The Stolen Girl

by Linsey Lanier

  At the kitchen table, Parker reached for her hand. “Positive thoughts.”

  He knew what was going through her mind.

  She gave his hand a squeeze. “Yeah. I’m trying.”

  Holloway took Olivia to pick up her car at the bank. When they returned, Holloway reported the place had been cleared, the bank closed temporarily, and the parking lot empty.

  Wesson turned the TV on again, and they watched the local news. All the stations were reporting a rehash of what had happened at the bank this morning and the interview with Sloan. The police seemed to be dragging their feet. As Wesson stared at the good-looking g-man on the screen, Miranda noticed a strange expression on her face.

  She was probably just worried about Imogen, like they all were.

  It was past seven-thirty when at last there was a knock on the door, and Becker walked into the apartment looking travel-weary. His jeans and T-shirt were baggy nerd style, and the dark hair curling around his ears and neck made him look every bit of the geek he’d become since she’d know him.

  But Miranda was so glad to see his homely big-nosed face, she couldn’t resist giving him a hug.

  “Glad you could make it.”

  “Had to come, Steele. My boss made me,” he joked, sounding a little embarrassed.

  She introduced him to Olivia, and he extended a hand.

  “Glad to meet you. I hope I can help.”

  “Thank you for coming,” she said with a weak smile. The poor woman had been through hell and it wasn’t the end of it yet.

  Becker pointed with his thumb toward the door. “My bags are in the rental.”

  So now they had three rental cars. “We’re at a local hotel,” Miranda told him. “Parker got you a room.”

  “Okay, thanks.” He looked like he needed a rest, but there wasn’t time.

  “Did you bring it?” Parker asked quietly.

  Becker dug into his pocket and pulled out the small black case. “Made it through TSA without a hitch.”

  That was a relief.

  “What is that?” Olivia asked.

  Parker didn’t answer. With a reassuring smile, he took the phone and retreated toward the sliding glass doors.

  Olivia got to her feet and started in his direction. “What’s he doing?”

  Miranda blocked her path. Might as well tell her. She’d know sooner or later. “That man on the television? The one from the FBI?”

  Olivia nodded.

  “We know him.”

  “Know him?”

  “We’ve worked with him before. Since he’s confiscated the evidence from the explosion this morning, we’re hoping he’ll let Becker here take a look at it. It could tell us a lot.”

  Olivia pressed a hand to her forehead. “But that man—he’s with the authorities. The kidnapper said—”

  Gently Miranda took her arm and led her back to the couch. “Don’t worry. If there’s anything Simon Sloan is good at, it’s keeping a secret.”

  He’d kept enough of them from her and Parker.

  About five minutes later, Parker stepped through the glass doors again.

  “Well?” Miranda said, unable to read his expression.

  Parker slipped the phone into his pocket. “He’ll see us.”

  “Really? Sloan’s going to see us?” She couldn’t imagine how Parker had pulled that one off. Or what he’d said to the g-man. Sloan could be obstinate.

  “He won’t call the police, will he?” Olivia wanted to know.

  Parker smiled at her gently. “Fortunately for us, that’s the last thing he would do.” He turned to Miranda. “He wants to meet at eleven tonight.”

  Late. When it was dark. A cloak-and-dagger time. “Just us?”

  “He didn’t specify. That’s up to you.”

  Parker’s answer took her breath. “Well, Becker has to come. That’s why he’s here.”

  Wesson hopped up from the couch. “I’ll go. I mean, if that’s okay with you, Steele.”

  Miranda gave her a wary look. “Don’t you want to stay with Olivia?”

  “I’ll stay with her,” Holloway said. He was all into volunteering lately, wasn’t he?

  Miranda looked at Olivia. “Is that all right with you?”

  Looking worn out, she pushed back her bangs. “Sure. Janey doesn’t need to mother over me. I’m fine.”

  “Fine” wasn’t the word that came to Miranda’s mind. “Basket case” was more like it. But she decided to roll with it.

  “Okay. Let us know if another call comes through.”

  Holloway gave her a salute. “We will.”

  Chapter Thirty

  They took Becker back to the hotel and got him settled into a room next to Holloway’s. After a shower and a half hour nap, they all headed down to the lobby and ate a semi-quick dinner in the fancy restaurant there.

  Good thing they did. Poor Becker was starving.

  He wolfed down a gooey shrimp dish that looked tasty, while Parker had a filet, and Miranda indulged in a skirt steak. Wesson had grilled chicken with goat cheese and arugula, which she gobbled up as fast as Becker until she was halfway through.

  “I’d better stop,” she said wiping her mouth. My clothes are getting tight.

  As if they weren’t already.

  Tonight, while Miranda and Parker were in their usual business suits, Wesson was wearing a cobalt blue curve-hugging dress with a bit of bling around the neck. She’d brought the outfit and a few other things when they’d left Olivia’s. Her thick flaming red hair was striking with the dress, flowing sensuously around her shoulders, styled artfully enough for her sister to admire.

  Next to Becker in his drab jeans and T-shirt, she looked like a starlet. But Miranda wondered why she’d gotten so dressed up for a late night meeting with the FBI.

  Becker took a swallow of water and pointed at his plate with his fork. “This is really good. Joanie will be mad at me if I don’t remember the ingredients.”

  Wesson helped herself to one of his shrimp. “Mmm. Peanuts. And Amarillo, I think.”

  Becker grinned. “That should be enough to get her started. Thanks.”

  Miranda raised a brow at Wesson. “Since when do you know food ingredients?”

  She shrugged. “I dated a chef when I first came to Atlanta.”

  Miranda was surprised Wesson could remember who she’d dated after all the guys she’d gone through.

  Finished with his meal, Parker cleared his throat and leaned in. “We need to be guarded tonight.”

  Wesson blinked at him. “Don’t you trust Sloan, Mr. Parker?”

  “I believe I can, but it never hurts to be careful.”

  Parker always liked to err on the side of caution when possible. But tonight Miranda agreed with him. “One thing for sure,” she told the team. “We can’t let him separate us.”

  Suddenly looking nervous, Becker nodded. “Okay.”

  “Right. Stay together.” Wesson raised her glass in a toast and the team clinked drinks.

  “Are we ready?” Parker signed for the meal, rose, and the party headed out the entrance and hailed a valet.

  Once inside the Navigator, they headed down North San Vicente, took a dogleg to La Cienega Boulevard, and after a few miles hit the Santa Monica Freeway. Traffic was semi-light this time of night, since it was the middle of the week, and they cruised along at a fair clip.

  Everyone was silent, not knowing what to expect, hoping for the best, but worried they might encounter the worst.

  Listening to the whoosh of the surrounding cars, Miranda stared at the lights of the buildings looming in the distance. LA was much bigger than Atlanta. And on the opposite side of the country. Why had the Bureau brought Simon Sloan in to investigate a bombing at a small local bank?

  It didn’t add up.

  Last time they’d met the g-man, he’d acted like an arrogant, uncooperative jerk—until he realized they had information he needed. Even then, he’d treated them like spies from an enemy state. It hadn’t been until
he told them about the violent death of his sister-in-law and the loss of his brother and one of his men that Miranda had begun to trust him.

  She could tell Sloan blamed himself for those losses.

  After another eight miles or so, Parker took an exit and turned onto a street in a gritty looking part of town. They went through a block of graffiti-lined walls, then after another turn the high-rises began.

  They crossed a few more streets, and fancy hotels and upscale restaurants appeared, towering into the dark night sky, while shops below stood with decorative iron bars protecting their windows. Block after block of tall structures seemed to sprout from the sidewalk, each with its own look. On one side of the street were century-old high arched windows. On the other, a modern silver design formed the facade.

  In the next block, Parker turned into a garage and took a ticket from the machine.

  Slowly he steered the Navigator up to the next level. Then he drove up the next one and the next and the next, until they were on the twelfth floor.

  Miranda’s stomach tensed. “This is where Sloan is meeting us?”

  Parker’s tone was as calm as a Pacific breeze. “This is where he told me to go.”

  She didn’t like it.

  Parker pulled into a space and turned off the car.

  “Now what?” she said.

  “Now we wait.”

  Miranda inhaled an audible breath as she peered out the window. The twelfth level of the garage was about a third full, every third or fourth spot taken. A sporty red sedan was two spaces over on one side of them. A large white Suburban blocked their view on the other side. City lights of the surrounding skyscrapers twinkled through the open concrete slats.

  “Isn’t Sloan on our side?” Wesson asked from the backseat.

  “We’re banking on that,” Miranda told her.

  After what seemed like an hour, another vehicle pulled into the space next to the red sedan.

  It was a black van.

  This whole thing reminded her too much of the park where a man with an African accent had forced them into a van just like that one.

  Miranda felt the hair on the back of her neck rise as she caught sight of the driver behind the wheel.

  “That’s our escort.” Parker opened his door and got out.

  The rest of the team followed suit and gathered at the back of the Navigator.

  Miranda watched the van’s door open and a figure emerge. A big muscular dude in a dark suit. His hair glistened under the lights as it fell in bright red waves down to his brawny shoulders.

  He strolled up to them with a casual air. “Good evening, Mr. Parker,” he said in an Irish brogue.

  “O’Cleary, isn’t it?” Miranda said.

  The guy who had ushered them out of the van in Atlanta.

  His mouth twisted into a half grin. “Good memory, Ms. Steele.” He nodded toward Becker. “Is this the technician?”

  “This is our associate,” Parker said.

  O’Cleary’s gaze went to Wesson and softened. “You’ve brought an extra party.”

  “Safety in numbers,” Miranda said.

  “It’s fine. We can accommodate another.” O’Cleary turned toward the van. “If you’ll follow me.”

  “We have our own transportation,” Miranda said.

  O’Cleary turned back. “My orders are to bring you in our vehicle.”

  She wasn’t hopping into the back of a van again. And she certainly wasn’t wearing a blindfold. And neither was her team.

  “Not if you’re going to treat us like prisoners.”

  He grinned. “Blindfolds won’t be necessary this time. I’m sure you’ll find this mode of transportation comfortable.”

  Miranda looked at Parker. He nodded.

  Like last time, they didn’t have much choice.

  “Okay, then.” But if this guy tried to pull anything, she was calling the State Department.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  They followed O’Cleary to the van. He opened the side door, and they climbed into the back seats. Miranda was surprised to find them soft and cushy. And as promised, there were no blindfolds.

  O’Cleary went around and got into the driver’s seat. He began the slow decent through the garage levels, Miranda’s stomach pulling at the endless cycles.

  At last they were back out on the street, but the curves continued. O’Cleary turned left, drove for two blocks, stopped at a light. He drove another block, turned right, stopped for another light. He kept up the pattern until none of them knew where they were. Finally he turned into another parking garage next to a tall circular tower.

  Miranda wondered if they weren’t just a block or two from where they’d started.

  They were somewhere in what she took to be the financial district, from the bank buildings and corporate office spaces. But that didn’t tell her much.

  Five levels up, their escort pulled into a spot and everyone got out again. He led them across the concrete to a set of glass doors and an elevator bank.

  They stepped inside the compartment. O’Cleary pressed a button.

  They rode to the tenth floor, emerged, and crossed a lobby done in white Italian marble and glass until they found another bank of elevators.

  This time they rode to the fiftieth floor.

  “Sloan’s come up in the world,” Miranda muttered to Parker.

  Parker’s smirk told her he was also comparing this building to the dark secret labyrinth in Atlanta where they’d first met the g-man.

  She glanced back at her two colleagues standing silently behind them. Wesson looked uncomfortable and Becker was wide-eyed. She gave them a reassuring nod, though she felt no reassurance herself.

  When they reached the fiftieth floor, the doors opened and O’Cleary led them down a carpeted hall with rose marble walls to a set of tall polished oak doors.

  A silver sign next to the doors was etched with the words, “Financial Services.”

  A nice vague cover, Miranda thought.

  O’Cleary swiped his badge across a keypad. The door buzzed. O’Cleary opened it and gestured for them to step inside.

  He led them past a rosewood reception desk with no one manning it, swiped his badge at another door. Down another long narrow corridor they went. And another. And another.

  Just when Miranda was getting dizzy, O’Cleary stopped at a twelve-foot door to a corner office.

  He rapped on it three times.

  “Come,” said an ominous voice from inside.

  O’Cleary opened the door and gestured for them to enter.

  Stepping inside, Miranda took in the high-ceilinged space. It had a light airy feel and the faint scent of lemon. A few potted plants were tastefully placed in the corners along with several floor lamps that provided illumination. A low table stood off to the side, surrounded by lush white ergonomic chairs and a long tufted bench seat. A cozy spot for high-powered execs to cut multi-million dollar deals.

  Part of the cover.

  But she focused on the man she’d come to see. Half hidden in shadow, he stood at the desk in the far corner, the magnificent cityscape spilling in on both sides of him from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Simon Sloan.

  Wearing his usual dark off-the-rack suit, his sleek black hair brushed back and gelled in an Ivy League style, he studied a computer screen on the desk. His chiseled movie-star features seemed right at home in tinsel town. Maybe he’d come here to read for a part.

  There was a tumbler of ice water on the desk next to a stack of papers. A few lemon wedges floated in it. A saucer holding more wedges sat next to it, strong enough to perfume the room.

  Slowly Sloan turned his attention to his guests. His face was like stone as his gaze moved from Parker to Miranda to Becker to Wesson. His cadet blue eyes lingered for a long moment on Wesson, and Miranda thought she saw the man’s mouth twist.

  “I’m so glad you accepted my invitation,” he said at last, cynicism peppering his smooth announcer’s voice.

>   It was their idea to contact him. Miranda put a hand on her hip. “Your invitation?”

  “Good to see you again, Ms. Steele.” Sloan’s tone indicated the opposite.

  Miranda gestured at the space. “Your office conditions have improved, Sloan.”

  He gave her a dark scowl. “It’s a loaner.”

  “You didn’t get a promotion after Atlanta?”

  With a smirk, he reached for the tumbler.

  Miranda smirked back. “Lemon water? Cutting expenses?”

  “Trying to get off the caffeine. Let’s cut to the chase, Ms. Steele. What I want to know is what you and Mr. Parker are doing here in LA. And why did you bring your whole team with you?” Once again his gaze went to Wesson and lingered there.

  Her colleague had that affect on men. Miranda should have left her with Olivia.

  Parker was getting irritated with the man. “Sloan, I told you why we’re here on the phone. We were hired by a client.”

  “To do what?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, but it’s important.”

  Sloan gave him a look as sour as the lemons. “Doesn’t have anything to do with investigating a local gang, does it?”

  Miranda looked at Parker. Did Sloan know about the gang Axel was a member of? Or maybe the creepy looking guy with the dragon tattoos?

  “What do you know about a local gang?” she said.

  “I’m the one asking the questions here, Ms. Steele.”

  Parker’s expression said he didn’t care for the way Sloan was addressing his wife. “I was under the impression you wanted our help with your investigation of the incident at Pacific Bank this morning.”

  Sloan raised a hand over his head in exasperation. “And what in the Sam Hill were you doing there?”

  Parker must have told him they’d been there to get the stubborn man to see them. But he’d explained little else.

  “What in the Sam Hill were you doing on TV, Sloan?” Miranda shot back. “I thought your branch of the bureau was covert.”

  Sloan gave her a hard glare. “I follow the orders I’m given, Ms. Steele.”

  She watched Parker’s jaw tighten. All they wanted was a little cooperation from this guy, and he was treating them like suspects. Although their history should have been enough, apparently he needed a reason to trust them.