Dozens of faces flashed through her mind. Keys jangled, secured to a ring by a retractable chain, bits of skin and dried blood embedded in its links: the murder weapon.
“There was a promise of sex,” Jordan said.
The crowd quieted as she continued her reading.
Ballantyne replied. “Becky was an attractive girl with little else going for her. We’d heard rumors.”
“Of her exchanging sex for money?”
“Yes.”
“I believe that’s the case here, Chief. Becky solicited her killer, accompanied him to the silo, changed her mind, tried to leave, and paid for that decision with her life. He strangled her using a metal cord from a pull-type key holder.”
Now convinced of the legitimacy of her mysterious gift, Ballantyne asked, “Can you see him? Can you tell me what he looks like?”
Jordan closed her eyes. She saw Becky and the stranger in the silo. “She’s on her knees, looking up at him, playing with his zipper. He’s tracing her cheek with the back of his hand, smoothing the hair away from her face. Three stars.”
“Three stars?” Ballantyne asked.
“In a row. Tattoos. Small. A star between each of the knuckles on his right hand. He’s angry, impatient. His hands are around the back of her head, trying to pull her closer. He wants her to get on with the act for which she’s been paid.” Jordan sensed a change in Becky’s emotional state. “She’s scared. She knows the situation has escalated beyond her control. She’s clawing at his hands, trying to pull them away from her head. Which she does. She’s standing now, trying to push him away, but he’s too strong.” Jordan moved within the vision, circling the girl, attempting to get a better look at her killer. “She’s turned her back to him,” Jordan reported. “She’s bending over, picking up the barrettes he pulled out of her hair.” Jordan observed him yank the round silver key holder from his belt and heard the ratcheting sound as the retraction mechanism inside the device released–zzzzzzzzip. In one deft motion he cinched the metal cord tightly around the girl’s neck. “He has her,” Jordan said. “He’s choking her, lifting her off the ground by her neck.” Jordan stood in front of Becky. “She’s trying to kick free.” She watched Becky attempt to drive her fingers beneath the steel lanyard but to no avail. Her arms fell to her side. Her head dropped to her chest.
Becky Landry was dead.
“She’s gone,” Jordan said. “He’s killed her.” The stranger pulled Becky up to his face by her neck, to the point of near decapitation. He inhaled deeply. Her hair smelled of coconuts and almond oil with light floral undertones. Jordan watched him shudder with anticipation at the thought of the act to follow.
“White,” Jordan said, in answer to the Chief’s question. “Six feet tall, mid-thirties, athletic build, handsome. Tattoos on his right hand. He’ll have abrasions on the back of both hands. If he’s still carrying the key chain when you find him, run it. Something tells me Becky Landry’s won’t be the only DNA you’ll find on it. She’s not his only victim, and probably won’t be his last.”
Chief Ballantyne’s cell phone chimed. He read the text: LANDRY GIRL GARROTTED.
He stood. “If it’s possible, Mrs. Quest, I’d appreciate it if we could stay in touch.”
Jordan nodded. “It would be my pleasure.”
3
CHIEF BALLANTYNE WALKED to the front of the conference room and shook Jordan’s hand as she left the stage. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Jordan smiled. “Anytime, Chief. I’m glad I could help.” She pointed to the back of the room. “My publisher has asked me to stick around for a while, meet the attendees, and sign a few books. I’ll be here for the next half hour or so. Stop by.”
Ballantyne joked. “After that reading you might want to push that out to at least an hour.” A small group had gathered behind him. They appeared eager to speak with Jordan. “Something tells me you’re going to be inundated with requests for help.”
“That’s why I do what I do, Chief.”
“And I, for one, will be grateful for it.”
Chief Ballantyne stepped aside. Jordan invited the guests to join her at the back of the room as the next speaker, April Searle, a fingerprint identification expert, greeted the audience from the stage.
“Pardon me, Ms. Quest?” A good-looking man stood next to her book signing table. He wore a dark blue suit, his shoes polished to an impeccable shine. Jordan was impressed by the manner with which he carried himself.
“Yes?”
The man removed his identification from his jacket pocket and presented his badge and credentials. “My name is Special Agent Chris Hanover. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. May I have a moment of your time?”
Jordan nodded. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Nothing to worry about,” the agent replied.
A member of Jordan’s support team organized the book signing table. Officers took their place in line, anxious to meet the recognized attorney and psychic medium turned police consultant in person, get their book signed, and snap a picture with the author.
The surrounding area was getting busier and louder.
“Would you mind if we stepped outside for just a moment?” Hanover asked. “It might be a little quieter. The matter is quite sensitive.”
“Lead the way,” Jordan said. “I’m afraid I can only give you a few minutes, Agent Hanover. I’m needed here.”
“No problem,” Hanover said. “This won’t take long.”
The hallway was quiet compared to the boisterous activity taking place at the back of the convention room. Two wingback chairs at the end of the corridor offered the perfect place to sit and talk.
Special Agent Hanover removed a manila envelope from a leather portfolio and passed it to Jordan. It contained graduation photographs of two beautiful young women; the first a blonde, with piercing blue eyes; the second a hazel-eyed brunette. Both women conveyed an air of sophistication and intelligence. Jordan recognized the purple academic regalia.
“Harvard Law. My alma mater,” Jordan said. “Although it’s been quite a few years since I graduated.”
“This is Shannon Dunn,” Hanover said, pointing to the blonde. “And her sister, Zoe. They graduated a week ago. I’ve been asked to speak with you at the behest of her father, Andrew Dunn.”
Jordan recognized the name. “As in FBI Director Andrew Dunn?”
Hanover nodded. “Shannon and Zoe are his daughters. The Director hasn’t heard from them for a week. They left Cambridge for Los Angeles right after graduation. Said they wanted to enjoy one last big blowout before entering the ‘real world.’ They wanted to check out Hollywood, Beverly Hills... maybe run into a movie star or two. Communication from both women came to a dead stop a week ago. No calls, texts, emails, social media posts… nothing. For all intents and purposes, they’ve vanished.”
“I assume you pinged their phones?”
“Both stopped transmitting five days ago.”
“You said they were headed to Los Angeles. Did you confirm that they arrived?”
“They did. Airport security cams show Shannon’s Audi entering the parking garage at Logan Airport in Boston. Four hours later they picked up their rental car at Los Angeles International. We tracked them to the condominium the Director had rented for them. Shannon and Zoe called their father to let him know they had arrived. No one has heard from them since. Agents in Los Angeles searched the condo. The girls had unpacked. There was an open bottle of wine sitting on the dining room table along with two empty glasses and a card from the Director congratulating them on their graduation and wishing them a good stay.”
“Nice touch,” Jordan said.
“It would have been,” Chris Hanover said, “except the card and the wine weren’t left by the Director. Someone else did that. We printed the bottle. It came back clean, but the contents didn’t.”
“What did you find?”
“Trace amounts of Rohipnol.”
“The date rape drug.”
The agent nodded.
“Any signs of a struggle?
Hanover shook his head. “No forced entry to the building or the apartment. We’re going over their phone records, talking to friends, acquaintances... trying to connect the dots.”
“Does the Director know of anyone who would want to harm his family?”
“No.”
“What about Zoe or Shannon? Could one of them been targeted?”
“We’re looking into that. Director Dunn adopted Zoe. Mitch Dawson, her father, was his best friend. He retired from the Bureau eight years ago, died six months thereafter. Cancer.”
“What did Agent Dawson do when he was with the FBI?”
“Executive Assistant Director, National Security Branch, Counterterrorism Division.”
Jordan stared at the pictures. “Both fathers are high profile. Do you think Shannon and Zoe’s disappearance might be related to a case?”
“We’re not ruling anything out at this stage. Director Dunn is working with the investigative lead on the case. He also happens to be someone close to you. Special Agent Grant Carnevale, your godfather.”
Jordan smiled. “My father has known Agent Carnevale for decades. They’re best friends. He should have been my dad’s business partner, you know.”
Hanover nodded. “Grant never stops talking about it. More accurately, he never lets us forget it.”
Jordan laughed. “I’m not surprised. My dad’s been trying to recruit him away from the Bureau for the last twenty years.”
“It’s my understanding they studied together at MIT,” the agent said.
Jordan nodded. “That’s right. The theories on computerized machine intelligence my father developed there became the foundation for his company, Farrow Industries.”
Agent Hanover smiled. “Grant calls being recruited by the Bureau right out of MIT and not going into business with your dad his ‘billion-dollar mistake.’”
“Yes,” Jordan said, “My father has done very well for himself. There aren’t too many companies in the world today that are bigger than Farrow Industries.”
Hanover removed a small envelope from his jacket pocket. “You should know when Special Agent Carnevale heard about Shannon and Zoe’s disappearance he reached out to the Director personally. He feels no one is better suited to assist with this investigation than you.”
Jordan smiled. “I appreciate that. But I must admit I’m a little surprised that the Bureau would even entertain the use of a psychic in this or any case.”
“Under normal circumstances, that would be true. But it turns out Director Dunn’s late wife, Caitlin, was a fan of yours. She’d read all your books and followed your career. She’d told the Director about your reputation for helping to solve missing persons cases and that the FBI should enlist your services to help with cold-case investigations.” Hanover handed Jordan the envelope. “Director Dunn wanted you to have this. He thought it might help you locate his daughters.”
Jordan tore open the envelope. It contained two items: a gold herringbone necklace and silver charm bracelet.
“The necklace belongs to Shannon,” Hanover said. “The bracelet is Zoe’s.”
Jordan held the objects in her hand. The images were powerful, intense, and frightening. She hid her reaction from the agent.
“I can speak to the Director tonight,” Jordan said. “I have another speaking engagement to attend tomorrow in Hawaii. My parents will be vacationing there for the next few months. My husband and I are catching a lift on the company jet. We fly out tonight.” Jordan jotted down her cellphone number. “Ask Director Dunn to call me after 7:00 P.M. We should be in the air by then. I’ll have time to talk.”
Special Agent Hanover stood. “I’ll relay the message. Thank you for your help, Mrs. Quest.”
“My pleasure.” Jordan said. She stood, shook hands with the FBI agent, and returned to the conference hall. The impromptu meeting had put her behind schedule. Her fans, books in hand, stood in line to meet her.
Jordan sat behind the table, greeted her first fan, signed her book and smiled for a picture. But her mind was no longer on the conference.
It was on the vision the necklace and bracelet revealed. The damp, dark place where Shannon and Zoe were being held. And the shackles that bound them.
4
JENNIFER BLEEKER, Jordan’s publicist, leaned over her shoulder and whispered in her ear. “Limo’s arrived, Jordan. Time to wrap up.”
Jordan smiled for a photo. Three remaining fans waited to meet her. “Give me ten minutes, Jenny,” she replied.
“Your driver wants you to know the traffic’s heavy,” Jennifer replied. “Says you’ll need at least an hour to get to the airport.”
“Remind him it’s my father’s jet,” Jordan teased. “I’m sure they won’t take off without me.”
“Point taken,” Jennifer conceded. “For the record, the guy is gorgeous. Looks like he stepped right off the cover of a romance novel. Do you need me to carry your bags to the car? Better yet, I could warm up the back seat for you.”
Jordan laughed. “You’re bad.”
Jennifer winked. “You have no idea.”
“Thanks for offering, Jen,” Jordan said. “I think I’ve got it covered.”
Jennifer smiled. “Trust me, it’s no trouble. I’ll be happy to take one for the team.”
Jordan shook her head. “I’m sure you would. Tell him I’ll be along shortly.”
The publicist sighed. “If I must.” She picked up Jordan’s overnight bag and checked her watch. “You now have exactly eight minutes.”
“I’ll be there soon,” Jordan said. “Why don’t you go keep Rock company?”
“Rock?” Jennifer asked. “His name is Rock?”
Jordan smiled and rolled her eyes. “Dionne. His name is Rock Dionne. He’s French-Canadian.”
“Mrs. Rock Dionne…” Jennifer mused. “I could get used to that.”
“He’s married.”
“Of course, he is,” Jennifer said. “Thanks for ruining a perfectly good fantasy. You’re killing me, Jordan.”
Jordan laughed. “Get out of here. Now I’m down to what… six minutes?”
“Five and counting.”
Jordan saw her last fan in line was getting impatient. “Go!” she said. “I’ll be right there.”
“Okay.” Jennifer called back as she left the room. “Rock and I will be waiting.”
Jordan laughed, then apologized to the man. “I’m very sorry for keeping you waiting.” She opened his copy of her book to the title page and uncapped her Sharpie marker. “What’s your name?”
The man wore an open grey windbreaker, herringbone flat cap, yellow-lens sunglasses, and black leather driving gloves. He was not wearing a convention badge.
“Marsden,” he said.
“Nice name,” Jordan said. Something about the man seemed strange. Jordan couldn’t put her finger on it. “First or last?” she asked.
“It was my fathers,” the man said, failing to answer her question directly. “And his fathers before that. Been that way for five generations.”
Jordan looked up. “Amusing answer,” she replied.
“Is it?” the man asked. He placed a hand behind his back. “I don’t know why. You asked me, so I told you.”
Jordan had a bad feeling.
Because of her family’s immense wealth and the potential for kidnapping or personal harm that came with it, Jordan’s father employed round-the-clock shadow security. The team’s job was to keep his family safe whenever they were in public. The highly skilled operatives were experts at maintaining a covert overwatch, blending into crowds and remaining inconspicuous, yet they were never far away. The members of the Farrow family - Jordan, her husband Keith, and her parents - had each been given a special word, a panic word they were to call out if they suspected they were in danger. Jordan’s word was Shortcake; the playful nickname her father had given to her whe
n she was a child. Growing up, she had been warned of the consequences of using it, and that it was only to be used in an emergency. If she yelled the word right now members of her security team would surround her within seconds and escort her to safety. The threat would be dealt with accordingly.
The strained conversation and odd behavior of the stranger made her uncomfortable.
She had never used her panic word before. She found it on her lips.
A man and woman emerged from the crowd, casualty positioning themselves on either side of the odd man.
Marsden removed his hand from his waist and placed it in his jacket pocket.
The man moved in behind him to his left, the woman to his right. She brushed past him and skimmed her hand across his waist. She smiled at Marsden, apologized for bumping into him, then looked at her partner.
No weapon detected.
Jordan realized the man and woman were members of her shadow detail. Perhaps additional operatives were circulating in the crowd or standing at the adjoining tables. Until their services were needed, she would remain unaware of their presence. All that was important right now was that she was safe.
“What police department are you with?” Jordan asked. She signed the man’s book and handed it back to him.
Marsden tucked the book under his arm. “I’m not.”
The operative on Marsden’s left moved closer. The woman walked to the side of the signing table, opening a direct path between herself and Jordan.
“I knew your father, Michael Farrow. Sonofabitch took everything I had.”
Jordan stood up. “Excuse me? Who are you? How the hell did you get in here?”
Marsden removed a pen from his pocket, pointed it at her, then threw it on the table.
“You’ll be hearing from me.” Marsden glanced at the operatives standing beside him. “Count on it.”
The woman looked at her partner. She shook her head as if to say, ‘don’t engage.’
“Get out!” Jordan yelled.
Marsden touched the brim of his cap and smiled. “Good day, Mrs. Quest.”
The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1 Page 2
