Ransomed Dreams (16 page)

“Clint said to fetch you, so I’ll wait. Locals are butting heads with our evidence team. We need your strong-arm diplomacy to get things back on track before the rain washes away evidence.”

“Where’s Clint? He said he’d handle things when he arrived.”

Michael shifted from one foot to the other. “Agent Maxwell called him at the scene and sent him to the embassy to head off any inquisitive local cops and keep Sir Walter from bolting.”

Steven clenched his jaw. He shouldn’t have listened to Clint’s advice to take a break from the case and go out with Gracie tonight. Stupid date. He’d decided to cancel right before the call about Olivia came in, which gave him a valid excuse. And now Maxwell had called Clint to do Steven’s job.

Turning his back on Parker, Steven walked into his den and picked up the phone, intending to call Clint and swap assignments. Anything beat seeing another physical reminder of his incompetence.

But he hung up before it rang and leaned into the empty roll-top
desk. Clint would only tell him to pray. What use was it? Olivia had been found. Dead.

He was too late again.

“Thought seasoned agents knew how to shake off stuff like this.” Michael’s quiet words held more concern than challenge. The rookie remained rooted near the front door.

Steven motioned Michael into the den and sat in the brown overstuffed leather recliner. The case was no longer a rescue but a homicide investigation. And his boss had called Clint. Twice. Probably because he had Sara to watch the kids, while Steven had to waste valuable time getting a babysitter on weekends.

He clicked the TV off. With its light gone and the antique lamps around the room dark, he kept his features hidden. No need to bare his soul in the glaring light. “I used to handle it better. Stow it away.”

Michael sat on the edge of the matching leather couch. “What changed?”

The front hall light cast shadows all over the room. Steven searched the twenty-eight-year-old’s face. “Don’t know for sure.”

He checked his watch and relaced his black dress shoes. He hadn’t bothered to change when Clint’s call had come in a few minutes ago.

Steven reknotted his tie and slipped on his FBI jacket. It would keep off the coming rain. And now more than ever he had to look the part. Not let anyone think he was slipping from his game.

Clint knew. So did Parker.

“My father would say I needed to pray again.”

Michael groaned. “Not another Clint.”

“Yep. But they have peace. They do their jobs and live their lives without spinning their wheels outrunning guilt.”

Silence.

“Look, Michael. My problem has been that I let Ryan’s case get under my skin. Maybe he looked too much like James. Maybe I’ve been going too hard for too long without a break. Maybe it’s time to …”

“To what? Quit?”

Steven didn’t want to admit those were his exact thoughts. “Move to another section. White-collar crimes. Counter-terrorism. Something besides children.”

There. He’d given voice to the haunting that dogged his steps. Change. He needed a change.

The sound of his father’s Lincoln in the driveway snapped him back into focus. “Let’s go. We still have a job to do.”

Steven climbed into Michael’s black Mustang with a wave to his dad. He’d explain later. For now, he’d analyze the new muscle car’s interior. Clean. Leather. Backseat too small for company Totally fit the rookie’s personality.

“You’d really walk away from Crimes Against Children?”

No. He couldn’t walk away from making his son’s world a safer place. Other cases filtered through his jumbled thoughts. Cases when the child came home. Crying parents with tears of joy. Awards. Respect.

“ … all the other agents say you’re the best.”

Steven grunted, glad he’d missed Michael’s review. Listening to your own PR never helped. People either loved or hated you based on something in them. Simple as that. He’d learned from his dad to listen to the criticism with an open mind and dump the glowing praises. Nothing but a big head resulted from them.

Unless it was from his son. He’d accept hero status there. Even if he’d failed James in the worst possible way.

Michael parked his car behind the three cruisers and the FBI evidence team cars lining Memorial Hill Park’s west side. The forest below them crawled with little flashlight dots and bigger crime scene lights. Like big, fuzzy fireflies scattering in the humid wind.

An older, rounder version of his first police chief ambled into his sight line. Days like this he’d have rather seen Chief Hopkins scowl and put him on a beat cop’s day shift. “You the hotshot head of this crowd?”

Steven and Michael flashed their credentials.

The officer’s nameplate said Lieutenant Riddick. “I’m Special Agent Steven Kessler.” He pointed his chin toward the glowing forest. “Who found the body?”

“Some unhappy campers called in a disturbance at the Memorial campgrounds.
My
zone car was the first responder.”

“His name?”

Lieutenant Riddick narrowed his eyes. “Officer Taylor did everything by the book.”

“I’m sure he did. I’ll just need to talk to him. And I’ll need a list of every one of your guys who has ventured down this hill.”

“Done.”

“Did Officer Taylor ever see the source of the disturbance?”

“Nope.” Riddick rested his hands on his large gun belt. “Seems to me your boys ought to take it easy barging in here and telling my officers where to go.”

Michael stiffened.

There’d be ten sides to this story Better to get things smoothed out from the top down. And find a credible eyewitness. “The evidence team needs to move in fast to secure a scene.” Steven pointed up to the clouds. “Especially with a storm brewing.”

The lieutenant nodded.

Owls hooted and a traffic cop behind them shouted for motorists to keep moving. “Where are your officers now?”

“Stationed around the park, directing traffic.”

Steven pointed to the other two cruisers. “Those officers?”

Michael cleared his throat. “Probably down in the trees, trying to help.”

Lieutenant Riddick jabbed his finger in the rookie’s face. “If your people hadn’t started barking orders and accusing us of contaminating a crime scene …”

Steven stepped between the two men. “Lieutenant, why don’t we go talk to your officers and see how the ERT is progressing?” He’d have words with Parker later.

They sidestepped down the hill and cleared the familiar stream.

A few agents nodded at their arrival. Most he knew on a first-name basis. Good at their work. Quick and quiet. Not stirring things up with the locals. Michael had ruffled the wrong set of feathers this time.

Steven left Lieutenant Riddick observing the agents milling around Olivia’s body and calling his men back to their police cars. Another cross-agency skirmish avoided.

Steven moved through the thick trees and stopped near a dilapidated picnic table. They’d been in the right place last time. Just too late to recover Olivia. Steven pushed the rush of regret into his mental lockbox. No time to rehash his dismal failure now.

“What can you tell me, Agent Walters?”

The older man motioned him over to the body Agent Walters had been the first to tell him Vicks didn’t work at crime scenes. The sticky stuff only opened nasal passages further. It didn’t mask the scent of death that clung to every fiber and airway.

“Time of death? Best guess right now, a week. I’ll let the ME have the final say though.”

Steven stayed upwind of the body. Olivia’s blond hair hung limp around the edges of the once-red wooden table. He resisted the urge to vomit.

“Cause of death?”

“Strangulation.” Walters frowned. “But this little girl had been worked over long before then.”

“Sexual assault?” That didn’t play into their scenario. Might make it a whole different ball game too. On so many levels.

“No signs of that, Steven.”

He let go of the breath he’d been holding. “Then what?”

“She was pistol-whipped, malnourished, and bound for an extended period. Severe bruising.”

Steven shook away the scenes filtering through his mind. “Guess the cloudy weather and cooler temps were on our side for DNA retrieval?”

“Somewhat. Our perp wrapped the body to keep animals out
and covered it well.” Agent Walters rubbed his bald head. “Unofficial gut response—this guys sending someone a message.”

Steven massaged the back of his neck and stretched it side to side. “You gonna give me some clues as to who it is and the message he wants to send?”

“I’ll do my best, Kessler. My best.”

He squeezed the older agents shoulders. No amount of experience made cases like this easier. Not for him or for top evidence technicians like Philip Walters.

Steven retraced his steps up the hill to where Michael sat in the passenger side of his Mustang, typing away The Alexandria officers had cleared the forest, and only two remained to deal with this side of the park’s traffic.

He checked his cell. No message from Clint.

Steven wondered how the ambassador had taken the news. Yelled for Steven’s head, no doubt.
“If anything happens to my daughter, I will hold you personally responsible.”

Nothing like a British ambassador’s guilt load dumped on his head. Over and over. He already had far more than enough of his own.

Clint watched Sir Walter pace his library like a caged tiger.

“Are you absolutely sure it was my Olivia? You Americans make identification mistakes all the time.”

Biting his tongue, Clint nodded from the cold leather chair. They’d covered this territory more than once already with a room full of expletives and finger-pointing. Clint was glad that he was the one who got stuck relaying the devastating news to the gray-haired diplomat. Steven was better off on scene. His partner was in no place to hear the pain-filled, angry words that spilled from Sir Walter’s mouth.

“Would you like some time to speak with your family? Alone?” Clint stood to leave.

The man’s shoulders slumped forward as he stared out into
the dark night. “What difference does it make, eh? You will watch my every move and record every word. I should like to leave every one of you and this wretched place far behind.”

But he wouldn’t. Diplomatic immunity could only carry officials so far. This time the leash would keep the ambassador and his family firmly in the United States. Until they found Olivia’s killer. And cleared Sir Walter from suspicion.

Ten million dollars enticed all manner of despicable actions. They had to be sure he hadn’t succumbed to the money’s draw. Especially given the ambassador’s withholding important information.

Clint walked to the library door unnoticed. Turning back to the ambassador, he lifted up a short prayer asking for the truth to be revealed, Steven and their team to be kept safe, and Victoria and her parents to be comforted.

He turned the corner from the library to head toward the original block of offices. Most office lights were off and quiet reigned. Expecting to meet one of the Kensingtons’ detail patrolling the grounds, Clint was surprised to see the ambassador’s personal assistant walking around the main lobby entrance. She hadn’t changed from her office attire, and her long black hair was unkempt. Odd, considering it was almost ten o’clock on a Friday night.

“Mrs. Brown, is there a problem?”

The young woman jumped clear out of her skin. She put a hand to her throat and fingered the strand of pearls. “You startled me. Agent Rollins.” Her laugh rang hollow. “I … I decided to stay late to make sure the ambassador and his family were all right. After this evening’s news and, you know …”

“They’re as good as can be expected.” Clint studied the woman’s pale skin. “How did you hear of Olivia’s death? To my knowledge the ambassador hasn’t spoken to anyone since I arrived.”

She sucked in a quick breath. “The agents in the control room. I … I was taking them some requested files and I …” She
covered her face as her shoulders shook.

Clint didn’t bridge the gap between them to offer comfort. A young, attractive woman in relative darkness, alone, didn’t need a hug from him. He did shoot a quick prayer heavenward, though. “Were you close to Olivia?”

“Yes. I mean no. I … we talked on a few occasions. She was a lovely girl.”

He nodded.

“I would have gone to Lady Kensington, but I can’t bear to look her in the eyes. Nor Victoria. I’ve been pacing in here, trying to work up the courage to offer my condolences and see if there is anything I can manage for them.” She searched his face. “Do you know when the body will be released so I can make funeral arrangements? That I could do for them, you know?”

“I’m sure they’d appreciate the help.”

Mrs. Brown glanced at the ornate grandfather clock in the lobby “I should get home. Harry will be worried.”

Clint searched his memory That name didn’t sound familiar. And he’d scoured all the employee records every which way more than twice. “I thought your son’s name was Stewart.”

Her face turned ashen. “Yes. Stew. Isn’t that what I said?”

“No, ma’am. You said Harry.”

She swallowed hard and set to pacing again.

He waited.

“Harry was my brother. He died only a bit ago, and I suppose facing death again so soon, I … my words slipped.”

The words made sense, but something in his brain stood at attention. Every little detail held the possibility of a clue. And every clue mattered. Even now.

“Your brother—remind me of his name again?”

“Landridge. Harry Landridge.” She stood like a statue with a quivering hand over her mouth. “Harry died in Her Majesty’s service. In May.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He looked around the dimly lit
entryway. “Can I walk you out to your car or call someone to drive you home?”

“No. Thank you. My husband is with Stewart. No worries about me.”

Clint shook his head and watched the young woman skitter into her office and retrieve her purse before leaving out the side entrance.

He waited for Mrs. Brown to enter her Mini Cooper 850 and start the engine before he made his way back to the control room. He had to call Steven.