by Elle Gray
“I don’t know about that,” I reply. “She seems pretty committed to it.”
Rosie shakes her head. “All I know is that Kathryn has some real influence in Congress. She sits on the Judiciary Committee, which, as you know, oversees the Bureau, among other things.”
“Which could make our lives more difficult.”
“Not to mention she’s got some influence over the budgeting committees,” she says. “It would only take a few words from her to see our budget cut to the bone—”
“Which means extraneous units like mine might be deemed expendable.”
“Now you’re seeing the big picture,” Rosie says dryly. “And why it’s important we keep her as a friend.”
I grit my teeth and ball my hands into fists. “Where does it end? We’re supposed to operate independently of political pressure,” I say. “Are we just supposed to dance every single time she calls a tune for fear of losing our jobs?”
“You know as well as I do that we’ve never operated free of political pressure.”
“But we’re not supposed to be one representative’s personal police force, either,” I counter. “Hedlund’s pressuring us into looking for her daughter, threatening us with having our funds slashed if we refuse, really walks that fine line of misconduct.”
“It’s the way of the world, I’m afraid,” Rosie sighs. “All we can do is play the game.”
I know it’s not Rosie’s fault. She didn’t set the rules of this game and she’s simply trying to keep us all safe from an out-of-control politician who thinks we live to serve her.
“And what happens the next time? What happens when she threatens to cut our budget if we won’t cross a line that shouldn’t be crossed?” I ask.
Rosie sighs again. “I understand where you’re at, Blake. I really do. And trust me, I’m caught between the same rock and hard place you are,” she says. “Regarding your question, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Let’s just solve this case, find her daughter, and hope that she goes back to forgetting we even exist.”
“Until she needs us to do something for her again.”
“Until then, yes. And we’ll figure out how to proceed then,” she says. “But for the moment, we have a legitimate case, so let’s solve it. Find her daughter.”
I frown and shake my head. There is nothing I hate more than feeling as if I’m being used. That some puppet master is pulling my strings and I have no choice but to dance.
“I’ll do my best, Rosie,” I tell her. “But I’ll tell you right now, I already have a bad feeling about this case. I don’t see a happy ending here.”
She sighs. “Well, let’s hope you’re wrong.”
“I hope so,” I say softly. “But I don’t think I am. Not this time.”
Nine
Gallego Student Union, Marchmont University; Seattle, WA
“When was the last time you saw her?” I ask.
“Gosh, it’s been a little over a week I guess,” she replies.
“And you haven’t called anybody to report her missing?” Astra asks, arching an eyebrow. “It hasn’t alarmed you that your best friend and roommate has been missing for eleven days?”
Brooke Dawes is the living embodiment of what I assume Selene Hedlund is—a narcissistic, shallow, self-absorbed, trust fund brat who honestly believes the world revolves around her. She’s got platinum blonde hair that falls to her shoulders, green eyes, and a fair complexion. She’s a physically attractive girl but has a vapid personality that’s really off-putting, to be honest. We’ve spent ten minutes with her so far, and I’m more convinced than ever that if this is the future generation of leaders, we’re all doomed.
“Alarmed? No. I wouldn’t say Selene disappears for days at a time on the regular, but it’s also not an uncommon occurrence,” she says with a bubbly giggle. “You know how it is, you meet somebody new, get caught up in all the feels, and the next thing you know, you’re taking off to St. Kitts for a few weeks of fun in the sun, if you know what I mean.”
“Safe to say neither one of us knows what you mean,” I say.
“No? Huh. Interesting,” she frowns. “But like, if you haven’t gone to St. Kitts or someplace like that in the Caribbean on a whim just for fun, have you ever even really lived?”
I blow out an irritated breath and look around the student union and shake my head, fearing that the entire student body is like Brooke Dawes.
“So, you say it’s not uncommon for Selene to just take off like this?” Astra asks.
“Not uncommon, no. She does it at least once a quarter,” she shrugs. “She meets somebody, falls in love, and jets off to wherever for a weekend. But then that turns into a week—sometimes more—then she comes back and says it just wasn’t destined to work out.”
“So, she doesn’t have a regular boyfriend,” I say.
“Oh, actually, she has a few of those as well,” she replies. “She’s a popular girl.”
Astra and I exchange a look, and I can see the same irritation in her eyes I’m sure is in mine as well. Getting information out of this girl is like pulling teeth.
“Was there anybody in particular she was serious with?” I ask.
“Ummm… You can talk to Ryan Bancroft, Miller Hurley, and Edwin Gates,” she says. “I think she was fairly serious with them. At least, she was for a while. Honestly, I haven’t seen them around in a little while.”
“Was she acting differently before she went missing?” I ask, as I jot down the names she gave us.
“Different how?”
“In any way,” Astra clarifies. “Did her personality or behavior change at all before she went missing?”
She laughs and looks at us as if we’re idiots. “You guys keep saying she’s missing. I’m telling you, she’s not missing. She’s probably vibing on the beach with some hottie and a raspberry mai tai.”
“I appreciate your input, but we still need to do our job. And until we find her, whether she’s on a tropical island, a mountain chalet, or wherever, we have to proceed as if she were missing,” I tell her. “Now, about Agent Russo’s question—was she acting any differently when you last saw her?”
Brooke screws up her face and gives it some thought for a moment, and when she turns her eyes back to us, she looks a little less smug.
“You know, now that you mention it, I remember thinking she was acting a little weird,” she says. “She didn’t want to go out the last week or so before—before she went missing, as you say. She wouldn’t meet us downtown. She wouldn’t come to the Sigma Phi mixer. She didn’t even want to go to this crazy—”
“All right, so she wasn’t partying as much,” interrupts Astra. “From what you said, that sounds like a major personality shift.”
“Well….it’s not like she wasn’t going out. She was. It’s just that she wasn’t going to the big events. She was a little more serious,” Brooke recalls. “I remember thinking at the time that she’d actually met somebody. As in, somebody she wanted to be serious with. I figured it wouldn’t last very long and that she’d be back to normal in no time.”
“Why’s that?” Astra presses.
“Because that’s just not Selene,” she tells us. “She doesn’t want to get serious right out of school. Her mom wants her to settle down, and it’s just like, ugh. But she’s not that kind of girl. She’s the live-deliberately-and-suck-the-marrow-out-of-life kind of girl. You know that poem, right?”
“Of course,” I reply dryly. “They do teach Thoreau at schools other than Marchmont.”
“They do?” she raises her eyebrows, sounding genuinely surprised.
I look down at my hands and silently count to fifty as Astra clears her throat.
This question is standard in missing persons cases, and considering Selene’s background, and given the nine days’ worth of bank withdrawals, it’s critical. “Brooke,” I say, “Was Selene using drugs or alcohol?”
Brooke hesitates a second. “Well….I mean, we partied a bit, but no
thing heavy.”
Astra comes in with, “Define ‘heavy.’”
“We’d do a couple shots and a few beers sometimes, maybe a little pot, but that’s all. And please don’t tell Selene’s mother. She’d kill both of us.”
I study Brooke for a moment, and decide that if she’s keeping anything back here, it’s not much. We seem to be done with her at this point.
“Can you think of anybody else we can talk to?” Astra asks. “We’re looking to fill in some of Selene’s background and just need to get as much information about her as we can.”
“Yeah, you can probably talk to Dr. Crawford,” she says. “He’s a philosophy professor and is also Selene’s faculty advisor.”
“Great. Thank you,” I say, handing her one of my cards. “If there is anything else you can think of that might help, or if you hear from her, please call me right away.”
“Sure thing,” she chirps and slips my card into the case on her phone. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, I think we’ve gotten what we need,” I say.
“Awesome. I’ve got a spin class to get to,” she replies.
We watch as Brooke gets to her feet and flounces off, completely oblivious to the fact that her supposed best friend is missing, and for all we know, has ended up like Ben Davis—cut into pieces and stuffed in a barrel. The simple fact that her best friend is missing and she’s casually playing it off as nothing more than some spontaneous trip and isn’t worried in the least tells me what kind of person she is. A real friend and a good person would have called it in. Would have let the police know to begin looking. Or at least, when confronted with this news, would have been worried. But Brooke is acting as though Selene is going to come waltzing in any minute.
“What do you think?” Astra asks when Brooke disappears from view.
“I think that we’re all in trouble if these kids are going to be running the show in a few years,” I reply.
“God help us all,” she mutters.
“You’re not kidding,” I say and get to my feet. “Come on. Let’s go have a chat with Dr. Crawford and see what his story is. We’ll check out Selene’s apartment later.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Ten
Dr. Silas Crawford’s Office, MacMillan Hall, Marchmont University; Seattle, WA
We stand in the corridor on the fourth floor, home of Dr. Silas Crawford’s office, watching the parade of undergrads stepping through the door. I lean against the wall behind me with my arms folded over my chest, just shaking my head.
“You notice anything about the students going into his office?” I ask.
“If you’re talking about the fact that they’re all gorgeous young women, then, yeah, I noticed,” Astra replies.
“Not a single male student to be seen,” I remark.
“Maybe there aren’t many boys taking philosophy this quarter,” she offers.
“Maybe,” I admit. “Or maybe Prof here has got something to hide.”
“Could be that, too,” she notes.
I look at the line forming outside his office door and groan. We’ve already been standing there for the better part of forty-five minutes, and the line is still ten girls deep.
“I’m tired of waiting,” I say.
“I was hoping you were going to say that.”
“We have badges.”
“Why not put them to some good use?”
“My thoughts exactly,” I reply.
We both pull out our creds and step to the doorway. The girls standing there groan and object when we start to push our way through to the head of the line—a few of them look as though they want to scratch our eyes out. I hold my badge up for them all to see.
“FBI,” I call out. “We’re here on official business, so you’ll have to come back for office hours later.”
This prompts another bout of groaning and muttered remarks. But amidst all the eye-rolling and other histrionics, they all drift away. Once they’re all gone, I knock on the office door and step inside. Dr. Crawford is sitting behind a large oak desk, reclining in his seat with his hands behind his head, the perfect picture of repose. The girl sitting in the chair in front of his desk jumps as if we’d just caught her in the middle of something. Crawford looks over at us and flashes us a million-dollar smile.
“I’m sorry, perhaps you didn’t see the sign on the door that says I’m in session with a student?” he says, his voice smooth with a pleasant timbre to it.
Astra and I both badge him. “SSA Wilder and Special Agent Russo,” I announce. “We apologize for interrupting your session, but we need a minute of your time.”
The girl’s eyes grow wider as she jumps to her feet, and even Crawford looks startled for a moment. He recovers quickly though and turns to the girl.
“We’ll pick this up tomorrow,” he says. “Until then, read from the list on your syllabus and jot down your thoughts. We’ll go over the interpretations of the subtext tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Silas.”
“Of course,” he replies.
The girl practically sprints from the room, leaving us alone with him. He gestures to the two chairs in front of his desk.
“Please. Have a seat,” he says.
We take the chairs and I casually look around his office. Everything’s done in a dark wood that’s polished to a mirror shine. The wall behind him and the wall behind us have bookcases, the shelves lined with textbooks, classical literature, a range of philosophy texts, and even some newer genre and self-help titles. The wall to our right holds the door but the wall to the left is almost completely glass, letting a flood of natural light into the room. The lighter hardwood floor is covered in a Persian rug that looks expensive. The office is tidy and clean yet still somehow has that smell of an old bookstore, which I love.
Crawford himself is just as neat and tidy—though I can’t confirm that he, too, has the smell of an old bookstore about him. He’s got sandy blond hair that’s parted on the right and trimmed short. He’s clean-shaven and has a bit of a baby face, with blue eyes that sparkle in the light. Even sitting down, he looks tall—if I had to guess, I’d put him around six feet or six-one. He’s lean and fit, with a strong jawline and a proud, patrician face. He reminds me of that actor, Cary Elwes. I’m almost tempted to ask him to say, “as you wish,” just to complete the picture.
“You look surprised,” he says.
I shrug. “I suppose I was expecting a professor of philosophy to have a ponytail and dress like a beatnik,” I say. “Not look like a corporate banker.”
He laughs softly. “An unfortunate stereotype.”
“You seem to have quite the following,” I comment. “Standing in that hall, I thought we were backstage at a Justin Bieber concert or something.”
He offers us a sheepish smile. “I’m afraid the Beebs beats me in attendance every day of the week and twice on Sundays.”
It’s a nice bit of self-effacing deflection, and when I cut a glance at Astra, I can see she picked up on it as well. We usually encounter that sort of behavior when somebody is trying to hide something—though I’m not sure what it is Crawford could be hiding behind his false modesty. He’s obviously a god among his students—the female students at least. But all the girls in his classes are of age, so even if he were sleeping with them, we couldn’t touch him. The school might have something to say about it, but legally speaking, he’s in the clear.
“So, Agents, I have to admit to being curious,” he starts. “What could the FBI possibly want with a dusty old lit professor?”
I sit back in my chair and cross my legs, folding my hands in my lap. “We’re here about one of your students—Selene Hedlund.”
He cocks his head, looking somewhat concerned. “Yes, I noticed she hasn’t been in class all week. Is she all right? Did something happen to her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I reply. “She’s missing right now and we’re trying to get some background on h
er. See if we can figure out what happened.”
“Missing. That’s awful,” he murmurs.
“We heard that you’re her faculty advisor,” Astra says.
“Yes, that’s correct,” he nods. “She’s an incredibly bright girl. And when she’s focused, she is a force of nature, that one. That girl will go places if she can keep herself together.”
“We’ve heard that she’s done this before—disappeared without a trace,” I say.
He frowns. “Every once in a while, yes, she’ll drop off the radar,” he tells us. “She says it’s because she needs to recharge her batteries. And that, I understand. I mean, who doesn’t need a little sabbatical now and then? Especially somebody under as much pressure as she is.”
“Pressure?” Astra raises an eyebrow.
He gives her a look that says the answer is so obvious she shouldn’t even have to ask the question. But he quickly smooths out his features and gives her a small smile.
“The daughter of Representative Kathryn Hedlund is expected to be perfect in all ways, as I’m sure you can imagine,” he tells us. “Her mother is hard on her. An A is not good enough, she should be getting A-plusses. That sort of pressure on a young person is incredibly tough to deal with. It’s not surprising she acts out sometimes.”
“And how are her grades, then?” I ask.
“Very good, actually. For as unfocused and undisciplined as she can be, she comes through when it counts,” he replies. “As I said, she’s incredibly bright. A—”
“Force of nature when she’s focused,” I cut him off. “Got it.”
“Right,” he says with a smile.
“We’ve also heard that she’s—popular—with the boys,” Astra says. “Do you know if she had any problems with any of them?”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m aware of her reputation. But you need to understand that although Selene is a wonderful girl, she is a bit—troubled,” he says reluctantly. “I’m no psychologist, but I’d assume many of her problems stem from losing her father at such a young age. Combine that with a life of pampered privilege and the incredible amount of pressure her mother puts on her, and it can become a toxic stew.”
