by Deanna Chase
He glanced at Isabelle in the rear view mirror, sitting behind the sergeant. She’d seemed subdued since they’d left the parking structure.
It’d taken the rest of the afternoon to question drivers as they’d returned to their vehicles and were cleared one by one. Everything that had been on any floor of the structure had been retrieved and bagged according to location, by floor. He had noted that Isabelle had intently watched the objects being collected, occasionally reaching to the button of her glove but apparently thinking better of it. Mac had asked Brendan to stay on the remote chance that, if the man in the dark suit showed up, Brendan might recognize him. But as the cars had cleared out and no new ones were permitted entry, it became clear that the highly unlikely wasn’t going to happen–the man in the dark suit wasn’t going to saunter in and walk up to his car.
They weren’t going to get lucky.
But Mac already knew it wasn’t going to amount to luck. He’d pulled police reports for the campus going back three months. Esme’s bedroom at the house, the dorm room, and also the parking structure had been photographed. He’d even asked for a weather report for yesterday morning. There was no knowing where the telling clue would be found, because it was only when the entire body of evidence was together that he’d see how it was interconnected. Even so, he’d begun to formulate a picture.
The abductor had been organized by virtue of the fact that he’d been premeditated, selecting an out of the way locale that was dark, a time of day that was less heavily trafficked, and a victim who was low risk for him, someone he could overpower easily. He was likely a sexual predator, whether that gratification came from sex itself or something else involving the victim, because there had been no ransom call. And Esme was likely not his first victim because her abduction had gone too well. There was virtually no evidence.
Evidence, he thought, clenching his jaw. In addition to time, it was something they sorely needed. There could be no analysis without data. Eventually, as he sifted through it and started to reach conclusions, he’d even examine his own biases. He glanced at Isabelle again.
She seemed to be looking directly into the setting sun, her amber eyes turned a sparkling hue of gold. Her face was aglow in the dim orange light and her lips–he could read so much there. When she smiled, as she’d done with Brendan, there was something completely guileless in her face, but when she was impatient her lips nearly vanished into a thin line. She would crook her mouth up at the left corner when she was at a moment of decision, and she thought no one was looking. No matter how sure she sounded, the little movement betrayed what she felt. And when she did a ‘reading,’ her full lips parted, the curve of them captivating. He glanced at the scoop neck of her dress and the gentle dip between her–
Mac tightened his jaw and pointedly looked back out the windshield. Female FBI agents invariably wore business suits, like their male counterparts. Wearing a dress was simply not part of the uniform.
The FBI suits, he thought. Brendan said the man wore a suit. But who wears a suit to a kidnapping?
Mac narrowed his eyes. This abductor was moving further and further into outlier range. A college campus. Check. Not an unusual location. A parking structure? Check. Not an unusual spot. Close to the getaway vehicle. But a business suit? Not so much. Not on a campus. Who wears a suit on a campus?
He was dimly aware of their SUV exiting the freeway.
Not professors and not students.
Did administrators wear suits? Only higher ups. A dean or assistant dean, something on that order.
Was there a business school on campus? That would be a fit.
What would a list of men with dark hair, an average build, who wore suits to campus look like? It might not be too long. As he blinked, the car inched past a barrage of flashing bulbs and glaring media lights. The news presence had to have tripled since the morning.
“Wow,” said Sergeant Dixon. “Even for L.A., this is pretty bad.”
“Get us as close to the house as you can,” Mac said.
“Oh I’ll get us in the driveway,” Sergeant Dixon said. “No problem.”
True to his word, he did just that. As he moved slowly but steadily down the street, past one checkpoint after another, the wood barricades were moved aside and then replaced as the sergeant waved to people he obviously knew. Reporters tried to press toward the vehicle, and lights and microphones were aimed at them but to no avail. In only a few minutes, they were in the driveway.
As Mac opened the door, the sound of helicopters drew his attention. Up in the darkening sky, at least three different television stations had reporters hovering.
“What a circus,” he muttered.
He paused at the front bumper to let Isabelle precede him. She smiled a little at his gesture for her to go ahead and then was past him. It occurred to him that she’d never smiled at him before, not until that moment. But before he could smile back she was past him and headed toward the open front door. He frowned a little as he followed her, his eyes pausing on her narrow waist, then moving down those shapely legs. He couldn’t quite make sense of her.
When they’d left the house this morning, he’d been saddled with some friend of Ben's wife, some fraud claiming to be a psychic. In fact, even now, there had been no point in the day when she offered any more information than his investigation had turned up. Random chance could account for her selecting the Jeep. She threw out the information at a frantic pace, probably waiting to see what was confirmed or not. And yet…he followed her into the living room. It didn’t seem like she was acting. Profiling had come naturally to him, a lifelong student of human behavior. Her concern seemed like real concern, her exhaustion like real exhaustion. Wouldn’t a fraud, a user, have headed right for the reporters down at the bottom of the drive? Put her name out there, gotten in front of the cameras, drummed up business? Her profile wasn’t matching up.
Not unlike the kidnapper.
The kidnapper. The business suit.
Although he knew Ben was heading directly for him, he held up a hand as he stopped next to where Agent Lyang sat in front of the computers, virtually where he’d left her seven hours ago.
“I want a list from the university of all senior, male, administrators,” he said to her as she looked up. “I want to know if there’s a business school there as well. Or a law school. I want to know of any middle-aged man of average build and dark hair who had reason to be on campus wearing a dark suit yesterday morning.”
Sharon only nodded.
“Mac,” Ben said. “Anything new?”
They’d been in constant contact the entire day. Ben had known, either from him or Sharon, exactly what was going on at all times. Ben knew there was nothing new, but he couldn’t help but ask.
“Not yet,” Mac said, gripping Ben's shoulder. “Not yet.” Even though he slumped, Ben's shoulder felt tight. “Don’t give up. I haven’t.”
Ben nodded, as though he hadn’t either, but his eyes said something different. Mac read the resignation there as though Esme’s body had already been found.
Anita came through the swinging doors from the kitchen, followed by Isabelle. They both looked as though they’d been crying.
“Ben,” Anita started.
“What?” Ben yelled, whirling on her. “No, there hasn’t been a phone call. No, there hasn’t been a new clue. No, there hasn’t been a body.”
Stunned silence fell on the room. Two uniformed police officers and two agents who were probably from CIRG all froze. Sharon, who was on the phone, covered the mouthpiece with her hand.
“Benicio,” Anita said, her voice calm, even commanding. “You eat something this very instant. Your skin is gray. You come into this kitchen right now and eat,” she said turning away from him. “I’m not asking you again.”
A collective eyebrow went up around the room, and Mac cocked his head at Anita’s retreating back. That’s what he’d thought the first time he’d seen Ben that morning. The gray pallor of his skin was alarming�
�expected but alarming. As Anita passed Isabelle, the two women exchanged a look. Only when Ben moved did Mac realize he was still gripping the man’s shoulder. Ben shrugged him off.
“Everyone get out,” he said tiredly. “Just…please, get out.”
Sharon glanced at Mac and he shook his head a tiny ‘no’. If a call came in, even though the odds were a million to one against, someone from the Bureau had to be here.
“Oh for crying out–” Ben started.
“You heard the man,” Mac announced. He motioned to the other FBI agents. “Let’s go.” He waved the police officers toward the door. “Let’s give them a little privacy. Everybody’s tired. Including me.”
Though he needn’t have, he motioned to Isabelle. She was already moving toward the door.
“Mac, I’m sorry,” Ben said, turning to him. “It’s just that–”
“Don’t apologize,” Mac said quickly, stopping him. “And don’t give up. Because I haven’t. Truly. You know me. I’m not going to offer you false hope. I wouldn’t do that.” He slowly shook his head. “But something’s wrong here. I feel it in my gut.”
“Okay,” Ben said, really sagging now and not really hearing him.
“Go eat,” Mac said, steering him toward the kitchen. “I don’t want Anita angry at me.”
As Ben headed that way, Mac gave Sharon a last look and they nodded at each other. He closed the front door softly behind him.
As Mac nudged his rental car past the encampment of cameras and lights that seemed to take up nearly the entire block, he couldn’t help but be reminded of a sideshow at a carnival. And the show wasn’t just in English. It seemed like every major language from the globe was represented among the various emblems on the vans topped with antennae and radar dishes.
But as he neared the end of the crowd, he realized it was moving. Cameramen and reporters were moving in parallel with him on the sidewalk and, he realized with a start, that Isabelle was in front of them.
“What?” he muttered.
Had she been a publicity hound after all?
But the closer he got, the more he could see that she was moving quickly. In fact, they were chasing her. As she neared the corner, he stepped on the gas, cranked the wheel, and put the car directly in the crowd’s path. Engine idling, he jumped out of the car. Isabelle, glancing backward, ran straight into his arms and screamed.
“It’s me,” he said quickly. “Isabelle, it’s Mac.”
Though recognition dawned on her face, there was no time for more than that. Quickly, before they were pinned by the onslaught, he wrapped his arms around her, swept her around the front of the car, and opened the passenger door in one smooth move.
“Watch your head,” he said, pushing her inside.
“So the FBI is using psychics?” called out a voice from behind the glare of lights. “Where’s Esme Olivos? Do you see her in a crystal ball?” yelled someone else.
Great.
Mac pushed through several people who grunted in response.
“Is she a psychic or isn’t she?” demanded the tall Hispanic man in front of him as he thrust a microphone into Mac’s face.
Mac shoved it right back at him, nearly hitting him in the mouth. As the reporter backed up, he collided with the people in back of him and the press of the entire growing throng lessened for a moment. Mac quickly leapt toward his door, threw it open, and slammed it shut. He toggled the locks. With a quick check into the rear view mirror, he made sure he wasn’t going to kill anybody, then he threw the car into reverse and gunned it. The squealing of the tires nearly had people diving for cover and in another few moments, the entire crowd was left behind. He squealed around the next corner too before finally slowing down. Then he stopped.
“Where’s your car?” he said, more loudly than he’d intended, adrenalin still coursing through him.
“Car?” Isabelle said, her voice too loud as well.
Her gloved hands were gripping the car door handle as though she were hanging on to a lifesaver. Her wild stare flitted from him to the rear window, back the way they’d come. Her breathing was erratic and her entire body seemed to be trembling. They’d been a like a pack of wolves and obviously not what she had expected.
“You shouldn’t have told them you were a psychic,” he said.
That got her attention.
“Me?” she yelled, her eyes focused hard on his. “Me?” The sudden change in her took him aback. “You think I caused that? I think you better question some of your…your…” she stammered, looking for the right word. “Your agents or officers or whatever! Whoever! That’s the last thing I’d–” She stopped abruptly and opened the car door. “You know what,” she said. “Never mind.”
Then the door slammed closed. The only sound was the idling of the engine. But rather than walk back toward her car, she headed away from him, away from the house.
Oh come on. You’re not going to walk all the way home. This is L.A.
He found the button for the passenger window and lowered it as he pulled up alongside her.
“Where’s your car?” he said. She hugged herself around the middle and kept walking, fast, not looking at him. “Look,” he said. “You can’t walk back there to your car. They’ll be all over you.”
She ignored him.
He got ahead of her and pulled into someone’s driveway, across the sidewalk. She nearly toppled over the hood, hitting it with her hands. For the second time, he jumped out of his door and raced around the hood, grasping her by the upper arms as she stood.
“Isabelle,” he said. “Just stop for a second. Think. You can’t go back through that crowd.”
“I’m not,” she hissed, yanking herself free from him.
“So your car is parked out here somewhere,” he said, gesturing to the dark street around them. “Where?”
“I don’t have a car,” she said, not looking at him as she tried to back up and head toward the sidewalk.
“You what?” he said, easily sidestepping and blocking her path.
She stopped and pushed at his chest.
“I don’t have a car,” she said, finally looking up at him. “So if you’ll get out of my way, I’ve got a long way to go.”
Dumbfounded, he almost let her pass when she tried again. But then he sidestepped again.
“So you’re just going to walk home. Wherever that is.”
Exasperated, she hugged herself around the middle again.
“I’m going to take the bus,” she said. “The Metro Two. Downtown. And they don’t run all night.”
“The bus?” he said, incredulous. “You’re taking the bus? Who would–”
She tried to get around him again. This time he held her by the shoulders and stared down into her face. She was mad, tired, and, he finally realized, completely serious. She was walking to a bus stop.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.” He looked up and down the sidewalk. “Look. I’m not from L.A. but even I know it’s not a great time to be taking public transportation. Let me give you a ride.”
She shook her head and had been about to say something.
“Isabelle,” he said, holding her firmly and noticing for the first time how close they were standing. “I’m not taking no for an answer. We’re both tired and I don’t even have a hotel yet. It’s been a long day, for both of us. Just let me take you home.”
To his surprise, she took a deep breath, held it for a few beats, then finally exhaled and nodded. They were both tired. He opened the door and held it for her and, once she was inside, he got behind the wheel. This time, they both put on their seat belts.
“All right,” he said, checking the mirrors and backing into the street. “Which way?”
CHAPTER FIVE
It was only eight o’clock but it seemed like midnight to Isabelle. As they pulled in front of her building, it felt like she hadn’t been there in a week. She could almost feel the gloves coming off as she walked through the front door.
“This is
your neighborhood?” Mac asked, looking up at the building through the windshield.
Except for directions, the ride back had been blissfully quiet. She’d tried to still her mind and put away the images from her readings. But the tone in Mac’s voice bothered her.
“We don’t all get to live in Bel Air,” she said. “Thanks for the ride.”
She opened her door and Mac immediately did the same and turned off the engine.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, pausing. “I can see myself up.”
“Of course you can,” he said getting out. “But that’s not going to happen.”
His long strides had him at her door in moments and, as he held it for her, and she got out, she glanced up at the building and actually looked at it for a change, the way that Mac had done.
At least it was dark. The building, the street, the whole neighborhood looked worse in daylight.
None of her clients knew where she lived. Though she’d told herself that it was to preserve her privacy, it was really so they didn’t see this. As her savings had slowly dwindled, she’d moved to worse and worse sections of town. In fact, she had a car. It was parked in the narrow little garage under her unit. She just couldn’t afford to fix it. Her clients came to her through word of mouth, and she had a good solid base of regulars, but it was still L.A., where even a one-bedroom without air conditioning was an arm and a leg. The neighborhood was yet another reason she was ready to leave.
“Really,” she said, as Mac closed the car door. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
He shook his head, his face serious in the pale green glow of the streetlamp across the narrow street.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t want to have to worry. Just let me hear the deadbolt fall, and we can call it a night.”
He sounded so sincere. She flashed back on that moment in the dorm room when their hands had accidentally touched. He’d been genuinely concerned for her–and he liked her legs.
“Fine,” she said at last. “I’m on the third floor.”
