Table of Contents
RECKLESS WHISPER
Also Available
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Epilogue
EXCERPT – SILENT RUN
Book List
About the Author
RECKLESS WHISPER
Off The Grid: FBI Series #2
Barbara Freethy
Also Available
Off The Grid: FBI Series
Perilous Trust (#1)
Reckless Whisper (#2)
Desperate Play (#3), Coming Soon!
Elusive Promise (#4), Coming 2019!
Dangerous Choice (#5), Coming 2019!
Lightning Strikes Series
Beautiful Storm (#1)
Lightning Lingers (#2)
Summer Rain (#3)
Romantic Suspense Duos
Taken and Played
Silent Run and Silent Fall
For a complete list of books, visit Barbara's website!
Reckless Whisper – Book Blurb
In RECKLESS WHISPER (Off the Grid: FBI Series #2), the suspense continues with the second standalone novel in a new romantic suspense series by #1 New York Times Bestselling Author Barbara Freethy.
FBI Special Agent Bree Adams has a personal secret, something she has managed to keep hidden for the past ten years—at least she always thought so… But a chance encounter on a train, and whispered words of chilling consequence change everything. Is the truth about to come out or is someone playing with her mind and her life?
Nathan Bishop knew Bree when she was a street kid like him. Their dark past once put him in her debt, and he had to pay up. The last thing he wants to do is help her again. He has a new life now—a life he could lose with one wrong move. But the beautiful Bree is desperate—how can he walk away?
To get to the truth—protect innocent lives and their own—they'll have to fight their way through the past, as danger stalks their every move, and heartbreaking choices must be made.
Don't miss this emotionally deep and haunting story! A thrilling psychological romantic suspense novel!
Reckless Whisper
Off The Grid: FBI Series #2
© Copyright 2018 Barbara Freethy
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 9781943781638
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For information: [email protected]
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One
"You'll be sorry."
The hoarse, whispered words shook her out of sleep. Special Agent Bree Adams sat up in bed, holding her phone closer to her ear. "Who is this?"
Silence followed, but she could hear breathing.
"If you want to threaten me, don't you want me to know who you are?" she challenged.
The call disconnected.
She drew in a breath and let it out, looking around her shadowy bedroom. Through the curtains, she could see the New York City lights, and hear the loud noises from the garbage trucks making their way through the back alley behind her apartment building. The clock on the bedside table told her it was just past dawn.
Getting out of bed, she threw on a robe and shivered as she walked into the hallway of her one-bedroom apartment to turn on the heat. It was early October, and it definitely felt like winter was coming. The cold mornings were actually a welcome change from the long, hot summer, a summer where so many things had changed. There had been a massive shakeup at the FBI New York field office in June, the fallout of which was still rippling through the building.
As she entered her kitchen and turned on the coffeemaker, she looked around her apartment. Everything appeared to be normal. Nothing was out of place. But she felt unsettled, which was obviously what the caller had been going for.
How had he gotten her number? As a federal agent, she used every precaution to protect her personal life. She'd ask one of the techs to see if they could trace the call, but it was doubtful that would be successful. Prepaid burner phones that could be dumped after every call made tracing criminals through their phones extremely difficult.
The male voice had also been deliberately altered, which meant that whoever was calling her had been smart enough to mask his voice. Was that because she knew him?
Since joining the FBI five years ago, she'd spent most of her career working child abductions and had become a member of the CARD program seven months earlier, making her part of one of several Critical Action Response Detail teams who sprang into action to help local law enforcement find an endangered child within the first critical hours after an abduction.
It was a job filled with highs and lows—sometimes frustrating, discouraging, terrifying and occasionally jubilant. But she loved it. Being able to put a family back together always made her feel a bit more whole.
Her phone rang again, and her nerves tightened.
Walking quickly back into the bedroom, she picked up the phone from the bed, steeling herself to hear the same creepy, cryptic voice.
But it was her team leader, Special Agent Dan Fagan, and she knew what that meant.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Ten-year-old disappeared from the backstage area of a school concert last night just after eight p.m. A broken white rose was found near the back door."
Her body tightened. This would be the fourth time in six months that a child had disappeared from a school event. The eleven-year-old girl in Newark had been found dead seven days later, the twelve-year-old girl from Albany had also been killed a week after her disappearance, and the twelve-year-old girl from Philadelphia had been found alive in an abandoned building, probably only one day before she would have met the same sad ending. While they'd been thrilled to save that child's life, the kidnapper was still in the wind.
Had he struck again?
Was the creepy phone call she'd just received somehow connected to this incident?
She'd been the one to track down the girl in Philadelphia. She'd been the face on the news. She'd been the one to promise that they would do everything they could to find the White Rose Kidnapper, as the press had dubbed him.
"Where did it happen?" she asked.
"Chicago. He's apparently moving west."
Her heart jumped into her throat, and the phone slipped out of her hand, the crash bringing her back to reality.
She picked it up, seeing a crack on the screen, which felt prophetic. She'd left Chicago a long time ago and vowed to never go back.
"Is the Midwest team on it?" She could barely manage to get the words out through her tight lips.
"Yes. But they want you to consult. You've been working up a profile on this guy for months. How fast can you get to the airport?"
"I'll be there within the hour. But you should know—I just got a threatening call, altered male voice. He said I'd be sorry."
"That was it?"
"That was it," she confirmed.
"I'll get Oscar to look into it," Dan said, referring to one of their techs. "You get yourself to Chicago and be careful."
She set the phone down and drew in several deep breaths. She would go to Chicago because it was her job, and a child's life was on the line.
But just because she was going back to Chicago didn't mean she was going home.
* * *
After landing in Chicago just after nine a.m. on Wednesday morning, Bree received a thorough briefing at the Chicago FBI field office, led by Assistant Special Agent in Charge (ASAIC) Warren Hobbs. Warren was a stern-looking man in his mid-forties with black hair and dark eyes, and from what Bree knew of Hobbs, he was a smart, aggressive investigator, but he clearly had no patience for slow thinkers.
His briefing had been on point, from the AMBER alert, to the crime scene investigation, witness and family interviews, neighborhood searches, and media coverage. When it was over, Hobbs called on her to read the agency in on the details of the previous abductions linked to the White Rose Kidnapper and the behavioral profile they'd built so far.
Just like the three other girls, Hayley had vanished from her school, a place where she should have been safe. Bree had worked up several theories on why the school setting appealed to the kidnapper, why a white rose was left at the scene, and the fact that all three previously abducted children had been kept alive for seven days before they were either discovered or killed. If the timing held true, they had less than one week to find Hayley alive.
They had few details regarding the identity of the kidnapper, other than that he was male, around six feet tall, with a muscular build and brown hair. The surviving victim had been blindfolded through most of her ordeal, and on the few occasions the blindfold had been removed, the kidnapper had worn a ski mask to obscure his features. The victim had stated that the kidnapper's voice was deep and low and always menacing. He'd said very little, but he'd referred to her as his pretty little girl and occasionally had quoted a phrase from the Bible about redemption or revenge.
Bree thought that the seven-day timeframe might possibly be tied into the biblical idea that God had created the world in seven days, and that the kidnapper might be creating his own world in that amount of time. Whatever the reason, every minute counted if they were going to find the latest victim, Hayley Jansen, alive.
When the briefing ended just before eleven, she took a cab across town to meet with Hayley's parents. While she'd be retracing steps already taken by the Chicago special agents and the local police, it was important for her to make her own assessment, and also determine whether this could be a copycat event.
The Philadelphia case had hit the national news, and someone in Chicago might have decided to make their own play, ride someone else's coattails toward their own fame.
There were a few small differences in the abduction scenarios. The other three girls had all been blonde with brown eyes while Hayley had brown hair and brown eyes. The white rose found near the back door of Hayley's abduction had been a hybrid tea rose while the other three roses had been floribundas. They were small details and might mean nothing, or they might mean a lot.
* * *
The Jansens lived in Lincoln Park, an upscale neighborhood on the north side of Chicago. Their two-story, three-bedroom home was on a beautiful tree-lined street, not far from the Lincoln Park Zoo, Lake Shore Drive and Lake Michigan.
This neighborhood was a far cry from the city streets she had roamed as a child, which was both reassuring and disturbing. As a kid, she'd always believed that children who lived in houses like these had everything they needed, that they were safe and protected. Of course, now she knew better, but it still felt wrong when she went into a community where residents weren't used to being exposed to the dark side of humanity.
As she got out of the cab, a blast of cold wind almost knocked her off her feet. The Windy City was living up to its reputation, but she was okay with that. Maybe the cold would freeze her heart and keep the memories away.
She made her way across the street, through the crowd of reporters getting ready to file their stories for the noon news. After flashing her badge, the local police officer waved her inside.
Stepping into the entry, her practiced eye swept the interior, noting quick details. The home was nicely decorated with paintings on the walls, sleek hardwood floors and furniture that looked comfortable and remarkably clean, considering there were apparently three children living in the house. Hayley had a younger brother who was six and a sister who was four.
The children seemed confused and out of sorts, the little girl crying, as she and her brother were taken into the kitchen by their grandparents. Other assorted family members and close family friends made themselves scarce as she sat down with Hayley's parents, Mark and Lindsay Jansen, in the living room.
She knew quite a bit about the Jansens already. They were an attractive, fit couple, in their early forties. They had met in college and married shortly thereafter, celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary three weeks earlier. Mark was the chief financial officer for Buckner Investments. Lindsay was a former teacher, now a stay-at-home mom.
Hayley was their oldest child. She had been adopted after the Jansens experienced eight years of infertility and two years on adoption waiting lists. To their shock and amazement, when Hayley was four years old, they'd conceived their son Connor, and two years later, their daughter Morgan.
Hayley's adoption had been closed, and while the Jansens knew nothing about the biological parents, a local judge had unsealed the records shortly after Hayley's disappearance. The biological mother, Samantha Harkness, had been a sixteen-year-old teenager living in Hammond, Illinois, a poverty and crime-ridden suburb of Chicago. She'd died of an overdose, six months after Hayley's birth. The biological father was unknown. While the police couldn't completely rule out the possibility that someone from the bio family was involved, it didn’t seem likely, especially not with the white rose connection.
Mark took Lindsay's hand as they settled on the couch. He had the look of a runner, long, lean, and thin. He wore gray slacks and a light-blue, button-down shirt. Lindsay had on black yoga pants and a form-fitting zip-up jacket. Neither looked like they had slept. They were pale, with shadows under their eyes and desperation written across the lines of their faces.
"What can we tell you to help us get our daughter back?" Mark asked quickly. "The other FBI agent said you're some kind of expert?"
"I've investigated similar cases. I know you've already told your story several times, and I promise this won't take long, but I need you to tell me again when you realized Hayley was missing."
"All right. Whatever it takes to bring my baby home." He drew in a breath. "Hayley was supposed to perform a ballet number at the fall concert last night," he said, his voice thick with pain. "When the curtain came up for her group, she wasn't on stage." He swallowed hard. "We went into the back to find out what was wrong. We thought she had gotten stage fright. She can be shy at times. The teacher said she'd seen her go into the bathroom with Grace before their group performed."
"But Hayley wasn't there," Lindsay continued. "I went into the restroom, and there was no one inside. I looked all around for her. You can't imagine the terror that ran through my mind. It was her school, a safe place. Everyone backstage knew her." Her voice broke as a tear ran down her face.
"The back door to the stage was open," Mark said, when his wife faltered in the story. "We ran into the staff parking lot. Hayley wasn't there, but one of the other kids said she saw Hayley leave with someone. That's when the police were called."
"That child would be Grace Roberts?"
"Yes. She's a year younger than Hayley, but they have been taking ballet together for the last two years, and they've become good friends," Lindsay put in. "Grace said she thought Hayley had just gotten scared and decided not to perform." Lindsay took an anguished breath. "You have to find m
y daughter, Agent Adams. She must be so scared. I can't imagine what she's thinking." More tears ran down Lindsay's face, and Mark pulled his wife into a tight embrace.
"Please," he said, heartbreak in his voice, as he looked back at her. "Find her. She's our baby girl. I've already told the detective I'll take a polygraph. I'll do whatever needs to be done, as will Lindsay and anyone else in the family. I know the father is always the first suspect. Do what you have to do to cross me off the suspect list, so we can figure out who took her."
She nodded, seeing sincerity and candor in Mark's eyes. "Is there anyone who has a problem with you or your wife? Any incidents with neighbors, friends, coworkers? A road rage incident you might have forgotten about? Any small problem that you don’t think is connected but might be?"
"No," he said. "We've thought and thought all night long. We don't have problems with people. Our lives have been drama free until now. We can't imagine anyone who would want to hurt us or Hayley. She's just a sweetheart."
"And no one has contacted you?" she pressed, hating to put them through this, but finding Hayley was all that mattered. "There hasn't been any request for money? No one has told you not to tell the police or work with the FBI?"
"No," Mark said, shaking his head again. "I wish someone had contacted me. I'd sell everything we own to get Hayley back."
Mark and Lindsay were saying everything she would have expected them to say, and their behavior was absolutely consistent with what they were going through, but she wanted to split up the husband and wife team for at least a few moments.
"Mrs. Jansen—can I see Hayley's bedroom? I want to know as much about her as I can, and it helps to see where she sleeps," she said, getting to her feet.
Lindsay stood up, wiping the tears off her wet cheeks. "Of course. I'll show you."
Bree was happy that Mark chose not to accompany them upstairs. He seemed to have the bigger, strong personality, and she wanted to know what Lindsay would say on her own, if her husband wasn't in the room.
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