“Thank you for joining us,” Gaston said graciously. “This is Agent Valencia from Homeland Security. He’s briefing us on the investigations conducted at the Watson, Mendon, Longfellow, and Williams residences.”
Mentally I went through those names and recalled that these were the ladies in the shop when the suicide bomber walked in and detonated the device. I nodded and motioned to Agent Valencia to continue. Although I really wanted to talk to Dutch and the director alone, I’d have to wait until this meeting was over.
I also noticed that Dutch wasn’t looking at me, and I could tell he was still pretty miffed from the day before. I couldn’t exactly blame him except for the fact that I thought he should friggin’ understand that I wasn’t doing this to be a pain in his asterisk. I was trying to keep him safe.
“As I was saying, Director,” Valencia said, eyeing me with part curiosity, part hostility, “we didn’t find anything incriminating at the Watson residence last night. No bomb-making material, guns, or manifesto in the house or on the computers, and the kid’s Facebook page comes up clean. We’re gonna continue to keep tabs on him, though, just to make sure he doesn’t have ties to any terrorist groups, but at this point I think the kid’s in the clear.”
I bristled. “His name is Brody,” I said softly.
Valencia paused and looked at me. “Excuse me?”
All eyes swiveled to me. I cleared my throat. “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve gotten to know Brody Watson, and I can tell you he had nothing to do with this.”
Valencia cocked his head. “How long have you known him…er…who are you again?”
I felt my cheeks flush. I extended my hand. “Abigail Cooper. I’m a civilian profiler here with Director Gaston’s team.”
Valencia shook my hand firmly (too firmly if you ask me) and said, “I didn’t know we had any civilians on this case.”
“We’ve made an exception for Miss Cooper,” Gaston said smoothly. Gaston had this way of stating something with such subtle authority that it invited no further debate or discussion. Valencia simply nodded and moved on.
“Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, we also came up bust at the Mendon, Longfellow, and Williams residences. Williams and Longfellow lived together in an apartment not far from the beauty shop where they worked, and there wasn’t anything in their place that indicated foul play. Mendon was dropped off by her mother for a prebridal hairdo. She was getting married next month.”
I bit my lip. Man…that hit close to home. “How old was she?” I asked.
“Twenty-seven,” Dutch answered, and he moved a photo of the young woman in front of me. She was a beautiful girl with dark red hair and creamy white skin. I had to swallow and blink a lot to hold my emotions in check. There were days I hated this work.
“We don’t have a positive ID on any of bodies yet,” Harrison said. “We’ve reached out to each woman’s dentist, and we’re waiting for them to compare dental records, but we’re pretty sure we’ve identified four of the five women involved.”
“What we need is a lead on the bomber,” Valencia said. Turning to Gaston, he added, “I know you want to keep this newest eyewitness under wraps, Director, but he or she needs to be vetted by our team.”
For a brief instant, the director’s eyes flashed a silent warning to me. I understood perfectly and kept my lips zipped. “The eyewitness has already been vetted by our team,” Gaston assured Valencia. “We trust that the description of the bomber was accurate.”
Valencia wasn’t convinced. “Still, Director, our guys need to interview this eyewitness. We need to satisfy our own curiosity about this person’s credibility. Until then, we won’t be sure they aren’t just feeding you some fabricated description of the bomber to throw you bureau boys off track.”
I felt my cheeks heat and I dropped my chin to stare at the tabletop. If I didn’t hold myself in check, I was gonna blow my cover. Thankfully at that moment there was a knock on the door and Agent Rodriguez—one of our guys—poked his head in. “Sorry, sirs, but there’s a call on line three and I think one of you should take it.”
“Who is it, Oscar?” Dutch asked.
I felt goose bumps line my arms. I knew even before Rodriguez answered, so I said, “It’s the mother of the girl in the sketch.”
The room went very still, and everyone looked from me to Agent Rodriguez, who was in turn staring at me in shock. “That’s right,” he said. “Man, Cooper, that radar of yours gets sharper every day.”
Valencia turned to stare at me with squinty, suspicious eyes. “How the hell did you know that?”
“Never mind about that,” Brice said, already moving to his desk to take the call. Before he picked up the line, he pointed to Dutch and then to the extra phone on the side cabinet next to our table. Dutch leaned over and pulled the phone close and nodded to Harrison, who then picked up the line, told the caller to hold, and dialed a three-digit number; Dutch’s phone lit up. Once Dutch was on the line, Harrison went back to the woman. “Yes, ma’am, this is Special Agent in Charge Brice Harrison. How may I help you?”
I leaned over to try to hear through Dutch’s connection, and he politely held the phone a little away from his ear so I could hear.
The woman on the other end was crying. “I need to talk to someone,” she said. “My daughter, Michelle, is missing! A neighbor of mine saw a sketch on TV and she thinks it’s Michelle. She told me to call this number.”
Harrison sat down in his seat and took up a pen and a piece of scrap paper. “Your name, ma’am?”
“Colleen,” she said, her voice quivering. “Colleen Padilla.”
“Mrs. Padilla, when was the last time you saw your daughter?”
Harrison’s voice was smooth and calm, and I knew he’d get as much information out of her as he could without giving away any facts, because once he told her that the woman in the sketch had been killed in the bombing, he’d never get another detail out of her.
“I saw her three days ago. We had breakfast together before her morning class,” Mrs. Padilla said.
“Your daughter is a student?”
“Yes, at UT.” I could hear the impatience and fear in Mrs. Padilla’s voice ratchet up. “Sir, can you please tell me if you know where my daughter is?”
“How old is your daughter, ma’am?” Harrison said, as if she hadn’t even asked him a question.
“Twenty-two.”
“And where has she been living?” he asked next.
“Agent…whatever your name is,” Mrs. Padilla snapped. “I’m not answering one more question until you tell me if you know where my daughter is!”
Harrison’s gaze flickered to Dutch, and he pointed to the two of us. Dutch nodded. “Mrs. Padilla, I’d like to send some people out to talk to you about your daughter. Can you give me the address of where you are now?”
“Where is my daughter?” the woman yelled.
We all pulled back from our phones a little. “I don’t know,” Harrison said calmly. “But, Mrs. Padilla, I promise to find out if the woman in the sketch is your daughter.”
“Why is Michelle in a sketch in the first place?” Mrs. Padilla pressed. “What’s happened to the woman you’re showing on TV?”
“I promise to have my team explain everything to you, ma’am, but first we need to locate you. Where are you calling from?”
Mrs. Padilla began to cry in earnest now. “I’m at work,” she said. “Oh, God! Michelle! What’s happened to you?”
It took Harrison another few moments to coax the address from her, but the second he had it, he handed it over, and Dutch, Candice, and I were in motion, heading toward the door.
“I’ll follow,” Valencia said.
That stopped us cold. We all looked at Harrison, who in turn looked to Gaston.
Valencia glared at us. “I’m going,” he said firmly. For effect he turned to the director and said, “Sir, remind your agents that this is a joint investigation until it can be determined that we don’t have some homegrown terro
r cell at work.”
Gaston regarded Valencia thoughtfully; then he turned to Harrison. “Mrs. Padilla sounded very upset,” he said.
“Very,” Harrison agreed.
“I believe this is best handled by as few imposing men in black suits as possible, Agent Valencia.”
Valencia’s face flushed with anger. Reaching for his cell (no doubt to call someone and raise a little hello Dolly), he said, “I don’t care how upset that woman is, Director. If her daughter is a domestic terrorist, then we’ll need to talk to her.”
Gaston discreetly waved his hand at us, and once again we were all in motion. We booked out of the office and hurried down the aisle when I noticed that Dutch still didn’t have his vest on. “Yo, cowboy!” I called to his back. (Both he and Candice could walk a lot faster than my gimpy self.)
Dutch glanced at me over his shoulder, his brow raised in question.
I stopped at his desk and pointed to his Kevlar. “Forgetting something?”
Dutch grumbled under his breath, turned on his heel, grabbed his vest, and said, “Happy?”
“Not until you put it on,” I said sweetly.
“Guys,” Candice said from the door. “Come on!”
Dutch leveled a look at me before he put his head through the neck hole. “Let’s move,” he growled.
I didn’t waste time standing there giving him a lecture.
I saved that for the car. “Why are you being so reckless?” I demanded once we were all settled into Candice’s car. (She got to drive simply because she had the most gas.)
“How am I being reckless?” he snapped. “I’m wearing the damn thing, aren’t I?” Dutch swiveled in his seat to show me he was fastening the straps to his vest.
“Yeah, and if I hadn’t reminded you about it, you’d have walked right out without it.”
He turned away from me and didn’t reply. He just filled the car with an intense, cold silence.
I saw Candice look at me in her rearview mirror. Her brows were lifted in that “Yikes!” kind of way.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m just trying to keep you safe, you know.”
“So you’ve told me.”
I swallowed hard. Man! He was really starting to hurt my feelings. Pulling open my handbag, I dug through it to pull out the fat coin purse I kept. Opening it, I dumped out a handful of quarters into my palm. “And what’s so damn wrong with wanting to keep you safe?” I demanded, throwing a quarter right at him. “Shit, Dutch!” I flipped another quarter at him. “You act like I’m being unreasonable when all I’ve asked you to do is wear your stupid”—insert lots of choice, colorful expletives here and corresponding quarters—“vest!” With that, I turned the coin purse upside down and dumped all the change I had left in his lap. “You think I’m doing it because I like to torture you? No, you asshat! I’m doing it because I freaking love you, although there are days when you make it really difficult!”
No one said a word after that for several minutes, but I did notice that Candice was driving even faster than she normally did. Finally, Dutch calmly and methodically gathered up all the coins and turned to me again. “You’re right,” he said with an apologetic smile. Handing me the quarters, he added, “These are on me.”
I crossed my arms and glared at him.
“Peace?” he said, again trying to get me to take the money.
I sighed heavily and held out my hands. And with that, Dutch and I put our quarrel to rest.
* * *
Mrs. Padilla worked in a rather nondescript office building right off MoPac Highway in south Austin. We found her crying at her desk surrounded by coworkers who leveled curious and cautious looks at us as we were shown into her office by the receptionist. It appeared by the size and opulence of the space that Mrs. Padilla was pretty high up in the organization—an accounting agency by the tag on the suite door.
As the coworkers cleared out to give us some privacy, I let my eyes take in some detail.
Mrs. Padilla was a heavyset woman, probably in her late fifties, with brassy blond hair, small eyes, and a bit of a bulbous nose. I picked up her alcohol problem right away—it was pretty loud in her ether—and I also took in the mountains of clutter all over the office. There were stacks of paper, plastic bags filled with more paper, binders, and volumes of tax codes strewn all about. I’m a very tidy person by nature, and lots of clutter makes me feel squidgey. This office immediately set my nerves on edge, but I had to put that aside and focus on poor Mrs. Padilla.
We introduced ourselves to her, but I don’t think she took in any of our names, and she waved at us to sit, but every available seat had piles of paper on it. “Just put it on the floor,” she told us when we looked flummoxed.
Dutch carefully cleared off a seat for me, then began to clear off a seat for Candice, but she shook her head. Obviously trying to hide her own squeamishness at the mess, she said, “I’ll stand, thank you.”
Mrs. Padilla blinked her eyes at Candice and then she looked around at the disarray of her office, as if seeing its chaotic state for only the first time, and her lip quivered. “I’m sorry,” she blubbered, leaking fresh tears. “Michelle has been trying to get me to hire someone to help organize my office for years, but I’m always so busy. It’s gotten away from me.”
“It’s just fine, ma’am,” Candice assured her. “You think this is bad, you should see my junk drawer.”
Mrs. Padilla caught her breath before a half sob, half chuckle escaped her. And then she seemed to realize she was laughing because she placed a hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut as the crying took full control of her again. Candice moved to her side and rubbed her arm. “It’s okay, Mrs. Padilla,” she told her. “I know you’re worried about your daughter.”
At last Mrs. Padilla stopped her sobbing and dabbed at her eyes. Looking up at Candice, she said, “Michelle’s dead, isn’t she?”
Candice’s gaze drifted to Dutch. He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Padilla, we have no evidence of that. But what I’d like to do is see a photograph of your daughter and compare it to the sketch we’ve compiled.”
“This is about that bombing, isn’t it?” Mrs. Padilla said, her hand shaking as she pulled her purse out from a bottom drawer. “You think Michelle may have been in that salon, right?”
“We can’t be certain until we get some dental records and DNA, ma’am.”
Mrs. Padilla paused in the shuffling through her purse and again she squeezed her eyes closed, a look of relief washing over her. “It can’t be her,” she whispered. “She just had her hair done two weeks ago.”
When she opened her eyes again, she looked at us as if expecting us to agree with her. None of us gave her any indication that we either agreed or disagreed. We had to be very careful how we handled her and I knew it. Mrs. Padilla licked her lips nervously and pulled out her cell phone, which was one of those big Droid phones, not quite the size of a tablet, but with an oversized screen nonetheless. She tapped at the device and scrolled through several images, at last coming to a photo she thought we should look at. “This is Michelle.”
Even without leaning forward to look at the picture, I knew it was the girl I’d seen in my mind’s eye. Dutch pulled out his copy of the sketch and reached for her phone, casting me a very subtle glance as he did so. I dropped my gaze to let him know it was the same girl, but he still did a side-by-side comparison anyway for Mrs. Padilla’s sake.
“There’s a strong resemblance,” he said gently.
Mrs. Padilla balled her fists and put them to her eyes, sobbing near hysterics now.
Candice leaned over the poor woman and hugged her fiercely, and I thanked God she’d come with us. At last Mrs. Padilla appeared to have cried herself out, and dabbing once again at her eyes, she said, “Ask me what you need to.”
Dutch looked at his notes. “You said that you heard from your daughter three days ago. I checked her last known address before we got here, and it’s the same one listed to you, but from your response, I’m a
ssuming she no longer lives with you?”
Mrs. Padilla shook her head. “Her best friend has a two-bedroom house near campus and Michelle is staying there for the rest of the semester.”
“Where exactly?” Dutch asked.
She gave him the address and Dutch paused so that he could text it to Harrison before asking his next question. I had a feeling Harrison would be working on getting a warrant and send a team out to the girl’s house before we were done interviewing Mrs. Padilla.
“What’s Michelle studying in school?” Dutch asked.
“She’s been working on her PhD in psychology,” she said.
“Psychology?” Dutch repeated.
“Yes. Michelle has always been interested in how the human mind works. She’s just begun the PhD program and wants to complete it in the next five years. Eventually she wants to open up her own practice.”
Dutch tapped his pen on his notes. “When did you realize Michelle was missing?”
“This morning. Her roommate had called my phone yesterday looking for her, but I didn’t get the message until after I arrived here around seven a.m.” She blushed slightly and added, “It’s been a busy week.”
“Tell me about Michelle’s friends,” Dutch said next.
Mrs. Padilla dabbed at her eyes again. She was doing a great job of holding it together long enough to get through this interview. “She doesn’t have many. A handful really.”
“Why only a handful?”
Michelle’s mother sighed. “My daughter isn’t a party girl, Agent Rivers,” she said. “She’s always preferred her own company to most others. She likes to read, and write poetry, and her studies have kept her very busy. She doesn’t have much time to socialize.”
“Does your daughter work?”
Mrs. Padilla shook her head. “I’ve been paying her rent, grocery bills, and tuition. Michelle is such a good girl, and she works so hard, I didn’t want her to have the added stress of a job while she was working to complete her PhD.”
“So these friends of hers,” Dutch said, flipping back a page in his notes, “what kind of people are they?”
Deadly Forecast: A Psychic Eye Mystery Page 9
