by Debra Webb
“Agent Talley,” Worth called out, “get Alyssa Byrne’s father in my office now.” His gaze met Ryan’s as he added with a little less enthusiasm, “The rest of you, do what McBride tells you.” With that final order, the SAC promptly exited the conference room.
Ryan felt the floor beneath his feet shake with that gauntlet hitting the ground. Worth had just dumped the entirety of this mess in his lap. Nice to see the guy was living up to Ryan’s expectations. Then again, he had insisted on being in charge, hadn’t he?
His jaw clenched, Ryan focused his attention back on the monitor and reread the words on the screen. “We need maps on the locations of every cemetery in this city,” he told Grace. “Maps that include all surrounding buildings. And print me a copy of that e-mail, would you?”
She hit the necessary key and pushed back her chair. “Done. You can pick it up on the printer. I’ll need to access another system for those maps.”
“Give me what you can as it becomes available. Hard copies preferably.” Ryan stood and walked to the printer to retrieve the e-mail. There was something about the construction of the sentences in Devoted Fan’s notes that seemed familiar. He studied the phrasing. Couldn’t quite place it. But he’d read something written by this guy before.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Ryan glanced at the agent’s badge. Harold Pratt. Tall, thin, not much older than Grace, with a mug, as they say, only a mother could love. “Yeah?”
“Your coffee.” He presented a steaming cup.
Ryan didn’t know when she’d had the time, but Grace had done just what she said, he’d give her that. “Thanks, Pratt.” He accepted the cup as he considered the agents conversing among themselves on the other side of the room. While he had this guy’s attention, he asked, “How about giving me names to go with those faces.” He gestured with his cup to the trio who were likely laying odds on whether or not he could handle the pressure Worth had just piled on.
“The one with the purple tie is Boyd Davis,” Pratt said with a nod to the man who looked to be in his late thirties and who wore his blond hair high and tight.
“Ex-military,” Ryan suggested.
“That’s right,” Pratt said. “And Dan Arnold is the big black guy who looks like he should be a linebacker for the Falcons.” He leaned closer to Ryan. “You don’t want him mad at you. The older man”—Pratt arrowed a look at the agent with the full head of gray hair—“is Ken Aldridge. He’s counting the days until retirement.”
Aldridge glanced their way as if he’d sensed the mention of his name. Since he was senior, Ryan opted to start with him. “Aldridge,” he barked, “I need you to start running the contents of the e-mails through the system. See if you get a hit on the phrasing.” He looked to the man built like a refrigerator. “Arnold, find out if there’s anything on that IP trace yet.”
Simultaneous “yes sirs” punctuated the agents’ departure to do his bidding. Now that was more like it. His self-confidence boosted just enough to be above basement level.
“I could cross-reference the significant terms used by the unsub with the names of buildings,” Davis offered, running a hand down his flamboyant tie, evidently worried he might be left out. “And see what I can come up with.”
“Good thinking, Davis.” Ryan turned to the agent next to him. “Pratt, you work with Davis on that. Run down the names and purposes of all buildings located in the vicinity of each cemetery Grace isolates, then do the cross-referencing.”
“Yes, sir.”
The agents plunged into an organized chaos that Ryan recognized all too well despite the passage of time and the distance he had put between himself and this world. People moved in and out of the room, talked at once, worked around each other, but there was a rhythm to the seemingly disconnected dance. A hum of productivity that meant things were happening, were coming together.
Ryan downed a couple of badly needed cups of coffee and searched his mind, sifting through old cases for a possible link to this guy, but found none. Though he attempted to slam the door on the subject, his thoughts shifted to Worth. There was something there that he couldn’t see...yet. Worth despised him, that was certain. But then, he’d expected that. It was the way he had looked at Grace that nagged at Ryan. As if Worth were worried that she’d screwed up somehow. Whatever differences the SAC had with Grace were none of his business. The only thing he needed to do was find this kid.
Not a damned thing more.
Grace returned with her initial findings. “We’ve narrowed the search parameters, but we’re still left with more than twenty cemeteries.” She spread the first five printouts on the conference table. “If you want to start with these, we’ll keep moving forward.”
She waited as if she expected him to instruct her further or to dismiss her. He didn’t do either. She executed a sharp about-face and went back to her task.
The only other female agent among the group bellied up to the table next to him. “Kim Schaffer,” she said as she surveyed the maps. “You can call me Schaffer. I’ve highlighted the maps with the hilly terrain. How do you want to do this?”
Now this agent Ryan could get along with. Straight to the point, no crap. Schaffer wore her tell-it-like-it-is attitude right up front for all to see. The lack of makeup and short, no-fuss hair said she didn’t waste time with frivolities.
Ryan set his cup aside and picked up the first map. “Well, Schaffer. We’re looking for a cemetery close to a nursing home or medical resource for the elderly. Some kind of facility that provides assurance or support of some sort. Could even be a bank or a security company that supplies home monitoring.” He gave her a look that said she knew as much as he did. “Could be just about anything.”
She nodded her understanding and grabbed a couple of maps. As she strode to an empty chair her hot-pink cowboy boots snagged his attention. The charcoal suit was classic, the boots a definite challenge to the establishment. She probably kept these guys walking the line.
Before diving into the maps, he asked the room at large, “Where’s Worth?” He needed an update on whatever the man was able to get from Alyssa Byrne’s father. That information could impact what they were looking for.
All present glanced up but Grace was the one to answer. “Worth is in his office preparing to question Alyssa Byrne’s father. He’ll brief us as soon as he has anything. ASAC Talley is coordinating the backup we may require with Birmingham PD’s liaison.”
Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge Talley was the only one Worth hadn’t left with Ryan. The boss had to have someone to order around.
“Good,” Ryan said though Grace had already returned to her map search. That left him wondering what to do next. He kept waiting for those old instincts to kick in but they just kept holding back.
For several lingering moments, he watched the interaction in the conference-room-turned-command-center. One thing quickly became clear; the guys gave Grace a wide berth as if they didn’t want to risk crossing her. He would have to catch her in a weak moment and ask her why. He had her tagged as an ice princess but the jury was still out on that one. Maybe she just didn’t know how to do the team thing. That was a personality defect with which he was intimately acquainted. Maybe they had something in common after all.
Right now he needed to lose himself to the process...and find that little girl.
An hour passed like a minute with the shuffling of maps and the tossing back and forth of building names and purposes.
“Wait.” Ryan hesitated on one map in particular. “What’s this?” He tapped the image of a tall building that stood across the street from a downtown cemetery.
Schaffer moved in to get a better look. “Oak Hill Cemetery. First cemetery in the city. And that”—she pointed to the building in question—“I believe, is the Social Security Administration.”
“That’s correct,” Davis chimed in, his fingers running over the computer keys. “Employs three hundred fifty people.”
“Oak Hill Cemetery is an
historic landmark only a couple of blocks from here,” Grace said, leaning past Ryan to get a better look at the map he and Schaffer were viewing.
Ryan’s long-slumbering instincts suddenly roused. Would the unsub have the balls to use a cemetery that close to the very authorities he was baiting? Judging by his actions thus far, that was an affirmative.
If the location was even a cemetery. For now that was a hunch, the only one they had. He could be wrong. The term “stiff” as used in the e-mail might not carry a double meaning as many of the other phrases obviously did.
“Cemetery’s on a hillside?” he confirmed with Schaffer as he traced the highlighted area on the map.
She nodded. “It certainly is.”
It all fell into place as if the answer had been typed in big bold letters in that e-mail. He tapped the map again. “That’s it.”
Grace chewed on her bottom lip a second, distracting him when he shouldn’t have been distractible.
“How can you be so certain?” she countered. “This seems too easy. Sure, the Social Security Administration provides a form of assurance to the elderly and maybe Alyssa Byrne’s father isn’t paying as he should, but we can’t be certain.”
“Don’t forget,” Pratt piped up, “our unsub said ‘where hundreds can see.’ The SSA employs hundreds.”
Grace exchanged a look with Pratt as if she didn’t appreciate that he had challenged her assessment.
“You said Byrne owns a construction company,” Ryan said to her, his certainty solidifying in spite of her questions.
“Two of them,” Grace confirmed, still seeming unconvinced.
“It wouldn’t hurt to look into how many illegal aliens he employs,” Schaffer offered, looking from Grace to Ryan.
Taking that ball and running with it, Ryan pressed, “Does he pay Social Security on every employee?” When Grace still looked skeptical, he tacked on, “This is the best lead we have based on the clues we were given. Unless we get something else, that’s where we go.”
Grace turned to Schaffer. “Can you nudge Worth to question Byrne about his hiring practices?”
“ASAP.” Schaffer strode off to get it done, her boot heels tapping against the floor.
Ryan glanced at the clock on the wall. The hours were counting off way too fast. The urge to make a move was palpable. “I don’t want to wait,” he said to Grace. “Let’s go. Pratt, Davis, and Aldridge can rendezvous with the Birmingham PD team and meet us there.”
“What if this turns out to be a wild goose chase, McBride?” Grace asked, caution and inexperience making her hesitate. “Is there a backup plan?”
He picked up the map for Oak Hill Cemetery. “Then we’ll do whatever we have to. That’s our backup plan.”
“I have to give Worth a heads-up.”
“Do it.”
Maybe this was too easy. Maybe he did have it all wrong. But there was only one way to find out.
Chapter Four
Oak Hill Cemetery
7:00 p.m.
16 hours remaining...
This felt wrong.
Vivian guided her Edge onto the narrow road that led through the gate and onto cemetery property. Before the vehicle came to a complete stop, McBride hopped out. He walked a few feet then turned all the way around to take in the foreign setting that was so familiar to her. City streets flanked the property on all sides, creating an island of the dead surrounded by a sea of asphalt and commuters. Traffic provided a dull drone of background music underscored by the occasional incoming commercial airliner that heralded the airport’s proximity.
No peace for the dead here.
As a kid, Vivian had come to this cemetery dozens of times for the walking tours. Her parents usually ended up searching the cemetery for her. She would sneak off to play in her favorite spot and then fall asleep. Her gaze landed on the Zinszer Mausoleum. She had dosed off in there once or twice.
She emerged from the SUV and glanced back at the only entrance, from Nineteenth Street, where a towering arch of wrought iron welcomed visitors. Several official vehicles arrived, along with Agents Pratt, Davis, and Aldridge.
From the entrance, the narrow serpentine drive flowed around and across cemetery property where magnolia and oak trees shaded the weathered headstones. Crape myrtles provided splashes of color, accenting the gray and green landscape. A small chapel-like structure, the Pioneer Memorial Building, housed the administrative office and stood like a sanctuary amid the dead interred here. On the Seventeenth Street side of the cemetery was the old caretaker’s cottage that now accommodated the Oak Hill Memorial Association office. Nothing had changed since she was a kid.
She looked to her right and in the distance the Social Security Administration Building loomed, its soaring, contemporary façade blocking the view of the mountains.
...where hundreds of those who issue a form of assurance to the elderly can see..
Why here? Why this close to the Bureau’s office...out in the open, where anyone passing on the street could have seen him doing his dirty business? Had he buried the girl here? Vivian shuddered at the thought. Reminded herself to think like a trained agent, not a woman.
And why this easy? The clues were a joke. She could have figured this much out hours ago. Why drag a seasoned veteran like McBride into the case? What was the connection between Devoted Fan and McBride? He’d referred to McBride as his “old friend.” What did any of that have to do with Alyssa Byrne?
Bottom line, could Vivian be absolutely certain that McBride hadn’t set this up somehow, as Worth suspected?
Maybe not...but she was willing to do whatever it took to find that child.
She had a bad feeling that nothing about this case or this unsub was going to be what it seemed. Her gaze landed on McBride. Like him. She had seen that flicker of vulnerability in him when he had mentioned his need for lots of coffee. The pain and disappointment he hadn’t camouflaged quickly enough with his fury when he’d learned she had betrayed him.
The man still had feelings, it seemed.
Maybe even a conscience.
But that didn’t make him the hero that part of her wanted to believe in. At the academy, the legends about him had been romanticized. But this was real...somebody could die for real.
Vivian focused on the agents and uniformed officers gathered around McBride for their orders. As she slowly walked that way, the group dispersed, spreading out across the hillside to commence the grid search McBride had discussed with her en route. The sound of another vehicle arriving drew her attention to the truck with the K-9s and their handlers.
If Alyssa Byrne was here, they would soon know it.
Nearing McBride’s position, she called out his name. When he turned to her, she pointed beyond him to the man exiting the memorial building with Agent Schaffer. “That’s Lester Holcomb, the caretaker.”
Vivian remembered him well. He’d worked here since she was a kid. His advanced age along with his stooped posture most likely prevented him from doing the heavy work around here anymore, but he was one of those who had every intention of staying on as long as he had a breath in him.
“Does he live on the grounds?” McBride wanted to know as she moved up alongside him.
“No. The locked gate is the only security at night.”
When Schaffer was within conversational range, with Holcomb in tow, she made the necessary introductions. “He’ll open the mausoleums for us since they keep them locked now.” To McBride, she said, “I’ve called Bob Greene, Holcomb’s helper. He’s on his way in.”
McBride considered the information before replying, “Have Davis or Pratt question him as soon as he arrives.”
“Yes, sir.” Schaffer immediately put through a call to pass along the instruction.
“Do the police perform any hourly drive-throughs at night?” McBride asked the caretaker as they walked to the nearest mausoleum.
“No, sir,” Holcomb said, riffling through the big ring of keys in his hand. “When we finish
for the day we lock the gate and go on home. Maybe you didn’t notice the signs but the city made it illegal to be in the cemetery after dark.”
Vivian and McBride exchanged a brief glance; undoubtedly he was thinking the same thing she was. Since when did a posted sign stop a determined lawbreaker? Since never.
“Have you had any trouble in the past?” McBride said, going on with his questioning.
Holcomb paused at their first stop. His gnarled hands shook as he poked the key into the lock. “Not in a good long while. But we did have a little vandalism a year or so back. Couple knocked-over headstones and some graffiti. Had to put locks on all of ’em after that.” He gestured to the mausoleum and wagged his head sadly. “Damned teenagers got too much time on their hands. Gives the old Devil plenty to work with.”
Once the rusty iron door was opened, McBride stepped inside. Vivian stayed close behind him. The musty smell invaded her nostrils with the first intake of breath. Dust and cobwebs held dominion over the interior, where a single tomb served as the focal point. McBride held out his hand and she slapped a steel Maglite into his palm, then sneezed.
“Bless you,” the caretaker offered.
“Thank you.” Her allergies always flared up in the fall. This dust wouldn’t help. The dull ache that had started behind her forehead had her wondering about McBride’s headache. She had watched him devour a fistful of aspirins before he had fallen asleep on the plane. She had drifted off herself. The first sleep she’d had since before Alyssa Byrne was reported missing. Later, when she had awakened, McBride had been watching her.
Even now, his way of looking so deep inside her flustered her. The man had that whole intimidation thing down to a science. Not to mention he filtered every damned thing between them through an erotic lens. She had to get a grip on how to handle that aspect of his persona.
Zoning back in on the here and now, she followed the flashlight’s beam over the limestone walls and floors, landing lastly on the tomb.
“Are the seals on all the tombs intact?” McBride asked their guide.
