh in everyone’s minds, including the Andersons. Sophia, the mother, comes from old money. Brett, the father, is a good old boy originally from Texas. He’s currently the chief meteorologist for Live5News. There’s no way around it. This is going to be high profile. The press is already camped outside the house. We set up command in their library before they arrived. We’re monitoring phone calls. The local PD canvassed the neighborhood, and they’ve been conducting interviews.”

“Forensics?”

He shakes his head. “Haven’t turned up anything so far.”

“What did you get from the mother? You said she was in the house when the kid went missing.”

“The only other person in the house.” Zack washes down the last of our appetizer with the remainder of his beer before answering, “Unfortunately, we didn’t get much from her today. She was hysterical, understandable given the circumstances. Her husband insisted she take a sedative. He hoped it would calm her, help her focus.”

“Instead it rendered her useless,” I interject.

“Not exactly useless. But I’m hoping she missed something, some detail. We’ll try again first thing in the morning. I’ve spent the past few hours gathering background and combing through interviews.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Not as far as I can see. I already emailed you a summary. After we eat, I’ll go over it with you, catch you up.”

Our dinner arrives. I dive into mine with gusto. Zack’s attack is more tempered. He suppresses a yawn.

I set my fork down. “How long have you been awake?”

He considers the question a moment before answering. “Forty-two hours, give or take.”

“I’ll go over the report myself. You, eat up. Then it’s off to bed.”

Zack shakes his head. “Sorry to disappoint, but I never put out on the first date.”

I can’t help but smile. “Glad to hear you have standards.”

CHAPTER 2

Day Two: Tuesday, March 22

Zack knocks on the door to my room at eight, bright-eyed and raring to go. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray suit. I’m still in the terry-cloth robe and slippers the hotel supplied.

“Rough night?” he asks when I wave him in.

“Late night. I’m paying for it this morning.”

“How much of the material did you get through?” he asks as I head for the bathroom.

“All of it.” I raise my voice to ensure he can hear me through the closed door. “I finished around one, which seemed perfectly reasonable until I realized one in San Diego was four here in Charleston.”

I make short order of getting ready for the day. Before Zack knocked on the door, I’d managed to take a quick bath, pull my hair back, and apply sunscreen. Since my morning routine is fairly Spartan all that’s left to do is get dressed. I pull a black pants suit from the closet, a lightweight wool with a belted jacket. An earlier weather check revealed temperatures are expected to once again be in the eighties. So I decide to pair it with a white, short-sleeved linen top. “I’ll be ready in five.”

I take a moment to smooth down my hair and check my reflection in the mirror. I slip on the jacket, feeling assured the glamour I rely on is firmly in place. The lock on my powers under control. Zack won’t be able to see through my wholesome “plain Jane” façade to discover what’s underneath, what’s real. Thanks to my friend Liz, no one should.

As if on cue, my cell phone rings. I hear the first few bars of Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon”.

I emerge from the bathroom and make a beeline for the phone.

“I met someone!” she announces as soon as I pick up.

Warning bells go off. I’m acutely aware that with Zack’s enhanced hearing, he’s undoubtedly going to catch whatever Liz says next. You name it, Liz has dated it. Being a witch with serious magical talent puts her in contact with a wide variety of supernaturals. Her last beau, Walter, was Were. I decide to head her off at the pass.

“Can’t talk right now. Agent Armstrong and I are running late. I’ll call you later?”

She doesn’t hesitate. Liz knows me better than anyone. She might not understand the subtext, but she realizes something’s up. “Sure thing. Shall I text you that information you’ve been waiting for?”

The “information” she’s referring to is the name, address, and phone number of a local mage. Liz is my best friend, but that moniker doesn’t begin to cover it. She’s my touchstone. The latest in a line that for centuries has served as confidant and savior, sharing my secrets and providing protection. Liz works two spells for me—a reverse glamour to hide my true appearance and a dampening spell that diminishes both my innate powers of seduction and the nifty little side effect that makes me the most reliable lie detector ever.

“Yeah, thanks! Although I don’t anticipate I’m going to have time to get my hair done.” I roll my eyes for Zack’s benefit as I quickly slip into a pair of stylish but sensible flats.

I can almost hear the smile in Liz’s voice. “Well, best to be prepared. Just in case there’s some sort of hair emergency. Bye!”

Hair emergency?

This time I roll my eyes for real.

“Later!”

I slip my cell into the outside pocket of my purse, then sling the bag over my shoulder.

Zack already has the door open. “The car should be waiting for us out front. The Andersons live in the French Quarter. It’s about a five-minute drive from here, ten tops.” He presses the call button for the elevator. “There’s a bakery on the way. They make the best apple turnover I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

We arrive at the Andersons just before nine, fueled by a combination of dark-roasted coffee and sugary pastry. There are a half-dozen news vans out front. We park across the street. An anchor from Live5News spots us and rushes over.

“Agent Armstrong, isn’t it? Garrett Grayson with Live5News. Can you give us an update on the investigation? Has there been a demand for ransom?”

Zack doesn’t break stride. “We’re not here to make a statement, Mr. Grayson.”

“Can we expect one later this morning? Can you tell us why you are here?”

Others are approaching, in search of a sound bite.

“No,” he says.

We reach the line of police tape, where the media can’t follow. Zack lifts it so I can duck underneath.

We follow the driveway around to a side entrance, away from the prying eyes of the press. A housekeeper lets us in. She’s full-figured and close to sixty. The expression on her kindly face is worn. The light gray uniform dress, double-breasted with white lapels, emphasizes her already sallow coloring. It’s obvious by the dark circles under her eyes that she’s been deeply affected by what’s happened.

“Morning, Abigail!” He gestures to me. “This is the agent I told you about. Agent Monroe.”

She turns and motions us inside. “All the way from San Diego,” she says.

“Yes ma’am,” I say. We follow her through a mudroom and front entryway, into a formal living room decorated in soft blues and creamy yellows. The tall windows in front of us offer a panoramic view of the bay. “The Andersons have a lovely home.”

She pauses briefly. “Been in the family for over a century. Ms. Sophie grew up in this house.”

“And how is Mrs. Anderson this morning?” Zack asks.

“About as good as can be expected, Agent Armstrong. God’s honest truth, we’re all just hanging on by a thread.” We go through a set of double doors and into a long, paneled hallway. “Mr. Anderson should be right with you.” Abigail opens a door on the left. “You can wait here with the others. I can bring more coffee if you need it.”

I offer a reassuring smile. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. Thank you, Abigail.”

She leaves us in the library-turned-command center. It’s a cozy room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes and a hint of cigar smoke. The furniture that normally fills the space—two leather sofas covered with pillows and throws, a large antique globe, a coffee table, and a freestanding mahogany bar—has been moved to the perimeter of the room. Boxes and cases filled with equipment litter the floor. There are two men seated behind a long folding table laden with computers and electrical gear. Cables snake from the several telephones all placed within hands-reach of the men.

“Agent Taft, Biller,” Zack says, “This is Agent Monroe.”

Taft and Biller rise the moment we enter and there are handshakes all around.

A coffee urn and a tray filled with pastries sits on a nearby coffee table. Despite having consumed two apple turnovers fifteen minutes ago, Zack helps himself to a pecan roll and a fresh mug of coffee with two sugars and an unhealthy dose of cream. Damn werewolf metabolism.

“I’m guessing it’s too much to hope for that there’s anything new to report?” Zack asks between bites.

Taft answers. The six-foot-plus gargantuan with a shaved head looks like he’d be more at home in an mixed martial arts cage than sitting behind a bank of computer monitors. “Nothing promising, or we would have let you know right away.”

“The two of you have been here all night?” I ask.

“Did you see the circus out there? Fortunately, we made it in with all of the equipment before they showed up. We figured we’d be better off keeping a low profile. Abigail’s taken it upon herself to make sure we’re properly fed and watered. We traded off and were able to catch a little shut-eye in the wee hours of the morning,” answers Taft. “We can hold up here if we can get our luggage from the hotel.”

Zack extends his hand. “Give me your keys. I’ll have your luggage sent over later today.”

The two men simultaneously reach for their keys and hand them to Zack.

“Tell him about the tip line,” Biller prompts Taft. He’s at least ten years younger and a foot shorter than his partner. The dark-haired featherweight oozes nervous energy. To Zack, “You’re not going to be happy.”

“Don’t tell me it went down.”

Biller pulls a cloth from the pocket of his trousers, removes his glasses and vigorously polishes the lenses. “The problem isn’t with
our
tip line. As of eleven last night, Live5News has been advertising their own.”

I’d just picked up a coffee mug, but place it back on the table and turn to Biller. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I expect Zack to make some comment. Instead, his attention seems oddly divided. I shoot him a quizzical look, but he ignores it.

Biller continues. “The line is being monitored. The tweets and retweets are posing more of a challenge. They’re using a hashtag—#findcoop.”

“And they set up a Facebook page,” adds Taft.

Biller replaces his glasses. “Did we mention there’s talk CNN might actually fly Anderson Cooper out here to cover this personally? The kid was named after him, you know.”

Again, nothing from Zack. Then he holds up his hand, tilting his head toward the adjoining wall.

“What is it?” I ask, moving toward him. Then I hear it, raised voices coming from the other room. A man’s and a woman’s. I can’t make out what they’re saying. Zack, I’m sure, can hear each and every word. While my powers are more cerebral, Zack has the advantage of enhanced physical abilities. Superman, able to hear through walls.

“Brett Anderson is arguing with someone,” he replies.

“Don’t know how you heard that,” Biller says, rummaging through one of the boxes. “But I, for one, want to hear what’s going on.”

He snatches a couple of pieces of equipment from the box. Taft scrambles to plug the booster into a receiver while Biller points the wand at the north wall.

The conversation comes across clear as day. We gather round and listen intently.

“You’ve got balls, Beverly, I’ll give you that.” Anderson’s voice is shrill, agitated.

“So, we’ve got a deal?” A female voice.

“Day before yesterday you so much as told me outright to start looking for a new job.”