The Lost Witness

A Darcy Hunt FBI Mystery Suspense Thriller | Book 9

EVA SPARKS

Chapter One

Krank Park-Cherry Hill Neighborhood

Albany, NY

“Seriously, Darcy, how much longer? I’m dying here.”

“The idea is to wait until he actually shows up,” I tell Skylar. “Otherwise, we’ve just wasted all this time.”

“Ugh, I have got to pee,” she squirms. “I don’t care about wasting time.”

We’re sitting in my car at the end of a cracked and littered street, entering our fourth hour of a stakeout. Darkness fell an hour ago, and the only light comes from a flickering orange sodium lamp mounted high on a telephone pole.

“You’re like a child,” I laugh. “I told you not to drink that entire Mountain Dew.”

A grimace pinches her face. “Shut it. But really, what am I supposed to do?”

“I’m not about to waste four hours on a stakeout so he shows up during the ten minutes we’re gone. You’ll have to wait.”

“Oh my god, this is so stupid.”

“You violated stakeout rule number one,” I chuckle. “Thou shalt not drink copious amounts of fluids beforehand.”

“I know… I know. But I needed the caffeine.”

“You could always go in that bush over there.”

“Eww. No way. With my luck, I’d probably step on a discarded needle.”

Our attention has been on a dilapidated two-story building twenty yards away. The structure should have been condemned and torn down years ago. Its unpainted wooden siding is dark with mildew and completely missing in some places. Much of it is covered in vines, and nearly all the windows are broken out.

As for the rest of the homes on the street, they haven’t fared much better. In my mind’s eye, I can see how this could have been a pleasant neighborhood at one time. Children would have played ball or ridden their bikes here in the street. Neighbors would have gathered on porches or in yards as they mingled at the end of a long day. Passing decades brought change that made this street, once appealing to families, desirable to almost no one at all. Only one out of every three or four homes appears to be lived in. But with the passing of years came slow and steady change. Thankfully, revitalization efforts have been happening in the broader neighborhood for some time now. I wouldn’t be surprised if I returned here in a few years to see the street bursting with life and laughter once again.

Skylar shifts in her seat again. A groan escapes her throat. “What is taking him so long? Maybe Griffin got the time wrong.”

“People like Skippy don’t exactly keep a tight schedule,” I tell her. “You know that. With our luck, he won’t even show up.”

As Skylar looked out her window, a breeze kicked up a flattened styrofoam cup and tossed it into a yard overgrown with weeds. “I seriously have no idea how anyone could live here,” she said. “Totally gives me the creeps. It reminds me of the house on Neibolt Street. I’m half expecting Pennywise to show up in the form of a homeless leper.”

Being reminded of a creepy scene from IT prickles the back of my neck and sends a shiver down my spine. “Can we not talk about evil clowns right now? Especially since it’s dark now. You could have said that when it was still light outside.”

“Just saying. You couldn’t pay me to live around here.”

“Don’t be pretentious,” I tell her. “Some people don’t have a choice. They’re doing the best they can with what they have.”

“True.” She stares ominously out the windshield. “You think it’s watching us? The house?”

“Skylar!”

She laughs, then juts her chin toward the house. “Look. There he is.”

A dark figure emerges out of the shadows and stops in front of the house. The outline of a straw sombrero is a dead giveaway to the man’s identity. Skippy clicks on a flashlight, walks up the front steps, and disappears inside.

“Finally!” Skylar says. She’s out of the car in a flash, and I have to jog to catch up.

The old home’s front door is missing, and the dark entrance looks like a wide, yawing mouth welcoming us inside. Skylar glances at me and motions for me to go first. I have a moment where I have to remind myself that I’m an FBI agent with a gun on my hip, not a preteen in a horror movie.

I step past her and tread up the steps. I’ve no sooner stepped across the threshold when I’m hit with a rancid concoction of old sweat, urine, and even feces, forcing me to place my hand over my nose. My gag reflex activates, and I have to stifle a cough. Behind me, Skylar utters a low groan of revulsion.

Taking out a small flashlight of my own, I click it on and pan it around. Dried leaves and trash cover the old wood floors. To my right, in what was probably a sitting room, are two bare mattresses that are nearly black from years of use. In the room on my left are piles of blankets, items of clothing, some buckets, and more trash. There’s no sign of Skippy, but the floorboards creaking above our heads are a good indicator that he probably went up the stairs directly in front of us.

The ungodly odor compels us out of the house and back to the porch for a breath of fresh air. Skylar spits over the porch railing into the grass. “It tastes like I just ate an old diaper,” she groans, and spits again. “This taste had better come out of my mouth. How do people sleep in there?”

She’s definitely not overreacting. I spit over the railing too and wish I had something to blow my nose with. The odor is cloying and seems to stick to everything.

“They’re not in their right mind when they do,” I reply. “In fact, they’re in a whole different world.”

“Yeah, I guess.” She takes another step away from the door. “It’s so sad. I hate that we even have pockets like this in our society.”

“Me too,” I agree.

I joined the FBI because I wanted to make a difference in this crazy world. And after several years with the Bureau, I can look back and honestly say that I have. There are many evil men and women who are either in prison or six feet under because of my investigative efforts. Of course, I can’t take all the credit. I’ve been furnished with the best resources possible, and that includes our team of agents at the AFO. We all make each other better at what we do. And when Skylar moved to Albany from Rochester last year, joining me as my new partner, we became even better together. Point being, our work really does make a difference, and we all feel that. Because of what we do, our streets are a little bit safer.

But I think that that desire to make the world a little bit better extends to other areas as well, even those that we have no control over. Visiting a trap house, where addicts can shoot up in relative safety and not worry about getting assaulted while their minds are in the clouds, is a stark reminder that there are plenty of areas in our local society where there is still a lot of room for improvement.

Local police don’t crack down on places like this because there is a benefit to consolidating addicts and keeping some of them off the street while they’re high. But to Skylar’s sentiment, it really is sad that these kinds of places even exist at all. Some countries and states have recently begun testing supervised injection sites, where users are provided with sterile equipment and can use illicit drugs under the supervision of trained staff. I’m not sure that’s the solution either, but at least more humane options are being tested and explored.

From inside the house, we hear footfalls coming down the steps. A flashlight beam bounces along the walls, and when Skippy reaches the bottom floor, he turns and goes deeper into the drug den. We wait a few more minutes, and he finally steps out onto the porch.

“Hello, Skippy.”

It’s not every day you get to watch someone nearly jump out of their skin. Skippy’s entire body jerks violently, causing his light to fall from his hand and his sombrero to tip off his head. Moving with quick, halting movements, he gathers both the light and the hat and pans the beam at me. A curse flows past his lips, and his light beam quickly finds my face. “Darcy? You nearly gave me a heart attack.” He wiggles the straw hat down over the crown of his head. “What gives?”

Slim, with a narrow face, receding chin, and exaggerated overbite, Skippy is the closest I’ve ever seen to a human resembling a mouse. The look certainly fits his personality. He is shrewd and cunning, almost as good as getting out of trouble as he is getting into it.

The reek coming off him is partially due to him being in the house for so long. But not all of it. He probably couldn’t tell me the last time he had a good shower, and I doubt that his clothes have seen a recent washing either.

“You’re a hard man to find these days,” I tell him. “It took me all day just to find someone who could tell me where you were. I hear you got a new job?”

He reaches up and scratches the front side of his neck, where a sore has begun to develop. “I do,” he says proudly. “Griffin has me coming here and to the trap house over on Moreland. I had another job, but they let me go.”

“What are you going exactly?” Skylar asks him.

“I just filled the pails with new needles and syringes. I guess Griffin made a deal with the cops to make sure works weren’t getting passed around. So I come around a couple days a week, and he pays me a little. You always told me I needed a job, Darcy. I finally got one.”

This particular line of work isn’t what I had in mind when I told him that, but I’m not going to argue the point. “That’s great, Skippy. Does he have you picking up the old needles?”

“Me? Nah, they don’t pay me enough for that. Besides, most folks are good at tossing them before they leave. No one wants to come across a bad needle when they show up. There’s a trash can in every room. Griffin has someone come empty them out about once a month.” He runs a hand across his lips. “So what are you doing here? I ain’t done nothing wrong. I swear.”

“Relax,” I say. “We don’t think you have. But you are a hard man to find these days. It used to be that I could find you at the Dalamar Underpass or down by the lake. You must be moving on up in the world.”

He nods solemnly. “I’m trying, Darcy. I’m really trying.”

“I need a better way of finding you. Waiting around for you to show up here isn’t my idea of a good time. Where are you calling home these days?”

“I’ve been staying over at my girlfriend’s place.”

“Your girlfriend?” Skylar says incredulously.

“Yeah, we’re in a tent off Route 85. Back in the woods a little ways. Near mile marker nineteen.”

“Oh. A tent. Sounds lovely.”

I shoot her a look. “That’s great, Skippy. I’m glad you found someone.”

He gives a wide smile, which shows off two rows of crooked, rotting teeth.

“So look, I need a favor from you. This one, it’s a pretty big deal.”

“Anything, Darcy. You’ve always been good to me.” He scratches his neck again. “What’s up?”

“I need to find Raffi Ramirez.”

Skippy’s eyes bulge, and he vigorously shakes his head. “No way. Darcy, come on. You know me, I’m always willing to help the good guys. But I stay out of things that have to do with Raffi and people like him. Mostly because I don’t want to end up as fish food.”

“Relax,” Skylar tells him. “We’re not asking you to give him up. We’re not looking to take him down. We just need to talk with him.”

Skippy narrows his eyes and studies both of us in turn. “What about?”

“We can’t say,” I answer, “but it’s important that we find him. He might have information that can help us.”

He plucks his sombrero off his head and runs a hand over his greasy, graying hair. He’s pondering the risks of this coming back on him. Finally, he sighs and puts the oversized hat back on. “Raffi’s got a place above The Seaweed Bar on 3rd,” he finally says. “He’s known to hang out there sometimes.” Skippy jams a finger at me. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Mum’s the word, I promise. What kind of place? I didn’t know there was anything above Seaweed’s.”

“I think that’s the point,” he says. “They keep the windows blacked out. He’s pretty quiet about it. The only reason I know is because I was behind Seaweed’s one night pushing a cart when his Cadillac pulled up and he got out. One of his men told him he would see him upstairs. I hung around, and the guy watching the back was on his phone, said Raffi was going to hole up there for a while until things died down. That was like six months ago. But if you can’t find him right now, he might be there. They don’t advertise the place.”

“I knew you’d come through,” I tell him with a smile.

I met Skippy last year while doing some reconnaissance at a local homeless shelter. For months, the Bureau had been looking for someone who had been kidnapping and killing the homeless. It didn’t take me long to realize that Skippy knew everyone, and everyone knew him. He had been around for a long time and knew our city streets better than anyone.

The man always has an ear to the ground, if for no other reason than he’s often moving around. The funny thing is that he doesn’t care much about what he learns, preferring to keep what he knows to himself. But his ability to listen and connect certain dots makes him an invaluable resource out on the streets. He winces now as he scratches his neck again.

“You need to find a way off that stuff,” I say. “I keep telling you I can get you into a good program. They’d take really good care of you. Then you’d be free.”

He slips off his sombrero and runs a hand over his head. “I know, Darcy. And I appreciate you wanting to help. But that kind of thing isn’t for me. I’ve tried all the programs before.” He taps his head. “There’s too much broken up in here, too many memories of the bad times that no one can make go away. The juice helps, Darcy. That’s just the way it is.”

“Here.” I reach behind me and tug something from my back pocket, then hand it over to him. “That’s a generic gift card. Go down to the shelter and get in a shower. Then go get you some new clothes. There’s a hundred dollars on there.”

“A hundred? Really?”

“And don’t trade it for your juice,” Skylar admonishes him. “Get you some clothes and shoes. If you go to Goodwill, that will go a long way.”

He gives us a genuine smile. “This is nice. Real nice. Thank you.”

I nod. “You take care of yourself, Skippy. We’ll see you around.”

We go down the steps and start back to the car. Then I pause, look at Skylar, and incline my head toward the back of the house. “In case you forgot, there’s a bathroom there you could use. Or at least a bucket.”

“You’re so kind, thanks. Except I’m not in the mood to contract a disease that might have me dead by the end of the month. But seriously, come on. I’m about to pee myself.”

Chapter Two

Zeus’ Table

Tacoma, Washington

As soon as I pull the door open, my senses are bombarded with a delectable smell of cooked lamb, garlic, and herbs. Every table and booth is taken, and the line to order is at least ten deep. Seeing my favorite restaurant packed to the gills brings a smile to my face. I weave around the line, head past the counter, and push through the swinging door into the kitchen.

A stocky man with a shiny bald head is standing over the grill, stirring the food and sprinkling on more ingredients. “Hey, Darcy!” He nods to a plastic bag at the end of the stainless steel counter. “Nikoli had to go make a deposit at the bank. He said that’s for you. One order of moussaka and two gyros.”

“And there’s extra⁠—?”

“Extra tzatziki sauce.” He shoots me a wink. “We’ve got you down pat, Darcy.”

“Thanks, Ray. This lunch crowd is nuts, huh?”

“We can hardly keep up back here,” he replies with a smile. “You know, Nikoli said he’s thinking about opening up another location on the other side of town? People have been asking for it.”

“Really? I hadn’t heard. That would be exciting if he can handle it. One location keeps him busy enough.”

“Tell me about it. Another location might be the quickest way to a heart attack. For all of us.” He laughs heartily and then turns to answer a question from one of the waitresses.

With its incredible menu and Nikoli’s hospitality, it’s really no surprise at all that the community wants to see another location open up. I have so many childhood memories of my father bringing our small family here to eat. The food is the best, and Nikoli is a dear friend. I’m often drawn here simply because of that. A bout of nostalgia will grip me, and I can’t stay away. With each passing year, the old memories fade a little bit more. I want to keep the good ones intact for as long as I can.

I snatch up the bag of food. “See you later, Ray. Tell Nikoli I said thanks.”

“Will do, Darcy. Catch you later.”

Making my way to the back of the kitchen, I stop at the entrance to Nikoli’s office, which really isn’t much more than a broom closet. I slip my cell phone from my pocket and tug open the center drawer of his desk, leaving the phone there.

The back door opens with a squeak and quickly slams behind me as I step out. I pass up the dumpster and the grease trap and open the rear passenger door of a blacked out SUV that’s been waiting for me. After shutting the door, I place the bag of food between my feet.

“Hey, Darcy. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Tom’s high and tight haircut and thick muscles are a direct reflection of the discipline drilled into him during his time in the military. He’s wearing a dark suit and sunglasses that make him look like the contract security that he is. Once I’m buckled in, he puts the vehicle in drive and turns down the alley.

“It is a beautiful day, Tom. How was your weekend? Did you and the family make it to the mountains?”

“Sure did. Got some fishing in and a lot of hiking. The wife isn’t too keen on the outdoors, but she toughed it out.” He habitually checks the rearview and side mirrors. “The kids loved it.”

“How old are they?”

Tom turns onto the main street and merges with the flow of traffic. His GPS shows twenty minutes to our destination. “Little Tommy is five, and Christie is seven. Tommy caught a trout that was nearly half his size. He couldn’t believe a fish could get that big. Up till then, he’d only seen sardines in a can,” he laughs.

“Then he’s in for a real surprise if you ever take him fishing for kingfish or a grouper,” I laugh.

“You camp?” Tom asks me.

“I love the idea of camping,” I reply. “I just don’t make time for it.”

What I don’t tell him is that the last time I went camping, my sister and I ended up getting kidnapped and the course of our lives was changed forever. So as much as I can see how other people might enjoy it, sleeping out in nature just isn’t for me.

Soon, we’ve made our way out of downtown Albany and enter a wealthier district on the outskirts of the city. The homes are expansive and meticulously landscaped, the cars in the driveways worth more than three or four years of my paychecks. It’s beautiful and peaceful though. Old trees stand tall, hovering over the properties like guardians.

Tom pulls up to a property with a high perimeter wall made of brick and blanketed with ivy. He rolls his window down, punches a code into the display panel, and the double gates in front of us open up in welcome. He pulls through, down the short bricked drive, and stops in front of the porch.

The facade of the two-story house is a symphony of white stucco and dark timber, with a grand double-height portico supported by sleek, Corinthian columns. Large, arched windows are framed by black shutters, and the roof is adorned with red terra-cotta tiles. An intricate iron balustrade wraps around the second-story balcony.

“Here you are,” Tom says. “Have a good visit.”

“Thanks. See you in a bit.” Reaching down, I grab the bag of food, step out, and hurry up the front steps, where a plainclothes security officer stands guard.

“Don, you look bored out of your mind,” I tell him. “Don’t go falling asleep on me. Did that new baby keep you and Sally up again last night?”

“Miller went out to get me some coffee,” he smiles wearily. “And yes, we can’t get little Emma to sleep for anything. All the other parents tell us it will pass, but I’m starting to wonder.”

“Hang in there,” I encourage him. “I hear it all gets better in the teen years.”

Don gives a sarcastic laugh and opens the door for me. “The FBI bringing jokes today.”

I step inside, and even though I’ve been here a dozen times, I still can’t get over how opulent this place is. The interior is a cascade of luxury. The foyer is a pattern of swirling black and white marble, which leads to a grand staircase wrapped in burgundy carpet. The ceilings are high, doorways arched, and the walls are adorned with intricate gold-framed paintings.

I follow the main hallway past the kitchen and to the living room at the back of the home. “Who’s hungry?” I call out as I come around the corner.

“Famished!” my Uncle Buzz calls from the couch. “Tell me that’s moussaka. I’ve been craving it since last time.”

“Moussaka it is.”

“And me? You got me a gyro, right?”

“Indeed, I did,” I tell Lila. “And extra tzatziki sauce.”

“Yay. I love that stuff.”

I place the bag on the coffee table and start through another doorway to the kitchen. I tear off several sheets from the paper towel roll and get three bottles of water from the fridge. Returning to the living room, I see that the television is paused, but I smile when I see what’s on the frozen frame. “Still watching Friends? Whatcha think?”

“It’s so funny,” Lila says. “Joey is a hoot, and Phoebe is amazing. And I’m really digging this Ross and Rachel dynamic.”

“Buzz?” Taking a gyro and a bottle of water for myself, I settle into an overstuffed leather chair. “What’s your take?”

“It’s…all right,” he says coolly. “I’m here for whatever Lila wants to watch.”

Buzz, a Vietnam war vet, gets ever more salty as he ages. And yet, I can tell by the gleam in his eye that I’ve caught him red-handed. He wouldn’t admit to liking a show that doesn’t have motorcycles, cowboys, or guns in it, but I can tell he’s enjoying it. I mean, how can you not like a show like Friends? The characters suck you in and won’t let you go.

He would rather be watching Band of Brothers, Yellowstone, or reruns of the Sopranos, but he knows that kind of violence and gore is the last thing Lila needs to be exposed to right now. She’s missed out on a lot of laughter for most of her life, and it’s kind of become our collective mission to make certain that she gets a lot of it.

“How are you feeling?” I ask her, and take a bite of my food. “Are the headaches still coming and going?”

She nods. “A migraine started right after I woke up this morning. I took the medicine they gave me. It’s mostly gone now.”

“She’s a tough bird,” Buzz chimes in. “I haven’t heard her complain a single time.”

Lila opens her gyro and pours the extra sauce onto it. “How much longer do you think I’ll have to be here? I want to see the world, even something as simple as going for a walk in a park.”

“I wish I knew,” I answer. “We have multiple teams working around the clock to find Toby. At this point, it’s just a matter of time. Either we’ll track him down or he’ll make a mistake. Right now, everyone’s primary objective is to keep you safe.”

Early last month, Lila finally woke up from a coma that had kept her under for a very long time. For me and Buzz, it was a dream come true, as we didn’t know if she would ever come back to us. For months, her brain was trying to heal after suffering the effects of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. So it was more than surreal when she finally woke up and I got to look into her eyes and speak with her.

But it didn’t take long, after a lengthy absence, for Toby Parsons to assert himself again. As I was crossing the hospital grounds to visit her, he sent me a text—his way of informing me that the violence about to occur was all his doing. And seconds later, Lila’s hospital room exploded into a massive ball of flame, flinging debris dozens of yards across the hospital complex.

Believing that I just witnessed my sister’s execution, I completely fell into hysterics. Time slowed, and the world around grew muted. So it only added to the confusion when Kemper showed up on the scene relatively quickly, even before any first responders. Throwing an arm around me, he led me away from the chaos and explained that a team had transferred Lila out of her room not ten minutes earlier.

The Bureau had suspected that Parsons was going to move against Lila once he found out she was awake. All signs pointed to it, which is why security was positioned at the door of her room.

Lila, more than anyone alive, knew Parsons’ mind. Though he was older than she, they had grown up together. Both had been kidnapped as young children and brainwashed by Hess. If anyone could give the authorities insight into the way Parsons thought, it was her. So he tried to take her out.

But unbeknownst to me, Kemper had come to the hospital to oversee Lila’s transfer to another wing, as well as the addition of a more robust security detail. The hit against her came only minutes later. Unfortunately, a patient in an adjoining room died of a heart attack and three staff personnel were seriously injured. And how Parsons had gotten the explosive device into her room is still unknown.

After the explosion, we needed Parsons to believe that his attempt on her life had been successful. Reporters were told that she was killed in the blast, and she was immediately moved here to this house to be in an out-of-the-way location.

A team of nurses and doctors cycle in and out to help her with her continued recovery, which certainly has not been a straight road to the top. Physically, Lila is dealing with terrible headaches and having to muster the stamina to push through mandated physical therapy. Lying in the hospital bed for so long meant that she lost a lot of muscle and coordination.

On the mental and emotional side of things, she is struggling as well. There are wide, empty gaps in her memory that she’s been unable to access. And for so many years, she lived under the wicked manipulation and incessant lies of Marvin Hess. Almost everything about what she believed to be true of the world is slowly unraveling, and it’s left her feeling untethered and out of control.

A therapist comes in every other day to help her process the last many years and reframe her life. It would be a total understatement to say that I’m proud of her. Lila is choosing to face reality head-on, to acknowledge the lies that she believed and the intense fear that that creates. She’s not only having to relearn what it means to trust, but who to trust as well. Knowing that she had become nothing more than a pawn in a serial killer’s evil schemes has weighed her down beneath a tremendous burden of guilt.

That’s where I’ve tried to help her the most. I’m not a physical therapist, and I’m not a psychologist. But I am her sister, and that means that we have a shared past to work from. We’re blood, and that counts for something. In fact, it counts for everything.

She’s having to learn even basic things that were kept hidden from her. Things like who the most recent presidents have been, what American culture is like, and what social media is—although I wonder if she’s not actually better off for not knowing anything about that last one. It’s going to be a long journey from here, but Buzz and I are here for it, and we’re not going anywhere.

I glance out the large windows into the backyard. “Lila, are you using the pool at all?”

“A little. It helps me relax. The therapist said I need to do everything I can to let my body heal from the trauma. The hot tub has been great. I still can’t believe I’m living in a place like this. It’s so much better than that hospital room.”

I nod. “You’re lucky to be here, that’s for sure. Enjoy it while you can.”

In case you’re wondering if tax dollars are paying for these new living arrangements, they aren’t. The explosion at the hospital made national attention, and the link between Lila’s knowledge and finding Toby Parsons became widely known. So Kay Wallace, the U.S. Senator from Ohio who is on an FBI oversight committee, reached out to the Bureau and quietly offered her home as a place of refuge. Before going into public service, Senator Wallace made a fortune in luxury goods, and she only spends a few weeks a year at this address.

The fact is, Toby Parsons needs to think that Lila is dead. The newspapers reported her death from the explosion, and to keep the narrative going, Buzz and I even faked a small public memorial service for her. Parsons is brilliant, well-resourced, and has a high level of technical skills. None of us would put it past him to track my movements. That’s why I leave my phone at Zeus’ Table and get a secure ride here. No one is willing to take any chances. Buzz even moved into a room upstairs to keep Lila company until all this passes, whenever that might be.

“Don’t get too used to these living arrangements,” Buzz smirks. “My place is a shoebox compared to this.”

“Hey,” I protest. “What makes you think she’s living with you when all this is over?”

“I’m a lonely old man,” he says. “You’re at work all day. Why wouldn’t she stay with me? I’ve got the two extra bedrooms that never get used.”

I shoot him a mock glare. “Oh, I will fight you tooth and nail over this one. No way she’s not living with me. She’s my sister, and we have years to catch up on.”

“Would you guys stop it?” Lila laughs. “Let’s just take it a day at a time.”

Buzz holds up his hands in a defensive posture. “Okay, but this isn't over. Not by a long shot.” He shoots me a wink before stabbing another bite of food with his fork.

After we’re done eating, I gather all the trash in the kitchen and deposit it in the trash, then say my goodbyes. “Have to get back to work,” I tell them. “I’ll stop by this weekend. Lila, wanna do another movie?”

“Yes! And can you bring me a couple more books? I read those two Eve Dallas books you got me. They were great.”

“On it,” I tell her. “And Buzz, you should watch some Gossip Girl. Lila would love that show.”

His face pinches. “Not on your life, missy.”

I head out the door with a full stomach and a full heart and return to the SUV to find Tom on the phone. “Yes, sir,” he says. “Hold on. She just got here.” He holds the phone over his shoulder. “Darcy, it’s your SAC.”

Taking the phone, I set it to my ear. “Sir?”

“Darcy,” Kemper says. “We have an issue. I’ll explain when you get here, but I need you on location now.”

Chapter Three

Bureau Safe House

Albany, NY

We come around a bend in the quiet suburban street to find over a dozen law enforcement vehicles parked off to the side. Tom pulls to the curb, and I step out, then thank him for the ride. “I’ll see you on Saturday.”

“You want me to wait around?” he asks.

“No need. I don’t know how long this is going to take. I’ll have someone take me back to Zeus’ Table for my car and phone.”

“Sounds good. See you Saturday.”

I shut the door and hurry across the street, where neighbors have gathered in anxious clusters to try to discern what has happened. Approaching the front door, I badge the officer and step across the threshold.

The one-story home smells like cinnamon and a flower I can’t place. It has high ceilings with exposed beams and matching hardwood floors. The neutral color of the walls and the sleek lines of the furniture contribute to giving the place a modern feel.

“There you are,” Kemper greets me. “How’s your sister?”

“She was in good spirits today,” I answer. “Seems to be feeling better than last time.”

He nods. “Good. I’m glad to hear that.”

“So, what’s going on? By the look on your face, I’m not going to like this.”

“You’re not. Come on.” My SAC leads me deeper into the house, where a crime scene team is in the living room snapping photos.

There isn’t a body from what I can see, but something happened here. A TV tray is toppled over beside the couch, along with a plate of food, a bottle of beer, and the remote. A long, thick smear of blood stains the woven fiber rug.

“Where’s the body?” I ask.

“There isn’t one,” Kemper says. “But you’re standing in Nola Walker’s safe house.”

The name hits me like a fist to the face. I puff out a long breath of air and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I knew something like this was going to happen. I don’t know why the DA wouldn’t sanction a security team to watch out for her. She was scheduled to appear in court this morning, right?”

“Yes. When she didn’t appear, the judge sent officers over to check on her. They found this.”

I take a step closer to the chaos and lower myself into a squat. “This was last night’s dinner by the looks of it.”

“Her phone is on the kitchen counter, along with her purse. No security cameras or doorbell cameras. Car is in the garage.”

“So they got to her,” I sigh, and stand up. “Any sign of forced entry?”

“Over here.” I follow him to the open back door, where the glass is broken, allowing for direct access to the deadbolt. “It’s less than fifteen feet from here to where she was sitting on the couch.”

I curse, waves of frustration coursing through my entire body. “So it would have been mere seconds between her hearing the glass break and getting assaulted. She wouldn't have had time to get over her initial burst of fright.” Stepping over the shards of glass, I walk onto the back porch and watch as several crime scene techs search the yard for clues.

The yard itself is lush and green though a little overdue for a cut. It’s hemmed with a six-foot-high stockade fence which is punctuated with flourishing oleander bushes. From the back porch, stone pavers lead to a raised flower bed where string beans, bell peppers, and tomatoes are growing.

But I’m most intrigued by the gate over to my left. Stepping off the porch, I find it unlatched. Kemper nods when I glance at him, a silent indication that the door has already been examined. I pull it open and step out. The properties on this side of the street back up to a lush forest. The trees grow close together, and their branches weave tightly against each other.

“That would be as good a place as any to take her without being seen by the neighbors,” I say.

“Crime scene techs are preparing to search the woods,” Kemper answers. “And a K-9 unit is on the way. If she was taken into the trees, they should be able to pick up a scent.”

“How deep do the woods go?” I ask.

“Half a mile. They terminate on an industrial complex, which would have been the most logical place to come out.”

A low growl escapes my throat. “I can’t believe this. Without Nola’s testimony, the prosecution has an uphill battle. Her testimony was the nail in his coffin.”

“Tell me about it.” The level of frustration coming off him almost matches mine. He’s always calm and steady, regardless of unforeseen circumstances or outcomes. That kind of gravitas is what makes him good at his job. So this rare display of emotion just goes to show what a kick in the gut Nola going missing is.

All of this centers on one man, Miroslav Babic, a Serbian national who emigrated to the U.S. at the end of the last century. Ever since his arrival, Babic has engaged in all manner of criminal activity, accumulating a small empire along the way. And other than a five-year stint in prison for aggravated assault, Babic has kept his record and his hands clean.

There really isn’t anything corrupt he’s not involved in. From running illegal gambling, to shaking down small business owners for a monthly take of their earnings, to illegal drugs and hijacking imported goods, Babic has his fingers in a lot of piles of dough. Basically, he’s the new mafia.

Decades ago, when the RICO Act went into effect, it went a long way in shutting down organized crime. No longer could the Lucky Lucianos and the John Gottis of the world operate as easily as they once did. RICO allowed prosecutors to target the entire criminal enterprise, not just individual members, by proving a pattern of racketeering activity. This meant they could charge individuals for multiple crimes committed as part of a larger criminal organization, enabling them to take down leadership and dismantle the entire organization.

But just because the mafia players became more exposed didn’t mean that they all shelved their guns and went and got legitimate careers. Some of them did do just that. Especially the younger ones who didn’t want to navigate the more turbulent waters of justice. But others simply reorganized. They adapted and found new ways to hide, continuing to weave the intricate webs of their criminal enterprises.

Every person in law enforcement knows that laws never have stopped people from doing what’s wrong. They simply give the good guys a means to prosecute them when they do. Being an FBI agent is a reactive role. I’m put on the trail only after something criminal has been done. That means that the bad guys are always a step ahead of us. More often than not, it takes incredible tenacity and ingenuity to stop them. Especially since we have to play by the rules, and the people we’re after do not.

That’s why catching someone like Miroslav Babic can be so challenging. Sometimes, it takes a lucky break to be able to finally move on him. And in this case, Nola Walker was just that. Except that now she’s gone—vanished into thin air.

Babic is extremely smart. You’d have to be in order to operate at his level. He keeps several layers between himself and the actual logistics of his operation. His money is laundered to precision so that everything he brings in is squeaky clean.

His lieutenants are tasked with doing the risky work on the ground, but even they are heavily insulated. If they do get caught, they never, ever talk. Babic takes care of their families so they can remain behind bars with peace of mind. And they know that if they did spill the beans, Babic would send their loved ones to the bottom of the Hudson in a steel drum.

I follow Kemper back inside, and we survey the scene again. “So where does this leave the case?” I ask him. “Nola is our star witness. Our only witness.”

“Judge Ackerman said that if we don’t get Ms. Walker on the stand in twenty-four hours, he’s dismissing the case.”

Upon hearing that, my face flushes with heat. “Dismissing it? But the DA still has evidence that connects Babic with stolen vehicles sent to Colombia. That’s five years, minimum.”

“I know, but without the murder charge, the case as it stands wouldn’t hold up. The DA would have to bring charges in a new case.”

I shake my head in disgust. “And twenty-four hours to find her? That’s insane.”

“I don’t make the rules,” Kemper answers. “And I’m not an elected official. Ackerman has the right to run his courtroom the way he sees fit.”

I step back, out of the way of a crime scene tech. The room flashes with bursts of light as she takes more photos of the disarray. “And how did they even know she was here?” I ask. “This is a federal safe house, for crying out loud.”

“There are a lot of questions,” Kemper says. “Hopefully, we’ll start getting some answers once we roll up our sleeves.”

My thoughts are stymied by a loud voice booming near the front door. I cringe and glance at my boss. “Who invited him here?”

A grin touches his lips. “Easy, Darcy. His detail is in charge of the safe house.” Kemper’s phone rings, and he steps away to take the call.

“This should be fun,” I mutter, and cringe a little when I see Mack Dunning pass through the foyer and start in my direction.

“Hunt,” he booms. “What the hell happened here?”

“Nola was taken,” I say sharply. “And is most likely dead. No thanks to you.”

“Hey,” he snaps. “We did our job. This isn’t on us.”

My insides bristle with irritation. Dunning is a supervisory deputy with the U.S. Marshals Service. By all accounts, he’s lazy and has never taken responsibility for anything. And so we’ve butted heads on more than one occasion. I have no idea how he got the supervisory position that he currently enjoys. He has a knack for passing blame, cutting corners, and overlooking important details, which is really the last thing you want from someone tasked with transporting a prisoner or making sure that a witness stays safe.

Mack is tall, looming over me by nearly a foot, and is built like a linebacker. His arms fill out his shirt, and his face is broad and plump. He wears boots and a felt cowboy hat, along with his signature sneer. Why he always has to walk around with a chip on his shoulder instead of being amiable like the rest of us, I’ll never understand. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t feel good about himself—something he could quickly change if he just decided to care about his work.

I huff at his reply, and my eyes bore into his. “Not on you guys? You had one job, Mack, and that was actually to make sure that my witness was on that stand this morning.”

“Look, I had a guy in an unmarked car on the street keeping an eye out.”

“Putting a marshal on the front curb is window dressing, Dunning, and you know it. Especially when we’re dealing with someone as resourceful as Miroslav Babic.”

Having finished with his phone call, Kemper steps into the conversation. “Agent Hunt makes a good point,” he tells Dunning. “Why didn’t you have a marshal stationed at the rear entrance? And maybe one or two inside the residence? This witness was crucial, and the man she was going to testify against is one of the worst there is.”

“Not to mention, you needlessly put an innocent woman’s life in jeopardy,” I add.

“Look, I—” Dunning stammers. “There must be a leak on your end. This is a safe house. We had no reason to suspect that Babic’s people knew where she was.”

“That’s not the point,” I tell him. “It’s that you, of all people, know that you have to prepare for any contingency. Your entire job here was to keep my witness safe. And this is either laziness, incompetence, or both. But I can promise you that your superior will be hearing from me about this.”

He reaches up and slowly rubs his forehead. “Any leads on where she might be?”

I huff, crossing my arms over my chest. “Discarded at the bottom of a ditch would be my guess.”

“I’ll get with my team,” he says. “We’ll regroup and do everything we can to find her.” Then he walks off, looking like he has his tail tucked between his legs.

Kemper turns to me. “Skylar took the day off, right? Is she back tomorrow?”

“Yes. She went to Jersey to visit a friend.”

“Good. I need her working this with you. You’ll have every agency resource available. You guys find Nola, Darcy. If it’s not already too late.”

Chapter Four

Residence of Miroslav Babic

Albany, NY

After getting dropped off at Zeus’ Table, I retrieve my phone and get into my car. My entire body is on edge with the reality that Nola Walker has been violently taken from the safe house. While the primary responsibility of keeping her safe fell on Dunning and his team, I still feel an intense weight of guilt, knowing that I’m partially to blame. She was my witness, after all. She trusted me to keep her safe, and I failed at that. Now we have to put all our focus on finding her and the people who took her. I’ll be honest though, I’m not very optimistic that we’ll ever find her. Babic is creative and has plenty of experience in making people disappear forever. For him, the rules don’t apply. Sending her body through a meat grinder or burying her six feet under somewhere in the Adirondacks are legitimate options.

Keying my engine, I pull into the street and merge with the flow of traffic. My mind is racing, wondering where we should even start. Hopefully, the CSI team will be able to hand me something actionable. For the moment, I feel completely helpless.

Nola is young, only twenty-three years old, and has spent the last three years as one of Babic’s personal housekeepers, living on his property in the staff quarters with other housekeepers, the cook, and groundskeepers.

According to what she told me, Nola knew that her employer was shady and involved with illegal means of income. But he was hiring her to do a legitimate job and was always kind and gracious to the entire staff.

One night, she was skipping rocks on the pond beneath the light of a full moon when she heard people approaching. Recognizing Babic’s voice, she obeyed a voice in her head telling her to hide. Babic was never seen venturing as far as the pond, and his angry tone told her that a meeting she shouldn't be privy to was probably taking place. So she hurried off behind the cover of some nearby shrubbery.

In Nola’s retelling of the events from that night, Babic and two of his lieutenants were questioning Bruno De Luca, a restaurateur who operated a local chain of sandwich shops. The argument centered on De Luca failing to cough up the pizzo—the protection money—that they siphoned off of hard-working people like him.

Nola looked on with growing concern as the small business owner pleaded for more time and upped his promises to pay. Babic finally calmed down and embraced him, telling him he would give him one final chance. De Luca was in tears, thanking the crime boss for his patience and affirming his commitment not to fall behind again.

De Luca was escorted off by the two lieutenants, but then Nola watched in horror as Babic pulled a gun from the small of his back, aimed it, and plugged a round into the back of De Luca’s head. Soon after, Nola put in an anonymous call to the Bureau hotline, and I was handed her case.

Even now, I can recall the emotion with which she relayed the events of that night to me. She sat in the interview room shaking from head to toe, her trauma leaking tears down her face as she begged me to keep her safe. I promised her I would and trusted that the marshals would take good care of her. Guess I was wrong on that count.

Babic was brought in and charged, but Judge Ackerman set the bond at a measly amount of a hundred thousand dollars and let him go free. Now, with Nola missing, the gangster is going to walk. She had her entire life ahead of her, and just because she tried to do the right thing, it’s most likely all over for her.

My fingers curl hard around the steering wheel as I put downtown behind me. I can’t remember the last time I was this angry. The fact is, I know who’s behind Nola’s capture. But it’s not like I can just walk right into his house and accuse him of it. It’s not like I can go look Babic in the eye and tell him that I know what he did.

A fresh thought streams through my mind, taking me by surprise. Mostly because it seems so feasible.

Screw it.

Flipping on my blinker, I quickly cut across the opposing lane and shoot down a side street to a chorus of horns protesting my driving skills. I floor the gas and make a beeline for the other side of the city.

Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into a driveway where I stop in front of a massive wrought iron gate. I roll down my window and nod at the man in the guard house. “Agent Hunt to see Mr. Babic,” I announce.

He nods, a knowing grin forming on his lips. “Go ahead, Agent Hunt. He’s been expecting you.”

Expecting me?

I shake my head as the gate opens up. Why wouldn’t he be expecting me? He’s responsible for my star witness disappearing into thin air. Of course he knew we would come knocking.

The cobbled drive sits below a shadowy arch of oak trees and inclines to a sprawling house. Its creamy limestone shimmers under the afternoon sun, and several gables and dormer windows accentuate the roofline, each topped with copper finials now oxidized to a verdigris green. Large bay windows protrude from the front, framed by ornate moldings, their glass panes reflecting the sky like mirrors. The grounds are perfectly manicured with neatly trimmed shrubbery hemmed with flowers bursting with vivid color.

I don’t know exactly how big his property is, but it has to be at least thirty or forty acres. The nearest neighbor is a quarter mile down the street, which affords Babic the privacy I’m sure he loves so much.

It’s really not that difficult to see the appeal of a life of high crime. There aren’t many people who could afford a place like this, but Babic has paid what I think is an extremely high price for his lifestyle. Too high, actually. At some point, he had to decide that he was okay with discarding any sense of a moral code and doing whatever he had to do to get ahead and stay on top.

I step out of the car and walk up several steps to the front porch, where a tall, lean man with a narrow face and a goatee waits for me. “Please, come inside,” he says. I follow him across the threshold and nearly gasp.

The entrance hall sets a grand tone with marble tiles and a sweeping staircase curling up to the second floor. Chandeliers are bathed in gold, and tapestries adorn the walls, depicting historical scenes in vibrant colors. I’m led into the living room, which has a high, coffered ceiling and a massive fireplace with a carved marble surround.

Sitting in a plush leather chair smoking a cigar is Miroslav Babic. He’s a bulky, muscular man, but the kind that doesn’t seem to work out. His arms are covered in dark hair, as is his chest, which is draped in a couple of gold chains, and they gleam from the open collar of his shirt. Babic’s eyes are dark but shrewd, always assessing everything they see.

Two men flank the back of the couch. Nearest to me is the man with the goatee who escorted me in. The other looks to be in his late twenties. His hair is cut close to the scalp and bleached nearly white. A tattoo of a snake curls up his right arm, and both earlobes are decorated with diamond studs.

“Agent Hunt.” Nodding at me, Babic sweeps a hand toward the couch across the coffee table from him. “Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

The words burst from my mouth before I’m settled on the soft leather. “Where is she, Babic? What did you do with her?”

He frowns slightly and takes a long, slow puff from his cigar. “I heard you may have misplaced someone. I thought it was only a matter of time before I heard from you directly.”

I bristle at the insolent way he refers to Nola being kidnapped. “We didn’t misplace anyone. Do you really think I don’t know that you had everything to do with her being taken? I want to know where she is, and I want to know right now.”

I don’t like how out of control I feel right now. I’m generally disciplined enough to keep my emotions in check and conduct things with a level head. But right now, I feel panicked and out of control. It was rash for me to come here like this. I know that. And I’m only going to make things worse if I don’t get it together. So instead of lashing out again, I take a slow, steadying breath and reset.

This isn’t the first time we’ve met face-to-face. After this case was handed to me, I had him brought in for questioning. Much to the dismay of his lawyer, Babic was happy to answer most of our questions. He was amicable throughout the entire conversation, completely unruffled by anything we said. He denied, of course, anything that had to do with De Luca’s murder.

“You’re already in deep enough,” I tell him with a steady voice. “Getting rid of a witness isn’t going to help you in the long run.”

He looks down at his cigar and rolls it slowly between his fingers. “I see no downside to it. But what is it that you wish for me to say right now, Agent Hunt? I had nothing to do with Nola going missing.”

“Right,” I huff. “And I’m the pope.”

“If you say so.” He chuckles around the end of his cigar.

“How did you find her? Who tipped you off?”

He looks away, smoke curling around his face. “Have you ever been involved in a war, Agent Hunt?”

“A war? No. Why?”

“I thought not. War…it has a way of changing your understanding of the world.”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re trying to say, Babic.”

“Allow me to tell you a little bit more about myself. Can I get you something to drink? Water. A beer?”

I shake my head, and he continues.

“When I was a young man, half of my family was living in Serbia. The other half lived in Bosnia. We were all overcome by the political upheaval of that time. Are you familiar with the Bosnian War? A terrible conflict. It was probably before your time.”

“We learned about it briefly in high school.” I’m not sure where he’s going with this, but I’m interested in hearing him out.

He places an ankle over a knee and leans back. “It was a mess. After the fall of the iron curtain, the Yugoslav Republic was no longer unified. The Serbian leadership favored a federal solution, whereas the Croatian and Slovenian leadership favored an alliance of sovereign states. War broke out, and my uncles and my older brother had to go fight. Over the next several years, hundreds of thousands died. Civilians died from starvation and exposure. They found my mother’s sister in a cow pasture. She was frozen all the way through. Nothing but skin and bones.”

Babic pauses and draws down on his cigar. “The soldiers raped my mother before they cut off her head. My sister fared no better. Eventually, I found that I was starving as well. I wasn’t going to make it if I didn’t change something. So I joined up with a group of mercenaries and helped them smuggle weapons over the border. I learned to fight and learned how to kill those who wished to exterminate my entire people.” Babic gets a faraway look in his eyes, and a frown line appears on his forehead. “War is a horrible thing, Agent Hunt. You do things that you thought you never could. I once killed a man with a spoon. A simple, ordinary spoon. Shoved it down his throat and sat down on the floor to watch him choke to death. Do you know why?”

I shake my head. “Why?”

“Because he was the man who raped and killed my mother. I hunted him down. The spoon was but the merciful end of what I had put him through for three days.” Babic utters a rueful chuckle. “Eventually, the war ended. No longer was there anything left for me in Serbia, so my uncle in Harlem got me over here to America.”

“I’m sorry about your family, Babic. That had to be extremely difficult.”

“I do not bring it up to gain your sympathies. I only want to illustrate why you cannot understand me. You think in black and white. That is how you see life. I, on the other hand, cannot afford to see things in this way. I have seen that the world is not black and white. Maybe it is for you people here in America with your tidy laws. But in many other places, when laws break down, or the people who are supposed to enforce them look the other way, you begin to understand that it’s each man for himself.” He waves a hand in dismissal. “Morality. It is only a helpful social connection. One which easily breaks down beneath the right pressures.”

I nod, carefully choosing my response. “The rule of law does break down against frayed social conditions. I’ll give you that. We saw that here when Americans expanded out west. It was called the Wild West for a reason. But that doesn’t mean that morality itself is strictly relative. You knew that it was wrong for that soldier to rape and murder your mother. You didn’t need a political body to tell you that.”

He wags a finger at me. “That is what I like about you, Agent Hunt. You have a clear mind, and you know how to use it.”

“Our laws are meant to reflect a more universal moral order,” I go on. “You experienced some of the very worst of humanity, and for that, I’m sorry. But that doesn’t mean that good and evil don’t exist. In fact, I would argue that you came out of the war with a much greater understanding of evil than you had before. If you want to use that to justify living above the law, then go right ahead. Just don’t be surprised when you wake up one day to find that you’ll never see the outside of a prison again.”

Smoke fills the area around us as he takes a series of pensive puffs on his cigar. “Again,” he finally says, “that is the difference between you and me. We have very different views of the world. And I admire anyone who is willing to give their life to stand for what they think is right. But people like you and me, we will never see eye to eye.”

“I appreciate the personal history lesson, Babic. But that still doesn’t get me any closer to Nola. You know we’re going to find her. It would go a lot easier for you if you just handed her back.”

That draws a chuckle out of him, but I can see that he’s growing restless with our conversation. “How would I even know where to look for her? Your people put her into witness protection, I’m sure. She’s vanished with no trace.”

“So you’ve looked for her then?”

“Of course,” he says smugly. “I’m naturally…curious about such things. Perhaps you have a leak in your office. You might need to look into that. But I had nothing to do with it.”

“Right. Nola’s testimony would have been the nail in your coffin, and you know it. How convenient that she goes missing the night before she’s due to testify against you.”

He holds his hands up in a defensive posture. Then he stands up and nods to the man with the bleached hair and the tattoo on his arm. “Jovan will escort you out. And please, if you ever come visit me at my home again, do show me the same courtesy I have shown you. Leave the accusations at the door.”

Chapter Five

FBI Field Office

Albany, NY

“Ugh, I go away for a few days and you lose our star witness?” Skylar groans as she leans her head back on her chair.

“It’s not my fault,” I protest. “Apparently, Dunning couldn’t keep a bee in a mason jar. We’re doing everything we can to find her.”

“Any leads?”

“None. No prints at the scene. K-9s tracked Nola’s scent through the woods behind the safe house and out to a parking lot in an industrial area. But that’s where it ends. No doubt she was forced into a vehicle. The warehouses over there only have cameras pointing toward their loading bays, so they didn’t pick up anything. There was more blood in the woods too.”

She growls in frustration. “That poor woman. There is no way she’s still alive. She was just trying to do what was right.”

“Yeah. They probably didn’t kill her right there in the house because they wanted to know everything she told us,” I say. “And you’re right. Once they got that out of her, they probably disposed of her. Still, we can’t be one hundred percent certain, so we owe it to her to work with an urgency as if we know she’s still alive.”

Anger is written all over Skylar’s face. “Babic is a blight on our city,” she says. “Men like him think they can get away with anything. And I guess they can. He’s got a pretty good track record of doing just that. Did you bring him in for questioning?”

“Not exactly.”

She studies my expression as I struggle to suppress a grin. “What? What are you not telling me?”

“I was so angry yesterday after viewing the crime scene, I ended up driving right up to his house and having a chat with him in his living room. “

Skylar straightens in her chair. “You’re joking. You went to his house?”

“Thought it would save time, which we don’t have much of. Plus, I wanted him to know that I’m not intimidated by him and that I still have every intention of bringing him to justice.”

“You are amazing,” she says, her eyes sparkling with interest. “What did he say?”

“Nothing helpful, unfortunately. He denies having anything to do with it, of course. But he did share some of his past with me. I didn’t realize that he’d had such a hard life back in Serbia.”

“What, he was trying to make you feel sorry for him?”

“No, I don’t think so. But those experiences did make him view the world differently. Babic seems to believe that power wins the day, not love or truth. He saw a lot of violence at a relatively early age. I think that hardened him and muddled his perspective of right and wrong.” I shrug. “In the meantime, it’s going to take some good old-fashioned detective work to find Nola.”

“If someone doesn’t find her body on the side of the road first. Ugh, I hate Dunning so much,” Skylar gripes. “How hard can it be to set up proper security at a safe house? As soon as I heard that he was in charge of her protection detail, I wondered if he was up for the task.”

I nod. “Me too. But it was out of our hands. Witness security is the purview of the Marshals.”

“Have you spoken with Todd about Nola?”

“We texted briefly, but they’re all scrambling over at the DA’s office trying to decide how to move forward. They only have a few hours before Judge Ackerman throws out the case. From what I hear, Todd read Dunning the riot act. Cursed him out in front of Dunning’s entire office.”

“Todd?” Skylar laughs. “Good for him. He’s always so chill. I would have paid to see that.”

“You and me both,” I chuckle.

“How did they find her? That’s what I want to know. There must be a leak on Dunning’s end of things.”

I huff. “Can you believe he said the same thing? But he accused our office of originating the leak.”

Her nostrils flare. “He would. Bastard. Someone needs to tell him that part of being a grownup is taking responsibility for where you went wrong. And who’s the idiot that promoted him?”

“Right?”

“Hey, guys.”

We swivel in our chairs to find Agent Daryl Simmons standing in front of us. As usual, his clothing is frumpy, both his shirt and khakis looking like they have never seen an iron. He generally has dark circles under his eyes, but today they’re especially dark.

“Speaking of idiots,” Skylar remarks under her breath.

I shoot her a look before forcing a smile in Daryl’s direction. “Hey, Daryl. What’s up?”

“I heard you guys lost your witness. The one that was going to put Babic away for good.”

“Yes…and?” I brace myself for a haughty or rude comment.

He shrugs. “Just wanted to say I’m sorry. That’s a big case. I hope you find her.”

My mouth nearly drops open.

“Really?” Skylar says. “No telling us how much we suck at our jobs or how you would have ensured that she never went missing?”

“Stop it,” I tell her. “Thanks, Daryl. It is a big gut punch for the case. We’ll see how things shake out from here.”

“Any leads yet?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

He gives a pensive nod. “Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

“Uh, yeah,” I tell him, more than a little stunned at his offer. “I’ll do that.”

He walks off, and Skylar gives me an incredulous look. “What was that about?”

“No idea. But that might be the first normal conversation I’ve ever had with him.”

“He’s got to have something up his sleeve,” she says. “An offer to help from Dopey Daryl?

“Hey, cut him some slack already.”

She grabs her bottle of Mountain Dew and takes a swig. “I just don’t trust him. He’s never been anything but a pompous ass, poking his nose into everyone’s business and critiquing every move they make.”

“People can change,” I remind her. “You used to be a snark in high school but—wait. Oh, that’s right, you still are.”

She deadpans me. “Rude.”

“Just saying.”

At that moment ASAC Jake Akers appears from around the corner. “Hey, you two. I just sent you both an email.”

“Well, hello there,” Skylar croons. She tilts her head and studies him. “You look tired. Do you want a shoulder massage? You can come sit here in my chair.”

Her comment causes me to wince and shake my head. Akers is in his early thirties and stands about six feet tall. His dark hair is short and well-kept. His shoulders are broad, and sturdy muscles fill out his shirt. More than one female agent has suggested that he could be in the next Magic Mike movie.

Not only does he happen to be single, but Skylar has a thing for him. It used to be that whenever Akers came along, she would grow nervous and stumble on her words. But for whatever reason, she’s become more emboldened of late. I swear, one day she’s going to come on too strong to the wrong person and get slapped for sexual harassment.

Lucky for her, though, I’m pretty sure Akers has a thing for her too. Their only problem is that an agent dating a superior presents a conflict of interest. As FBI agents, we’re governed by the guidelines of the Office of Government Ethics that prohibit supervisors from having romantic relationships with their subordinates. However, that hasn’t kept Skylar from flirting and dreaming.

Akers replies with a grin, “That sounds great, but I should probably pass. I like my job and would like to keep it.”

“Oh, you haven’t had one of my shoulder rubs,” she says. “Two minutes in and you’ll be handing in your badge. Then we can go to my place.”

I can’t help but utter a rueful laugh. “Sky, knock it off. See what I have to deal with?” I tell Akers. “She’s insufferable.”

He nods, and I see that he’s stifling a reaction. “Listen, I just heard from Crime Scene. They collected a notebook belonging to Nola Walker from the safe house. I want you both to take a look at it. From what I can tell, the last few pages might have been her trying to piece together some of Babic’s operation. If you don’t have any leads on her whereabouts yet, this might offer some guidance.”

A frown knits Skylar’s brow. “But Nola claimed that she didn’t know anything about Babic’s organization.”

He nods. “I know. But she had a lot of time to think at that safe house. She might have tried to piece snippets of conversation together—who knows? I sent an email with images of the pertinent notebook pages. Look them over and see if you can get the data to line up.”

I nod. “Couldn’t hurt. Will do.”

Akers heads off, and we turn to our computers and pull up his email. “Nola told us she didn’t know anything,” Skylar says. “So how could she be trying to piece together Babic’s dealings? And besides, how much could a housekeeper actually know?”

I click on the file and pull up the images. “You’d be surprised what they probably overhear. But I don’t know why she wouldn’t have told us everything. She could have thought that what little she knew didn't matter.”

A glance at the images of the notebook shows me circled names, underlined questions, and sentences with words scratched out and others put in their places. It’s representative of a flurry of mental activity. And yet there are some names that I recognize. Babic’s for starters. Below his name are a couple of his lieutenants, along with several business names that we know function as front operations. This is all information that the Bureau has had for a while now, so it won’t be of any use to us.

However, at the top of the last page is a pyramid of circles, with lines drawn from one to the next and Babic’s name in the circle at the very top. Some circles are left blank, others are filled with a simple question mark. There are a couple of names at the bottom that interest me.

“Cleanest Threads,” I say out loud. “What’s that?”

“Hmm, don’t know. Hang on.” Skylar’s fingers dance across her keyboard. “The only thing I see is a dry cleaner. Nothing else comes up. You think it’s a front we don’t know about?”

“Could be. Nola thought it was connected somehow.”

She looks over at me. “What do you want to do?”

I stand up and push my chair in. “Let’s go check it out.”

Chapter Six

Cleanest Threads Dry Cleaning

Albany, NY

The electronic bell above the door chimes as Skylar and I enter the small establishment. I personally don’t ever get my clothes dry cleaned—I have a single pantsuit that I typically only wear to funerals or important work meetings—so I never really have a reason to visit a dry cleaner. And if I do, I just breeze on through the drive-through. But now, breathing in that distinct chemical odor, I’m unexpectedly taken back to my childhood.

Long-forgotten memories are resuscitated, and I recall walking into a dry cleaner every Saturday morning with my mother, there to drop off my father’s suits and shirts and the occasional dress belonging to my mother. After the dry cleaner, Mom would take me to a nearby donut shop, where I would get strawberry iced with sprinkles. Sometimes Lila would accompany us, and we three girls would just enjoy an easy morning together. It really is fascinating how quickly time slides by and how nothing stays the same. The only way to really thrive in this world is to embrace the change and be thankful for what it gave you.

The front counter is manned by a middle-aged man with slanted eyes and a weary expression. He glances up from his magazine with a complete lack of interest.

“Help you?”

“Yes.” I badge him. “Agents Hunt and Mills. We need to speak with Mrs. Park.”

“What about?”

“I’m not at liberty to share that. Is she around?”

He gives a heavy sigh and closes the magazine, then passes through a curtain and into the back without another word.

“Charming,” Skylar mutters.

He returns a minute later with a tiny woman in tow who couldn’t be any taller than five feet. Looking to be in her late fifties, her face is gently lined with wrinkles and her dark hair shot through with gray.

“Dae Park?” I ask.

“You’re the FBI?” she asks with a heavy Asian accent.

I nod. “Is there a place we can speak in private?”

“We do something wrong?”

“No, ma’am. We just have some questions.”

She eyes us suspiciously for several moments. I can tell that she’s not too keen on the idea of us being here. “Okay. Come back.”

Skylar and I step around the counter and follow her through the curtain. Many dry cleaning businesses send their laundry off to be cleaned at an alternate facility, but this one does everything on-site. Machines whirl and hiss, and we’re led past the conveyor system and a row of steam presses before entering a supply room in the back, where metal shelves hold bottles of industrial chemicals, stacks of hangers, and rolls of transparent garment bags.

“My office has no chairs for guests,” Dae informs us. “It is quiet in here. What does the FBI want with me?”

Our information is severely limited, and Nola’s note is the only thing we have to go off of right now. So I start with the most logical piece of data. As far as we know, Mrs. Park is willingly laundering money for organized crime. “We’re conducting an investigation into Miroslav Babic. Are you familiar with that name?”

She shakes her head. “No. Who is that?”

“For starters, he’s a criminal,” Skylar tells her. “His organization runs all through this city, running drugs and extortion on multiple fronts. Are you certain you aren’t familiar with him?”

She vigorously shakes her head, and her eyes flame with anger. “I do not know this Babic man.”

I wait, and when she doesn't continue, I press a little more. “Mrs. Park, you seem very angry that I asked. May I ask why?”

She looks away, and her fingers slowly curl into fists at her sides. “My husband and I come here to America more than ten years ago. We had a good enough life in Korea, but we wanted to come here to give our son the best life. We had dream of starting a business and sending Chang-woo to good university. But this is a bad country. We should have never come.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask, my interest piqued. “That this is a bad country?”

She waves me off. “You will not care. No one cares.”

“What makes you think that?” Skylar asks. “We’re here, and if something bad has happened, I assure you that it’s our job to care.”

“I talk to the police already. They don’t care. They do nothing.”

“Do nothing about what, Mrs. Park? We’re honestly in the dark about what you mean.”

We wait patiently for her to speak again. Finally, “My son, Chang-woo, graduated high school and then was around the wrong people all the time. We started the dry cleaner to give to him one day, but all he wanted to do was party and hang out at the clubs. He even changed his name to Kendrick because he liked the rap music.”

“Kendrick?” I say. “Like Kendrick Lamar?”

She nods. “He liked that weird music. Started to wear the baggy clothes and got a bad attitude. And then he started selling drugs. He liked that he was doing something on his own and making a lot of money. I told him I didn’t like it. I told him he needed to stop. Then one day, he said he owed some people a lot of money and they were coming here to talk with me.” Dae pauses, and tears begin to glisten in her eyes.

“What did they want to talk about?” I press gently.

“They tell me that Chang-woo owed them money and he could not pay. They tell me they are going to come here every week and I had to pay them one thousand dollars each time. I told them I was not paying and that I was calling cops. When they left, I called Chang-woo, but he did not answer. The next day, I come here to work and see him lying beside the back door. I call to him and shake him, but he was dead. Those men killed my son.” Dae chokes up and begins to sob. Turning away, she wipes at her eyes and tries to get her breathing under control.

Skylar and I exchange a glance. “Mrs. Park, I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “We didn’t know that. You said you spoke with the police about it?”

“They came and got his body, and I told them about the men who come here to say they want money. But I never heard from them. I called and I went to the police station, but no one ever helped me. And the next week, those men came back and made me pay them. And now I pay them every week one thousand dollars.”

“How long has this been going on?” I ask.

“Six months. And they do not stop. They say they will burn down my business if I do not pay. They already killed my son and now steal from me.” Dae begins to cry again. “What can I do? Nothing. No one will help me. I pay my taxes, and the police will not help me.”

“We’re going to help,” Skylar assures her. “Can you give us a description of the men who threatened you that first time?”

“They were white men. Normal looking. Dark hair—I don’t know.”

“And are they the same ones who come to get the money each week?”

“No. The person they send is the same age as Chang-woo. Or younger. They come and collect for the others.”

“And you have the money ready each week?” I ask.

She nods. “Every Tuesday night, I put one thousand dollars in an envelope so that on Wednesday morning it is waiting at the front counter. The boy takes it and leaves. Then they leave me alone.”

“Have you ever gotten anyone’s name?” Skylar asks her.

“No. These people killed my son and they take my money and I don’t know why or who they are.” She pinches her eyes shut for a moment. “We had good life in Korea. But here we wanted a better one. America is a great nation. We wanted Chang-woo to have the best of opportunities. But he wasted what we gave him and took a bad path. Chang-woo never fit in here. If we would have stayed in Korea, my son would still be alive. He would be alive and happy. And now we have him no more and have to pay money to gangsters every week.” Dae gives a rueful shake of her head.

“Mrs. Park,” I say. “As we said when we arrived, we’re investigating a man with a lot of criminal connections. His name is Miroslav Babic, and he is very dangerous. We had no idea that someone was siphoning your money every week. I can promise you that we’re going to look into it and put a stop to it.”

She gives a halfhearted nod but doesn’t seem convinced. “They are taking four thousand dollars a month. That is a lot of money. And this business has not made us rich.”

“I understand. When do they come pick up the money?”

“The middle of Wednesday morning,” she says. “After our busy rush is over.”

“And you said that you brought this to the attention of the police, and they haven’t done anything?”

“Yes. Nothing. Why would they not want to help a citizen that is being harassed and robbed like this?”

“That’s an excellent question, Mrs. Park. And we’re going to find out the answer to that.” I hand her a card. “Please call if you think anything else we should know. And for the time being, it might be best if you don’t tell anyone that we stopped by.”

“Of course. And I will tell Bong at the front desk to say nothing as well. Thank you, agents, for wanting to help. I hope to hear from you soon.” Her face pinches with emotion. “I cannot keep doing this for much longer.”

“Unbelievable,” Skylar says when we’re back in the car. “How many other businesses in Albany do you think Babic has his fingers in?”

“Far too many. And how many cops does he have on the take? The only way for something like this to keep happening is for people in public service to look the other way.”

“Well, we’re certainly not,” I tell her. “We’ll be putting a stop to Mrs. Park getting the shaft. She’s been through enough. Though I found it interesting that she never heard of Babic.”

Skylar clicks her seatbelt as I pull onto the road. “Right. She doesn’t even know who’s robbing her, much less who killed her kid. What a nightmare.”

“Indeed it is. And it’s about time someone put a stop to it.”

Chapter Seven

The Bait House

Albany, NY

“Here, I think this is it.”

Skylar looks up from her GPS as I turn off the road and pull into a cracked parking lot littered with pebbles and weeds. I stop beside an old, lonesome shack, the paint along its siding faded to gray and peeling like strips of old skin. The windows are fogged with dust, and a torn awning flaps in the breeze. Twenty yards away, the Hudson River flows peacefully.

“Are you sure this is it?” I ask her, peering out the windshield. “It’s abandoned.”

She shrugs. “It’s the only address online that corresponded with the name. Let’s check it out at least. We’re here.”

We step out of the car, and I stand in place and survey the area. “Weird. There’s nothing here.”

“Nola put Cleanest Threads and this place on the bottom of her list,” she says. “The cleaner checked out. This has to be connected somehow. I mean, assuming she was on to something.”

“What was the name again?” I ask her.

“The Bait House.”

Out near the water is an old, narrow dock that runs through the river reeds and out into the water about thirty feet. At the end, a man is sitting on a bucket and staring at his line in the water. Skylar and I cross the cracked pavement and start down the dock. When the man hears our feet echo on the old boards, he turns around and stands up.

He has dark skin and a heavily seamed face. His wiry hair is white and cut close to the scalp. He wears a flannel shirt over a pair of worn jeans, and he greets us with a broad smile on our approach.

“This sure must be my lucky day. What’s a couple of pretty young ladies like yourselves doing out this way?”

Skylar juts a thumb over her shoulder. “We have a few questions about that building back there. You caught anything today?”

That’s one of the things I like most about Skylar, and why she is not only my partner but my best friend. She naturally takes an interest in people and can put them at ease in an instant. They can sense that her questions are genuine because they are. She’s a master at getting people to open up. I doubt that this man has information that will crack our case open and help us find Nola, but it’s always good to see her people skills in action.

He brightens at the question. “Sure have. A few striped bass and a couple catfish.”

“You keep them?”

“Keep ’em? Nah. I unhook them and send them back. Got enough food in my refrigerator. Just like being out here.”

“Is this your regular spot?” she asks.

He nods. “I seem to be about the only person who comes out here anymore. Most folks like dropping a line a couple miles from here up at the north inlet.” He takes another look at us, and his face gathers an amused expression. “But then you two aren’t here for fishin’, are you?”

“Afraid not,” Skylar admits. “We’re actually FBI. We came to check out that shack back there. You know anything about it?”

“FBI?” he grins. “I’ve got a fishing license here in my tackle box if you want to see it.”

“We’re not Fish and Wildlife,” I tell him, “so we don’t care about any licenses. What’s your name?”

“Otis. Otis Barkley. And I gotta say, this has gotta be the first time in my long life I’ve ever met someone from the FBI in person.”

“That’s probably a good thing,” Skylar chuckles. “What can you tell us about that shack back there?”

“The Bait House? What do you want to know? It’s been out of business for going on fifteen years.”

A breeze stirs the reeds and marsh grasses around us, scenting the air with a clean, fresh aroma. “To be honest,” I tell him, “we’re not sure. This location came up in an investigation we’re working on. We weren’t certain what we might find when we got out here.”

A grin tugs at his lips, and he rubs the white stubble on his chin. “Then I’ve got a story to tell, if you’re interested.”

“Totally interested,” Skylar tells him.

“Okay, then. Hang on just a second.” Otis goes to his rod and spins up the line, then lays it down on the deck. “No need for any interruption.” He settles back down on the top of his overturned bucket, his gaze alternating between me and Skylar.

“The Bait Shop was there when I was a boy. My uncle used to bring me down here. He’d grab some bait for me and send me here to the dock while he shot the breeze with the men who congregated there. It was a local hangout of sorts. Someone always had a cooler of beers, and there was always a cloud of smoke inside. Everyone smoked back then.” Otis smiles pleasantly at the memories. “I think old man Rogers finally got into selling bait and marijuana. The smoke on my uncle’s clothes changed, that’s for certain. But about twenty years ago, old man Rogers passed. A couple of the guys got together and bought the place out of probate. But by then, times had changed, and the world had moved on from quiet places like this. Anglers weren’t as patient as they used to be. They’d get out on boats or congregate beneath bridges where the fishing was better. After a few years, the shop went belly up and shut its doors for good.” He gives a rueful shake of his head. “A shame. Now none of that probably has anything to do with your current investigation, but you would probably want to know that from time to time, I see some folks going in through the back door. They stay awhile and leave.”

“Do you know what they do in there?” I ask him.

“No. They don’t look like the kind of men I want anything to do with. And besides, what am I going to do about it?” He waves off the thought. “I’m content to fish alongside the ghosts of a better, more simple time. I don’t want no trouble, that’s for sure.”

“What do these men look like?” Skylar inquires.

“Like thugs, if you ask me. Some have tattoos and wear chains. Some leather jackets. Look like gangsters to my eyes, which is why I stay clear of them. Whatever they’ve got going on, it’s nothing that I want to concern myself with.”

I thank Otis for his time and tell him we’re going to check out the shack.

“Of course. And if you ever want to drop a line in the water, I’m out here most days, afternoon till dusk. The sunset from here is a thing of beauty every night. So until the sun goes down, go fishin’ is what I say.”

“I might take you up on that,” Skylar says. “My dad used to take me fishing, but it’s been a long time. I have good memories of it myself.”

He nods and picks up his rod. “You know where to find me.”

We start back across the parking lot and assess the old structure. The roof sags under the weight of neglect, and the back door is hanging on by a single hinge. The whole thing looks ready to fall over with some help from a sturdy breeze. Nature is doing its best to reclaim it, as young trees and brambles encroach, their branches scratching at the walls.

I gently tug the door open and step inside. The floor is littered with debris—broken fishing rods, rusted tin cans, faded wrappers, and dead bugs. The long service counter is covered in a thick layer of dirt and dust. The place smells musty with age and neglect.

“I don’t get it,” Skylar says. “How did this place get on Nola’s list? What would she have heard that made her think this is remotely connected to Babic?”

“I don’t know. But those thugs Otis was telling us about could fit the bill. This place has some kind of connection, even if it’s not clear yet what that is.”

With the dust covering the windows like it is, the inside of the shack is cast in a heavy gloom. I take out my phone and tap on the flashlight, then pan it around, walking around as I do so. “Hey, look at this.”

Skylar comes over and examines the illuminated area of the floor. “Is that blood?”

“Looks like it.” Near my feet is a dried pool of red with a partial shoe print molded into it.

“Think we should bring in a crime scene team?” she asks.

“Honestly? No. Look at the dust on it. It’s not recent. I don’t want to get sidetracked. It really could be anything.”

She nods, and we look around for a little longer before returning to the car. “That was weird,” Skylar says as I start the engine. “And now I have so many more questions than I did before.”

Chapter Eight

Albany County Judicial Center

Downtown Albany, NY

“Knock, knock!” I announce as I push open the door to Todd’s office and step inside. He’s sitting back in his chair with his desk phone nestled on his shoulder and holds up a finger for me to wait.

“Sorry,” I whisper, and drop quietly into a chair.

“I’m working every angle,” he says into the phone. “We’re doing everything we can. Unfortunately, all the channels have dried up.” He listens for a while. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll keep you updated.” He returns the phone to its cradle and blows out a long sigh. “Darcy, what brings you by? Surely it has nothing to do with our missing witness.”

“Surely not,” I smile.

“That was DA Lopez on the phone. She’s pissed, to say the least. With Nola on the stand, they had a slam dunk. It would have been one of the most prestigious wins of her career.”

“Forgive me for not being all that concerned about your boss’s career,” I tell him. “I just want to find Nola alive and get her to safety again.”

Todd is a detective for the Albany DA, which means that a lot of his time is spent supporting the prosecution by preparing witnesses, providing trial support, and advising case strategies. But right now, he’s as focused on finding Nola as I am.

A smile breaks across my lips. “I heard that you told Dunning off. Details, please.”

Todd leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his dark hair. “Not much to say. I informed him that he’s a worthless POS who wouldn’t make it as a Walmart security guard. And because of his incompetence, he put an innocent woman’s life at risk.”

“Well said,” I huff. “And he’s actually putting a lot more lives at risk. Babic’s entire organization is predicated on violence. The longer he remains free, the more people will get hurt. What’s the news on the case itself?”

“Ackerman threw it out.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Why wouldn’t he just let Lopez’s office withdraw it?”

“Good question. A lot of us are asking the same thing. But either way, whether he dismissed it or we withdrew, the results are the same. Our prosecutors are going to have to regroup to see what else they can get Babic with. Right now, it wouldn’t be enough to put him away for more than a couple years.” Todd’s green eyes cloud over in frustration. “How about you? Any leads so far?”

“Not really.” I go on to explain the notebook Nola left behind. “It’s led us to a dry cleaner that’s getting shaken down. Sounds like some dirty cops might be keeping it under wraps.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me.”

“And then we checked out some abandoned bait shop on the Hudson.”

Todd’s eyes narrow. “A bait shop, you said?”

“Yeah. Why, you know about it?”

“Maybe.” He sits up, grabs a notepad, and begins to flip through it. “Here it is. The Bait House?”

“That’s the one,” I tell him, my curiosity piqued. “How did that get on your radar?”

A wily grin appears on his lips and reaches to eyes. “Wiretaps, baby.”

“I totally forgot you got approval for those. But that was only late last week, right? You already have them up?”

“Yep. The judge wanted us to start small and see what we picked up. As you know, Babic himself doesn’t ever speak on the phone, but we’re hoping we can get some details about his operation from things his subordinates say.”

“Any chatter about Nola?”

He shakes his head. “That would be helpful. Sergie Beledon mentioned something about the bait shop over the weekend. He was telling an associate that it was doing well and that they should leave it alone.”

“Interesting.” I nibble on my bottom lip as I think. “So, I don’t want to step on your toes, but would you mind if we took a deeper look into that angle? Skylar and I went over there, and the whole structure is a safety hazard. Obviously, there’s more than meets the eye.”

“Fine by me. The AFO has more resources than I do. Just keep me up to speed with any developments. I have to prove the relevance of the wiretaps for the judge to keep them going.”

“Got it. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

“We need to grab dinner again sometime,” he says, and that gets a laugh out of me. He cocks an eyebrow. “What?”

“We’ve been saying that for over a year. I’m starting to believe it will never happen.”

“Hey, I’m doing my best here. If people like Dunning could do their jobs right, then maybe I would have a little more free time on my hands.”

“Tell me about it.”

As old college friends, Todd and I reconnected after I literally bumped into him in the middle of a downtown crosswalk. Once we realized we were both living in the same city, our friendship rekindled. As for anything more than that, I think the interest is there on both our parts, but between our jobs keeping us so busy and me dealing with everything going on with Lila, sharing anything beyond a couple of well-meaning kisses is still out of the picture at this point. Romantic relationships require so much thought and communication, and I just don’t have that to give right now, even for someone as attractive and level-headed as Todd.

“How’s Allie Bishop doing?” he asks. “She’s out in Seattle now, right?”

“Tacoma,” I correct. “I called her the other day to check in. She’s making waves, I can tell you that. Totally hit the ground running. She recently did some undercover work in a state prison. Ended up uncovering a huge scandal.”

“Good. I’ll bet you’re proud.”

“I am. She’s a great person. But I refuse to take credit for anything she’s done. Allie has a great mind and seems to be putting it to great use. It was nice to have her tagging along for a portion of her training.”

“Maybe you can convince her to transfer out to the AFO one day,” Todd suggests.

“I wish. There’s no chance of that. The Tacoma area is home for her. But I am hoping to go out there for a visit sometime. She said I could stay at her grandmother’s place.”

Behind me, I hear a soft rap of knuckles on the door, followed by a woman’s voice. “Todd, Lopez has called, and all hands in the conference room.

“Got it. Be right there.” He gathers some papers and stands up. “No rest for the awesome.”

“The awesome?” I laugh.

“Indeed.” He shoots me a wink.

I rise from the chair. “I’ll let you know what we find out about the bait shop. Let’s keep working together on this one. We all have the same goal.”

He grimaces, and fresh determination appears on his face. “Which is to make sure that Miroslav Babic spends the rest of his days behind bars.”

Chapter Nine

Cleanest Threads Dry Cleaning

Albany, NY

“Oh my god. This is so good. You sure you don’t want a bite?”

Skylar holds up a half-eaten apple strudel that she got from the German bakery across the street. We’ve been sitting in the car, curbside, for the last hour, keeping an eye on the cleaner. Dae Park informed us that the man who comes to pick up the money comes every Wednesday after the morning rush. So we’re here keeping watch until he shows.

“No thanks,” I tell her. “I’m not too interested in completely undermining the run I took this morning.”

“I clocked half an hour of yoga and another half hour on the elliptical,” she says. “So it all evens out. I get to enjoy a mouth orgasm and experience a net zero effect on my figure.” She glances out the windshield. “Oh, what have we here?”

As we were talking, a black Infiniti pulled over several spaces in front of us. Now, a young man emerges and crosses the street. His blond hair is braided tightly into cornrows, and several gold chains dangle over an oversized T-shirt. His jeans are baggy, and there isn’t a smudge on his high-end Jordans. He enters the building and reemerges seconds later, a white envelope clutched in his right hand.

“Bingo,” Skylar says, buckling her seatbelt while I turn the car back on.

Mrs. Park emerges from the front door of her business and stands on the sidewalk with her hands on her hips, glaring daggers at the thief as he gets back into his vehicle. A twinge of anger twists my stomach.

It’s situations just like this that compelled me to join the FBI. Every day, common people are hurt, abused, and oppressed by people who think that they own the world and are above the law.

Law enforcement exists to stand in the gap between abusers and the abused, between criminals and those they impose their will against. Our founding fathers believed that justice was the primary purpose of government. When law enforcement departments and agencies work together alongside a capable prosecutor, then justice can flourish. Our citizens are safer and can go peacefully about their lives.

Of course, corruption can be found at every level of humanity. No one is exempt from the possibility of going off the rails. Those who should be pursuing justice often get caught inside schemes of greed and corruption and so surrender any ability to do their communities any real good.

Knowing that Mrs. Park is not only a slighted business owner but also a grieving mother gives me all the more reason to find out what we’re dealing with. I can’t bring her son back, but maybe at the end of all this, we’ll find out who killed him and stop the people who are leaching off of all her hard work.

The Infiniti pulls onto the road, and I begin to follow at a distance, turning down several side streets before merging onto the highway. Maybe it’s the agent in me, but sometimes I can't help but wonder just who is inside the cars I drive by every day.

Most of them are good, well-meaning citizens, but the occasional car will carry a murderer, sexual predator, or extortioner like the young man we’re following right now. No one really bothers to wonder if the person in their rearview is a criminal or not. And that’s certainly for the best. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the good ones from the bad unless you catch them in the act.

We follow down the highway for a while and head east after exiting. The Infiniti turns down several cross streets, heading into an older, more run-down area on the edge of downtown. He slides into a curbside space in front of a deli, gets out, and goes inside. I pass by, hook a U-turn, and park on the other side of the street.

“The Grinning Reuben,” Skylar says. “Ever eaten there?” A handful of tables are placed outside the deli window, shaded by a faded green and white awning.

“No. I never have a reason to be in this neighborhood.”

“How do you want to play this?”

I glance at the clock on the dash. “It’s a couple minutes before eleven,” I say. “They look closed. Which means this could be his drop-off point.”

“Or another pickup,” she adds.

“True, but I’m not getting those vibes.” At that moment, the neon “Open” light flicks on in the window. “Hungry?”

“Not really. That apple fritter will power me for a few hours.”

I unstrap my holster and hand it to her, then peel off my blazer. “Hey, don’t go getting naked on my account,” Skylar snickers. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to check the place out, and I would rather not look like a fed while I’m doing it.”

“Ah, good call. And I will take a sweet tea.”

“One sweet tea, coming up.”

I climb out of the car and wait for a couple of vehicles to pass before crossing the street. Inside the sandwich shop, I’m met with a pleasant aroma of fresh baked bread and spices I can’t quite place. The walls are painted a dark green, and white plastic chairs are tucked under gray formica tables. Oldies music plays quietly over the speakers.

Stepping up to the counter, I’m greeted by a woman with gray hair tucked beneath a hairnet. She wears a pair of thick but stylish glasses and an apron with the shop’s logo stamped on it.

“Hey, hun. Lunch is calling you early, is it? What can I get for you?”

I glance up at the menu on the wall and survey my options. “Let me grab a pastrami on rye and a bag of kettle chips. And a bottle of water and a sweet tea.”

“You got it. Here or to go?”

“I’ll take it here.” I pay with my card, and she hands me the water and an empty cup. “Sweet tea is over there by the soda fountain. Just made it so it’s probably still a little warm. Might want to add a little extra ice.”

I fill up Skylar’s cup and select a table that allows me to view the door leading to the back. The sounds of The Monkees singing "I'm A Believer” stream over the speakers and curve the corners of my mouth into a nostalgic smile. My mother used to love this song, mainly because my grandmother had loved it. I remember my mother dancing with me and Lila one morning in the kitchen with this song playing over her radio. The coffee was brewing, the pancakes cooking, and the three of us laughed until our stomachs hurt. It was one of those rare moments that life gives you, full of joy and connection.

“Here you are, hun. Pastrami on rye.”

“This looks delicious. I can’t recall the last time I had one of these.”

“Best in the city, trust me. Oh, hold on. I forgot your chips.” She disappears behind the counter and returns with a bag of kettle chips. “Here you are.”

I nod my thanks. “So how long have you guys been here?”

“The shop?” She reaches up and adjusts her hair net. “Must be going on fifteen years. I’ve only worked for John for the past three. He’s been very good to me. His mother and I were best friends before she passed.”

“John?” I press.

“John Cardone. He’s the owner. Learned how to make a mean sandwich from his old man and finally decided to do something about it. The shop has established a small cult following. It’s been a fun culture to be a part of.”

Another customer comes in, and she excuses herself. I’m not particularly hungry, but my mouth is nearly watering at the sight of the sandwich in front of me. After a single bite, a loud moan escapes my lips, and I’m certain this was how Skylar felt eating that apple fritter. The mustard mingles perfectly with the meat and cheese, and the bread is soft and spongy.

I take my time eating, wanting to relish every bite but also hoping that I’ll learn something more than just the name of the owner. Thankfully, my patience is finally rewarded when the door in the back swings open and the kid with the cornrows steps out.

Now that I’m closer to him, I can see pockmarks scattered across his cheeks, scars from old acne. His features are twisted into an angry snarl. He’s halfway across the shop when the back door swings open with a quick burst and smacks the wall behind it.

A man with dark, slicked-back hair steps out. He wears jeans and a burgundy long-sleeve button-down. The collar is open, and a carpet of chest hair pops through. He has a strong brow and commanding eyes and barks at the man in the cornrows. “Thomas!”

I settle my attention back on what’s left of my sandwich and keep my ears tuned.

The young man stops, huffs to himself, and turns around. The other approaches him, none too happy, and snaps at him. “I told you, we’re going to move you up. But when I’m ready to.” Realizing there are a couple of patrons in the restaurant, he lowers his voice. I strain to hear him over the music. “I brought you on as a favor. And you’ve done good. But you move up when I say you move up. You disrespect me like that again and you don’t have a place with me anymore, you got that?”

Thomas’s face falls, and he nods like he’s just been whipped.

“I don’t owe you nothing, boy. You work for me,” he snarls. “Don’t you go forgetting that. Now get the hell outta here.”

The young man turns and hurries out of the restaurant. The other disappears through the back door, leaving me to finish my meal to the sound of the Beatles singing “Here Comes the Sun.”

Chapter Ten

FBI Field Office

Albany, NY

“Ugh, who made this sludge?” I mutter to the empty break room, wincing down a swallow of the dark liquid. “Tastes like old motor oil.”

“I made it.”

I turn to see Agent Tony Cheng standing in the doorway and wince a little on the inside. “Oh, I mean, I’m sure I could dress it up a little with some sugar and creamer. No worries.”

Cheng has an oval face with a strong jaw and short black hair. He’s a seasoned agent with nearly a decade with the Bureau and recently transferred from the Los Angeles Field Office. He steps into the room and refills his cup. “My previous field office liked it thick,” he says. “One cup of that, and you’re launched for the day. I’m still trying to figure out how everyone around here likes it.”

“If I could offer a tip? Aim for somewhere between sludge and water, and you’ll make most of us happy.”

“Got it,” he grins.

“So how are you adjusting around here?”

“I think I’m adjusting well,” he says. “I couldn’t ask for a better partner than Brooks. He’s got a chill personality but is a real go-getter too. I like the combo. My last partner drew the short end of the stick when it came to smarts. Nice guy, but that left me doing a lot of the heavy lifting. Brooks is a breath of fresh air.”

“He’s one of the best,” I agree. “We worked a case together last year while Skylar was out. I couldn’t have gotten it across the finish line without him. What are you two working on right now?” Instinctually, I take a sip from my mug and instantly regret it. It’s all I can do to keep my eyes from pinching shut.

“We’ve got the entire board of an NGO in our crosshairs. Just waiting on some more financial data to come through, but I think we’ve got it in the bag. They’ve been siphoning money off their grants for personal gain. And you? I hear Miroslav Babic neutralized his witness.”

“That’s one way to put it. The man is resourceful, that’s for sure. We’re doing everything we can to find her. Unfortunately, it’s requiring us to follow new inroads into his organization, which takes time. It’s time that Nola might not have.”

Cheng nods soberly. “A couple years ago, I had a witness who had a heart attack the week before she was set to give testimony against a serial rapist. She died, and he ended up going free. No one else was willing to come forward.”

“I hate to hear that.”

“Rumor was one his victims meted out some vigilante justice.” He shrugs. “I don't think that anyone was too interested in finding out the truth aboutdge that one.”

We shoot the breeze for a few more minutes, and then I return to our cubicle, where Skylar has started a case board on one of the empty walls. The board will assist us in keeping everything organized in our minds and will help us make quick connections between current and any incoming data. I drop into my chair and set my mug beside the keyboard.

“I thought you were getting me coffee too,” Skylar says.

“I was, but I’m being a good friend and saving your enamel. Cheng made the coffee. Let’s just say that his heart’s in the right place, but his idea of a pot of coffee is more akin to battery acid.”

“Bummer. I could use a pick-me-up.” She steps back from the board and assesses her work. “Whatcha think?”

“Not bad. It’s good to see something coming together.”

Babic’s picture is at the top, of course, but additional pictures and scraps of paper with names written on them fan out below. “Did you get a last name for the kid in the cornrows?” I ask her.

“Thomas? Nope. The car he was driving is registered to John Cardone, the owner of The Grinning Reuben. Cardone did a short stint in prison some years ago for possession with intent to distribute. Other than that, his record is clean. I don’t know that he’s on anyone’s radar for any illegal activity.”

“So he’s managed to stay out of sight. I couldn’t find a single connection to Babic, which is what I would have expected.”

“Maybe. Remember, Mrs. Park said the cop hadn’t done anything about her getting shaken down. That points to the possibility of some bad cops.”

“Right,” I tell her. “And I wonder if Thomas is one of the kinds Mrs. Park’s son got involved with. She said he ended up in a bad crowd.”

She nods. “Could be. I’d really like to know what else Cardone has his fingers in. What else did you say he owned?”

I pick up a paper from my desk and scan the contents. “A bowling alley, a car wash, and an ice cream stand, any of which could be front organizations for his criminal activity.”

I push out of my chair and clasp my hands behind my back, then start pacing back and forth as I try to fit the pieces together. Right now, we’re missing a big chunk of the puzzle. What we’re looking at doesn’t make sense because we’re looking at a series of partial images. Our job will be to fill in the blanks and make it come together, which is much easier said than done, trust me.

“What about The Bait House?” I ask.

“Hang on, let me pull up what I found.” She flips through some papers on her desk and plucks one out. “Property records show that it was purchased by a company called Busted Rail Inc. six years ago. I’m going to ask Cheetah to do some more digging on it. I can’t find anything public about it, and he’s better at that kind of stuff than I am.”

“Right,” I agree. “If we’re dealing with some version of organized crime, then I wouldn’t expect anything less than multiple layers of protection. We need to be patient and keep our noses to the ground. Something will come of it.”

My desk phone trills, and I snatch up the receiver. “Hunt.”

“Darcy, you two come see me in my office,” Kemper says. “Let’s discuss the Nola Walker case.”

“Be right there.” I hang up and turn to Skylar. “Come on. Boss wants an update.”

We head into his office and park in front of his desk. I really don’t like being in this office without having something substantial to offer. Our lack of answers only highlights just how much further we have to go.

“Okay,” Kemper says. “Let’s hear it. Are we any closer to finding Nola Walker or not?”

“We’re making progress,” I assure him, and then offer the details about what we’ve discovered these last couple of days. “The fact is, we’re working off a page of notes she scratched out in a personal notebook. Thankfully, some of that has checked out and led us to persons and places that we were unfamiliar with. None of it connects directly to Babic, but I’m convinced that it will if we keep going.”

His chest heaves a deep sigh. “I’ve got DA Lopez practically begging me to find her. With the case getting dismissed, they’re having to regroup. As I’m sure you know, they have enough to charge Babic with some less severe crimes, but I think everyone involved wants to see him go away for good.”

“And we feel that pressure,” I say. “Believe me. Let Lopez know that we’re going full steam here.”

He nods. “I had the cyber team put out crawlers for anyone connected to Babic that we might have overlooked. They found a former housekeeper of his. She moved on about six months ago. It might be worth reaching out and having a conversation with her. She would have known Nola.” He fingers a page from a stack of paperwork and hands it to me. “Everything you need should be on there.”

“How did she pop up just now?” Skylar asked. “Why didn’t we know of her before?”

“Babic would have paid her cash,” Kemper says. “So we didn’t have an expense connected to her. But when she applied for a new job, she put down a front organization of Babic’s for a reference. She probably knew Nola and who knows what else.”

“Got it.” I fold the paper and place it on my lap.

Kemper squirms uncharacteristically in his seat. I can see that he has something else on his mind, something that he doesn’t seem very comfortable sharing. “Look,” he finally says, “I have to throw you two a curveball for the time being. I need Skylar to head on down to APD headquarters and interview a suspect.”

Her brows knit together. “Me? What for? We don’t have a case intersecting with them right now.”

Kemper’s lips form a fine line. His eyes narrow. I can see that, for whatever reason, he’s trying to choose his words carefully. “APD is working on a high-profile murder. They picked up a guy who they’re convinced knows where the killer is, but he’s not talking. Apparently, he has a reputation for being a womanizer. They said he needs a little prodding from the…opposite sex.”

A sarcastic laugh bubbles out of Skylar’s throat. “Wait. You’re asking me to be a honey trap? Why, because I’m a woman and the guys down at APD think I’ve got a decent bra size? Or because my backside fits nicely into a pair of jeans?”

Kemper pales a little. “No, that’s not what I’m saying, I⁠—”

“Oh quit it,” I scold her. “Sir, she’ll be happy to do it.”

I look over to see her still wearing a smirk. Clearly, she’s enjoying messing with our boss’s head.

He relaxes into his chair a little. “They just need him to talk,” he clarifies. “That’s all. They just thought that someone of a certain—whatever—might be able to persuade him. I said I would ask.”

“I’m game, boss. That man will be singing ‘Dixie’ by the time I’m done with him. Now, are we talking about me leaning over the table wearing a low-cut blouse or a full-on lap dance?”

He sighs miserably, and I cross my arms, pinning him with a hard gaze. “If I’m honest, I’m a little offended that you didn’t ask me.”

“Oh, lord.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just forget I asked, okay? Forget all of it. I’m not losing my career over this.”

“No way,” I laugh. “This is too much fun.”

“Curious as to why APD can’t just use someone in their department?” Skylar inquires.

“I asked the same thing,” he says, “but apparently, most of the females in the department don’t have the specific…appeal that they’re looking for. The only one is Officer Braswell, and she’s out on vacation.”

“Braswell?” Skylar arches a well-shaped brow. “Oh, she is a hottie. Too bad she’s out. Even I would tell her whatever she wanted if she showed me a little leg.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I chuckle.

“It’s true.”

“In the meantime,” Kemper says, “I don’t want you going alone to interview this former housekeeper, Darcy. Take Simmons with you.”

A loud cackle bursts from Skylar’s throat, and I shoot her a look. “Daryl?” I protest. “What about Brooks? He and I have a track record of working well together.”

“No dice,” he says. “Brooks and Cheng just left to conduct a victim interview in West Delaware County.”

I take a deep breath. “There are a lot of other agents on the floor. Anyone, please.” I’m not even ashamed that I’m begging right now.

The boss shakes his head. “I’m with you that Simmons can manifest a lazy streak and that he can be overly judgmental at times.”

“At times?” Skylar balks. “You’ve wanted to get rid of him yourself.”

He holds up a hand. “All I’m saying is that he does have some good qualities. As much as you might not believe it, he wasn't just handed a badge because his uncle is the lieutenant governor.”

“Fine,” I gripe. “I’m a team player. But don’t come down too hard on me if I accidentally lose him and he never shows back up.”

“Dismissed.”

We stand up and make our way back to our desks. “Going out in the field with Daryl Simmons tagging along.” Skylar shoots me a wily grin. “What did you do to anger the gods?

My chest falls with a long, mournful sigh. “I sure wish I knew.”

Chapter Eleven

North Pearl Street

Albany, NY

“And where is it that we’re going?” Daryl asks. He buckles his seatbelt as I get us underway.

“A hotel a few miles from here,” I reply. “Should be there in less than ten minutes.”

I’ll admit, it’s a little strange having him here in my car, and even more so that he’s accompanying me on a case interview. I’ve never interacted with Daryl outside of the office, which I view as a net positive in my life.

To Kemper’s own admission, Daryl has historically been chronically lazy and critical of how every agent in the office goes about their casework. He’s irritated everyone, endearing himself to none. We’ve all tried to be kind to him and patient with him, but over time, our patience has worn pretty thin. We’re only human, after all. At some point, you come to understand that someone is toxic and that nothing you do is going to change them. People have to decide what kind of person they want to be. If they choose to maintain a malignant view of life, then that really is on them.

For the present situation, it definitely is for the better that Kemper paired me up with him. Skylar’s patience toward him has been frayed for a while now. Things didn’t start off that badly between them. When Skylar transferred here from the Rochester Field Office last year, she was pleasant to him and kept trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. But over time, his noxious, self-righteous attitude finally dissolved any patience she had left. I can’t say that I blame her. As it is, her plate is full enough being an agent and a mother.

That said, I have noticed a slight difference in him lately. I can’t place my finger on exactly what it is, but he has seemed more mellow and less antagonistic. I think I speak for the whole office when I say that we all hope that he doesn’t derail from that trajectory.

“So,” I say, easing down on the brake as the light ahead turns yellow, “what have you been busy with this week?”

“I wouldn’t call it busy, but I’ve been looking into some cold cases that I found down in the basement. So I’ve been digging through those to see if I can come up with anything new. I’m sure you know that they don’t give me the big cases like they give you.”

“Find anything interesting?”

“Not yet. I don’t really know what to look for.”

His answer makes me cringe and makes me wonder all over again why he chose this profession. One of the basic functions of a case agent is to make connections with the evidence. Much of the time, you don’t have enough to solve it out of hand, so you have to beat the streets, knock on doors, and do everything you can to make logical leaps whenever the facts are missing. To hear that he doesn’t know what to look for is a little concerning. But, to give him the benefit of the doubt, I decide to press a little.

“What do you mean, you don’t know what to look for?” The light turns green, and I pass on through the intersection.

“Take this one case Kemper wanted me to look at. It’s over twenty years old. A teenage girl’s body was found in the woods, and they never caught who did it. There’s nothing to go off of. No shoe moldings from around the body, no DNA other than the victim’s, and no suspects. None. What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Create more suspects,” I tell him.

“Huh?”

I watch as a car draws up behind me and rides my bumper. I tamp down an urge to be annoyed and instead move over so he can pass. “Okay, look. Sometimes we end up looking at something so close that we go blind. We can’t see what’s right there in front of us.”

“Sure, I get that. But what does that have to do with suspects?”

“You have to broaden your pool of potential killers. Whatever agent had this case two decades ago might not have spent enough time on the victim’s relational web. What are the most basic stats about killers?”

In my periphery, I see him reach up and rub his ample chin. “That they’re typically someone who knows the victim?”

“Right. And after that?”

He thinks about it for a minute before shaking his head. “Don’t know.”

“They’re someone who has come across the victim. Like a gas station clerk or a guy at her gym.”

“Huh. I didn’t think about that.”

“We don’t wear capes, Daryl. We’re not superheroes. Sometimes there just isn’t enough to go off of. They’re cold cases for a reason, you know? It could be that the case agent back then did everything they possibly could. But there is a chance they missed something, be it even the faintest connection to someone else. Look for those. Maybe you still come up short, but that’s what I would do if I were in your shoes.”

He nods. “Thanks, Darcy. That’s helpful.”

“Anytime.”

The car grows quiet for a while as I navigate traffic and try to get to the other side of downtown. A smile curves across my lips as I think about Skylar heading to that APD interrogation room. I hope she doesn’t get herself fired. Knowing her, she’s going to lay the sex appeal on thick and get that witness eating out of her hands within the first sixty seconds. I would totally pay to get that camera footage.

Daryl adjusts his seatbelt and folds his hands in his lap. “So how’s your sister doing?”

Okay, who kidnapped Daryl Simmons?

That’s the thought that streams through my mind, but I manage to keep it off my lips. “Lila?”

“Yeah. Is she doing all right since that explosion?”

“Thanks for asking. And yes, she’s doing pretty well, given the circumstances. The recovery will be a long road. I’m just glad to have her back.”

“I’ll bet you are. You’ve been through a lot, Darcy.”

My mouth drops open, and I glance over at him. “What about you? What’s new in your world?”

He’s quiet for a while. “A lot actually. I don’t know that I’m ready to talk about it all. But I’ve been working out the last couple weeks.”

“No kidding?” He still has that double chin of his, but it might be a little smaller than it was.

“Just walking a few miles and doing pushups on my knees. Got to start somewhere, right?”

“Absolutely. I think it’s great that you’re paying attention to your health. If that goes, everything else goes with it.”

And I mean it. I’ll never shame a person for getting on the journey of personal wellness. Daryl is right. Everyone has to start somewhere.

“So what is this case I’ve been dropped in the middle of?” he asks. “I don’t want to show up and look like an ass. You want to bring me up to speed?”

“Sure thing.”

I spend the rest of the drive running through the events surrounding Nola’s disappearance and Babic’s probable involvement. I save him the details of what we’ve learned since then but give him enough so he can go into the interview having the proper context.

“Who are we supposed to be meeting with?” he asks.

My mind recalls the name scratched on the paper Kemper gave me. “Jennifer,” I say. “Jennifer Creech.”

Chapter Twelve

Skyline Plaza Hotel

Albany, NY

“Ihaven’t been in here yet,” Daryl informs me. “Have you?”

“No, but I’ve heard it’s pretty nice.”

“Me too.”

He follows me through the revolving door, and we stop to admire the sprawling lobby. The Skyline Plaza Hotel is the newest addition to the Albany Skyline, rising fifteen stories above downtown. Before us, the cream marble floors are polished to a high shine, reflecting the light from expansive chandeliers. Massive planters hold small trees, and a waterfall gently rolls down a tiled wall and runs into a long, narrow pool. At one end of the lobby is the entrance to a restaurant, and on the other end is another entrance to a club. The place shouts luxury.

Daryl and I cross the lobby and approach the long marble counter, where I ask the clerk for a manager. Moments later, a man emerges from a doorway behind the counter then comes around and greets us.

“Kevin Dupre,” he says. “What is it I can assist you with?”

Kevin is probably five-ten with a shiny bald head that gleams in the light. His face is smooth, and his blue eyes are bright and attentive. His attire is impeccable—a tailored suit in charcoal gray, a crisp white shirt, and a silk tie, all exuding professionalism and a touch of class.

I briefly present my badge and perform introductions. “We need a moment to speak with one of your employees, Jennifer Creech. I believe she’s in your housekeeping department.”

A concerned look spreads across his features. “Jennifer? Of course. May I ask if something is wrong?”

“No,” I assure him. “Nothing is wrong. She’s not in any trouble. We’re looking into her past employer and have a few questions for her. It’s pertinent that we do so as soon as possible.”

He gives a perfunctory nod. “Okay. Let me see where she is. One moment please.” He moves around the counter and steps up to a computer. A minute later, he waves us closer. “She’s currently on the fifth floor doing room detail. It looks like she’s on her last room. You should be able to catch her.”

“What room?” I ask him.

“Let’s see…it looks like her master key last registered at room five-oh-nine.” He glances at us again. “And you’re sure everything is all right?”

I nod. “Absolutely. I would tell you if it wasn’t. We don’t want to create any concerns on her behalf.”

His features relax a little. “Okay. Elevators are over there. Please, let me know if I can help with anything else.”

“We certainly will. And due to the nature of our investigation, it would be very helpful if you could keep this discreet. We don’t want to create any trouble for her. Rumors travel fast, as I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course. I’ll keep it between us.”

Daryl and I find our way up to the fifth floor, where we locate a single housekeeping cart down the hallway to our right. The sound of a vacuum cleaner grows louder as we draw closer. Finding the door to room 509 open, I poke my head in and gently rap on the door.

The housekeeper looks up and startles a little. Smiling self-consciously, she turns off the machine. “Can I help you?”

“Jennifer Creech?”

“Yes,” she answers with a guarded voice.

I present my credentials. “I’m Agent Hunt with the FBI. This is Agent Simmons. May we have a moment of your time?”

Jennifer stands at an average height with dark hair in a practical bun. Her uniform is a light green dress with a white apron and black non-slip shoes. Other than some eyeshadow, her oval face is free of makeup. Upon hearing my greeting, her round cheeks lose some of their color.

“The FBI? Am I in trouble?”

“No trouble at all,” I tell her. “We have some questions about Miroslav Babic.”

Her dark eyes widen into saucers. “Mr. Babic? Why?”

“We spoke with Mr. Dupre downstairs,” Daryl jumps in. “He said it was all right if we spoke with you for a moment.”

“You told him I worked for Mr. Babic?”

“No,” I quickly reply. “We did not give him any specifics. All we said was that we wanted to speak with you about a past employer. That’s all. We understand that this is a delicate topic, given who your previous boss is.”

She stares down at the carpet, shuffling nervously on her feet. “Can’t this wait until I get off work?”

“Actually, this is the perfect time to do it. We understand if you would rather not have anyone privy to our meeting. If it’s all right with you, we can shut the door and speak over there in the sitting area. No one needs to know that you spoke with the FBI.”

“Shouldn't I have a lawyer present?”

“Have you done anything wrong?”

“No!” she exclaims. “Nothing. I just, well, I’ve never spoken to the FBI before. I don’t want any trouble.”

“And we didn’t bring any,” I smile. “We actually have some questions that center around Nola Walker. You worked with her for a while, didn’t you?”

“Nola? Why? What’s wrong? Is she all right?”

I nod to the seating area at the other end of the well-furnished room. “May we talk?”

She hesitates, then nods. “Okay.” She moves the vacuum cleaner out of the way, and I shut the door. Once we’re all seated, I begin.

“Jennifer, you worked for Miroslav Babic for close to a year. Can you tell us why you left?”

Her face is cloaked with worry. “Wait,” she says. “What’s going on with Nola? Is she all right?”

“When was the last time you spoke with her?”

She frowns, thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe six months ago. I left and had to move on.”

“Are you aware of anything else about her since then?” I can see that my being vague is starting to frustrate Jennifer, but I need to gauge what she knows before I step all the way in.

“No. Agent Hunt, what’s going on?”

I glance over at Daryl and then back to Jennifer. “Nola witnessed Miroslav Babic murder someone in cold blood at the back of his property.”

A hand flies to her mouth as she sucks in a quick gasp.

“She became a witness for the state,” I continue. “However, she recently went missing from her safe house the day before she was scheduled to present her testimony in court.”

Jennifer’s eyes glisten with tears. “Is this some kind of joke? You’re not serious?”

“She is serious,” Daryl informs her. “Were you not aware of Mr. Babic’s trial?”

“I heard that he was arrested for something. But I’ve tried to leave all that behind. You’re saying he was arrested because of what Nola saw?”

“Yes,” I tell her, “and we think that his people got to her to keep her from testifying. We need to find her.”

That Jennifer doesn’t know anything isn’t too surprising. If she moved on from Babic and didn’t keep up with the local news, which many people don’t, then she wouldn't be aware of any developments. Additionally, we made certain that Nola’s name stayed out of the news.

“I can’t believe this. Nola is such a great person. What—what do you need to know? I don’t know how helpful I can be, but I’m happy to tell you anything I know.”

“Let’s start with you,” I say. “How did you get the job with Mr. Babic?”

She looks out the large window, but her eyes don’t seem to focus on any one thing. “I answered a job post on an online forum and interviewed with Sheila Burgess. She runs everything related to the property, from maintenance to grocery shopping. At the time, my roommate was leaving, so it was a good fit having housing as a part of the job.”

“What was your experience there? Good? Bad?”

“I loved it. Working here at the Skyline is a great job, but I don’t think anything will beat working over there.”

“Why do you say that?” Daryl asks her.

“Most of us lived in the staff quarters. It was a nice place. After a while, it started to feel like we were a little family. And Mr. Babic took good care of us. He paid us well and let us use the pool when he was out of town.”

I lean forward and place my elbows on my knees. “So what made you decide to leave?”

Tears glisten in her eyes again. She grabs a tissue from the box on the coffee table and dabs the moisture away. “Like anyone who works for someone as wealthy as that, you wonder what they do for a living. I heard a lot of different answers, from land management to corporate consulting. Eventually, I stopped caring about how Mr. Babic got his money and decided to enjoy what I had in working for him, which was like a fantasy world for someone like me. We had all the best food we could possibly eat at the staff quarters. And the staff all loved each other. The work was easy enough. It only got really busy when he had a big party.”

Jennifer glances at her watch. “You’re sure that Mr. Dupre was okay with us talking? We check in remotely after we enter each room so they can track how long it takes. I don’t want him to wonder why I haven’t finished.”

“He understands the situation,” I assure her. “No need to rush.”

“Okay.”

“You were telling us what made you decide to leave.”

“Yes. Like I said, it was a great place to work. But one day, Mr. Babic had a guest over, one that I had seen several times. I was in the back putting fresh linens on one of the guest beds when I heard loud voices coming from the living room. I went down the hall and peeked around the corner. Mr. Babic was yelling at his friend, and he was really angry. The next thing I knew, he had a gun in his hand and was pointing it at the man.” Jennifer pauses, her entire body tensing at the memory. “I thought he was going to kill him. I’d never even seen a gun in real life, much less one pointed at someone.”

“Did he shoot him?” Daryl asks.

“No, but he hit the man with the gun. Really hard in the face. And when he fell to the ground, he did it again, and then a third time. The sound of metal on bone like that…I’ll never forget it.”

I offer her a smile. “I’m sorry you had to experience something like that, Jennifer.”

“Thank you.” She sniffs into her tissue again. “I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about it. Like, what if they found out I was talking or that I had seen something? It might sound kind of silly, but the way I’ve tried to describe it to myself is that it was like seeing Santa become violent. Up until that point, I had always seen Mr. Babic as kind and generous. I had never seen someone attacked like that in real life. It was terrifying. You feel completely helpless. Joven and Bogdan ended up carrying the man out and putting him in the back seat of his car.”

“His lieutenants,” I clarify.

“Yes. Then they got in his car and drove away.”

Daryl shifts in his seat. “That had to be really traumatic.”

My mouth nearly falls open as I look over at him. I seriously can’t believe this is the same agent I’ve known to be a total jerk for all the time I’ve known him.

Jennifer nods and blots the tears from her eyes. “I couldn’t stay after that, and I made the mistake of looking Mr. Babic up on the internet. That’s when I found out that he was probably a criminal. I couldn’t sleep, I barely ate, but I waited a couple weeks to put in my notice. I didn’t want them thinking that my leaving was connected to anything, you know? I’m just so lucky he didn’t see me standing there in the hallway. I was so scared after I gave my notice. He even tried to get me to stay.”

“Babic tried to get you to stay?” I ask. “Personally?”

She nods. “He took me aside and sat me down on his back porch, where he already had fresh fruit and lemonade set out. He was kind and asked me why I was moving on. I wasn’t expecting to have to answer directly to him, and it terrified me. So I made up a crap answer on the spot and said that I had always been intrigued by the hotel industry and wanted to try and work my way up there.”

“And he bought it?” Daryl asks.

“I’m not sure. Mr. Babic seems like he’s very smart. He probably saw through it. I’ve never been as scared as I was there on that porch, not even when he beat that man with the gun. I didn’t think he was going to let me go. If I had the money to get out of the city or even the state, I would have gotten as far away as I could.” She shrugs. “But I guess it worked out. He’s left me alone. I’m grateful for that.”

“I’m glad you decided to make the job change,” I tell her. “And you didn’t speak with Nola after you left?”

“Just once. We got to be really good friends while I was there. But after, I had to cut all the ties to that place. I was too scared. We talked once, but I couldn’t do it anymore. I stopped answering her calls after that.” Jennifer shakes her head in disbelief. “And she ended up being a witness to a murder? That’s so crazy. Do you think you’ll find her?”

“We’re doing our best,” Daryl assures her. “Do you mind if we circle back to the man who Babic assaulted? Do you know his name?”

“I don’t. I’m sorry. But he was probably in his late forties or early fifties. His hair was bright red, and he had a big nose that veered off to one side.”

Daryl’s face brightens with what seems to be recognition. “Did he have a tattoo on his hand?”

“He did. Though I can’t remember what.”

I ask her a few more questions about her time with Babic, and then we stand to leave. Jennifer clasps her hands in front of her and begins to fidget. “So this conversation won’t get back to Mr. Babic, will it? I can only imagine what he might do to me if it does. I don’t want to get caught up in all that again. Especially if he hurt Nola, he’ll do anything.”

I place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Like I said earlier, we came here so we could talk to you in private. Your boss is the only person who knows we’re speaking with you. I don’t think he has a reason to say anything.”

Daryl and I leave Jennifer to her work and get into the elevator. “Did I read you wrong back there?” I ask him. “Do you actually know who she was talking about? The guy that Babic assaulted?”

“Sure do. His name is Archie Skelton.”

“No kidding. What’s the connection?”

“Last year, Kemper got me looking into a possible fraud situation with a shipping company. I crossed paths with Skelton a few times. He runs a large import business. If he’s in with Babic, I’m not surprised, but I never knew anything about it.”

“You never nailed him for anything?”

“I found some things, but Skelton is slippery and wasn’t my case priority.” The elevator doors slide open, and he steps out. “Come on, let’s go pay him a visit.”

Chapter Thirteen

Global Harvest Imports

Albany, NY

The sky has clouded over by the time we reach the industrial district, and a steady rain is pattering across the windshield. Daryl leans forward in his seat and peers through the glass, trying to orient himself.

“There it is,” he finally says. “That lot up there on the right.”

I turn in and pull past a rusted chain link fence. Before us is an imposing structure of red brick, weathered by decades of harsh winters and intense summers, its facade speckled with patches of moss and creeping vines that seemed to cling to the memories of more prosperous times. Some of the large, arched windows are boarded up. Those that aren’t are clouded with grime, giving the place an air of desolation. Only a few cars sit in the potholed parking lot. On the east side of the building, semi-trucks are nestled along the loading bays like nursing kittens.

“Drive around back,” Daryl says.

“The back? You sure?”

“That’s where Skelton’s office is. And if we don’t go in the front, we’ll have the element of surprise.”

“I like the way you’re thinking.” I pull around and park beside a dumpster. A silver Mercedes sits a little farther past a rusted metal door. I unbuckle and shut the car off, suddenly aware of the gun at my hip. “What kind of character is he? Should I expect any funny business?”

“He gets his feathers ruffled pretty easily, but he never gave me anything but lip. He likes to be left alone.”

“Don’t all criminals,” I note. “Let’s do this. And remember, we’re keeping Jennifer completely out of this.”

We step out into the drizzle, and I quickly follow Daryl to the back door. He pulls it open, and we step into a large, mostly empty space the size of a basketball court. I smooth some of the moisture from my hair as I survey the area.

There is no drop ceiling, and a pipe up near the ceiling thirty feet above drips a steady stream of rainwater into a heavy-duty garbage container. A roll-up door offers access to the main warehouse area, where industrial shelving lines the floors. On the other side of the room is a desk with plastic veneer that is chipped along the edges. The surface is cluttered with papers, a few coffee cups, and a bottle of vodka. Most important, though, is that no one is back here.

“You want to check the warehouse?” I ask Daryl. “Or we can drive back around to the front.”

At that moment, we hear the sound of a toilet flushing coming from the other side of a door near the desk. Daryl smiles but says nothing. The door opens, and a man with shaggy red hair steps out and hitches up his pants. He mutters something to himself and starts for the desk, but stops short when he sees us and curses in a foreign language. “Agent Simmons. You said you would call the next time you planned on coming over. I thought our business was resolved a long time ago?” He gives me a hard stare. “What is this?”

“I have more questions, Skelton.” We start toward the desk and stop in front of it.

Archie Skelton’s red hair is edged with gray. His bulbous nose drifts off to one side, and a tattoo of a bear’s face graces the top of his hand. A scar cuts a deep track from his right temple, over his eyebrow, and stops in the center of his forehead.

“Questions,” he says. “Always more questions with you people.” Skelton’s accent is thick, European, and reminds me of Babic’s. He juts his chin at me. “Who is she?”

“Special Agent Hunt.” I nod but say nothing else. For now, this is Daryl’s show, and I’m curious to see him in action.

“What do you want?” Skelton drops into his chair and crosses his arms. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Business not very good these days?” Daryl asks.

“Business is fine. Why?”

Daryl nods to the garbage can collecting the rainwater. “Can’t afford to fix a leak?”

Skelton waves him off. “I only rent the place. They don’t care about leaks.” He huffs. “They should with as much money as I pay them. I thought FBI agents had to be physically fit. I see you haven’t bothered to lose any weight.”

“I’ll get right to the point,” Daryl says, ignoring his comment. “Last year, I let you slide on some inconsistencies I saw in your books.”

“So? I fixed those. There’s no problem anymore.”

“Right,” Daryl smirks. “I’m sure there’s not. What do you know about Miroslav Babic?”

Skelton’s chair creaks as he leans back. “I’ve heard of him.”

“Have you ever done any business with him?”

“No. Never met him. Here, I run a legitimate business. Babic is into things I don’t want to be a part of.”

“Like what?” Daryl asks.

“Just…stuff. How should I know?”

Daryl steps up to the desk and hitches up his own waistline. “Agent Hunt and I don’t want to be a problem. Last year, I left you alone because you turned me onto a logistics company doing a lot of work through New York City. Turns out they were hiding cocaine inside the appliances they were shipping out. Do you remember that?”

“Of course I remember.”

“But what I learned through all that is that you’re not so squeaky clean yourself. But I looked away. You could be in prison right now. Or at least spending hundreds of thousands on attorney fees.”

Skelton holds up his hands and forces a smile. “And I appreciate that, Agent Simmons. Very much I do. But what am I supposed to say? You ask me if I have ever done any business with Babic. I tell you no because it is the truth. What more can I say?”

Daryl nods and looks down at the half-full bottle of vodka. He picks it up, unscrews the cap, takes a sniff, then observes the label. “Russian. Nice. They make this from potato skins?”

“Yes.”

“Everything over here is made with corn. I think it’s crap.”

“Look, what else do you want? I need to get back to work.”

Daryl’s silent answer takes us both by complete surprise. Holding the bottle out in front of himself, he turns it upside down. Immediately, the alcohol gurgles out of the bottle and splashes onto the desk, soaking everything.

Skelton pushes back in his chair and jumps to his feet, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “What the hell are you doing?”

Daryl doesn’t move, just watches the alcohol run out as if he’s pouring a bottle of water down the sink. Skelton keeps yelling until the liquid is all gone. Daryl places it back on the desk. “What is it you were saying about Babic?”

Skelton curses at him and tries to salvage some of the papers. He finally marshals a sopping bundle over to a dry corner of the desk and stands there with his eyes burning daggers at Daryl.

“Fine,” he says reluctantly. “I did some work with Miroslav last year. He wanted me to move some items for him.”

Bingo.

“What kind of items?”

Behind me, I hear the clicking of heels on the concrete. A woman in a skirt suit sporting big, blonde hair comes through the open roller door. “Mr. Skelton,” she says in an accent that matches his, “is everything okay?”

“Everything is okay,” he spits, not taking his eyes off Daryl. “Go back to your office, Freya.”

She stands there for a long moment, staring uncomfortably at the scene. “Go!” he yells. “Do as you’re told!” She mutters something under her breath, turns, and hurries out of the room.

“What kind of items?” Daryl asks Skelton again.

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“What kind of i⁠—”

“I don’t know, I said!” Skelton gestures wildly. “I never wanted to know, so I didn’t ask. We picked up crates at a warehouse, added them to the shipping manifest, and carried them to the port in Jersey with our own things.”

“And how long did this go on?”

“A few months. Then I called it off.”

“Called it off,” Daryl repeats. “Right. Because Miroslav Babic is the kind of man who will let you do that kind of thing.”

Skelton looks away. A muscle twitches in his jaw. “Look, we had a falling out because of it. We do not speak any longer.”

“A falling out. Right.” Daryl nods to himself and rubs his chin. “You want to tell me how you got that scar on your forehead? I don’t recall it being there when we spoke last year.”

Skelton shoots him another dirty look as he realizes that Daryl has understood the scar’s significance all along. He tosses his hands out and lets them fall limply to his side. “Babic attracted too much attention from all you people. From law enforcement. I didn’t want to run his stupid crates with my things anymore. And I told him. He got angry, and…” Skelton motions to the scar.

“So what are you doing for him now?”

“Nothing.”

“Bull.”

“It’s true. I swear it.”

“Babic isn’t the kind of guy that you say no to and then walk away from with a simple ‘no thanks.’”

“What’s your deal, man?” Skelton yells again. “Last year, you were chill. You did not care what I did. Now you are coming in here pouring my vodka onto my papers and disrespecting my business.” He jams a finger in my direction. “It is her. You are coming in here trying to impress that hot agent, doing all this for a girl.”

Seeing my cue, I step forward. “I appreciate the compliment. Really. But Agent Simmons is onto something here. I don’t know a single person in this city who can tell Miroslav Babic no and get away with it. But you did, didn’t you? Sure, he bashed your head in for it, but you’re still breathing, aren’t you? That tells us that he still has use for you.”

“Look, I don’t⁠—”

“If you don’t give us something on Babic, we will tear this place apart, crate by crate, box by box, and page by page, until we find every single piece of contraband, every illegal shipment, and every corrupt dime and dollar.”

Skelton’s face falls, and his shoulders slump. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Well, trouble is exactly what you’re going to get. You should know that the DA had a witness go missing, one that was supposed to testify against Babic in court. Let me promise you that if you don’t tell Agent Simmons what he wants to know, then I’ll make sure you’re hit with obstruction in the search for the witness. You’ll be done.”

He raises his hands again. “Okay. Okay.” He sighs and releases a frustrated sigh. “Like I said, I wanted to do things on the up and up, to run a clean business. America has been good to me. I didn’t want to lose the opportunities. Last year, after you started coming around, Agent Simmons, I decided to do things straight. So that is why I told Babic that I wanted out. I went over to his house and said he would need to find another way to move some of his merchandise. And as you seem to already know, he did not exactly take well to that.” Instinctually, Skelton reaches up and scratches the scar on his forehead.

“Details,” Daryl says. “I need details.”

“I’m getting to them,” Skelton says impatiently. “What happens now is that once a month I send one of our container trucks to a deserted lot in Saratoga County. Babic’s people are there with a few crates, and we load them into the truck. After that, the truck is locked up and goes to the port in New York City.”

“What’s in the crates?” I ask him.

“I don’t know. Truly. I don’t ask. And even if I did, he would not tell me.”

“I want the shipping manifests going back six months,” Daryl tells him. “Now.”

Skelton looks down at his desk, which is soaked in vodka.

“Get Freya to print them out. I’m not leaving here without them.”

Skelton sighs again and picks up his desk phone. He relays the request to his assistant and tells her to be quick about it. The room falls into an awkward silence, and he proceeds to clean up his desk while we wait. Soon, I hear the familiar click of heels, and Freya appears with a folder clutched between her fingers.

She gives her boss a concerned look. “This? You’re sure?”

He snatches it from her grip. “Yes, I am sure. Now, go on.” He flips through the material and jots some notes on the back. I can see deep concern in his eyes as he hands it to Daryl. “That is what I have. Now you will leave me alone?”

“Maybe,” I inform him. “It depends on where all this leads. You’ve broken the law, and we’ll decide how to proceed. And if you tip off Babic’s people or reschedule the next pickup, we’re coming in here and shutting you down. And then you’re going to jail.”

“If it gets out that I told you this, I am a dead man. You hear me? A dead man.”

“We know,” Daryl tells him. “So you don’t tell him that we’re on to him, and we don’t tell him that you slipped us this.”

“What happened to you?” Skelton sneers. “You used to be chill.”

A happy grin stretches across Daryl’s lips. “Times are changing, Skelton, and I’m changing with them.”

The rain has stopped, and the sky has begun to clear when we get back in the car. The air has a crisp, clean scent to it, and I roll down my window.

Daryl thumbs through the pages in the file. “These are the formal shipment logs, he tells us. They won’t be accurate as to the contents. This says pillows and lamps. But he jotted down the drop-off address and time here on the back.”

“Hey, you did really well back there. Very impressive, if I’m honest.”

“Thanks.”

I point the car toward downtown and take us away from the industrial district. That was definitely a side of Daryl I didn’t know he had. He walked in there, commanded the room, and got exactly what he wanted. The entire time I’ve known him, he’s only been rude and lazy, if not downright incompetent. Right now, I feel like someone else took over his body. Even Skelton seemed to notice the change.

I glance over at him. “Hey, is everything going okay with you? You’ve seemed a little different lately. Not completely yourself.”

He shrugs and looks out his window. “Just have a lot more on my mind than usual. Nothing I can’t figure out.”

We drive on in silence for a while. Something is obviously bothering him. Finally, I decide to press a little more. “I didn’t know you could be that aggressive out in the field. It was fun to watch.”

“Why? Because you all think I’m lazy?”

“Well…if I’m honest? Yes. You do have a reputation for not being super motivated.”

He nods. “I get it. And I agree. I’ve given all of you a lot of flack these last couple of years. I’m trying to change that.”

I can’t believe what I’m even hearing right now. “Out of curiosity, what’s prompted the change? It’s great to see, but I’m wondering what’s made you step it up a little.”

He thumbs through the folder again, then sets it down and looks out the windshield. I’m starting to think he’s not going to answer me when says, “My dad got diagnosed with cancer a couple weeks ago. Stage four. They’re not giving him very long.”

“Oh, Daryl. I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs. “Thanks.” He’s quiet for a long time before speaking again. “My dad and I have had a rocky relationship. He was away on business a lot when I was a kid. When I was in high school, I was interested in being a massage therapist. My dad thought that kind of job wasn’t fit for a man. He told me I wouldn’t amount to anything, that I had nothing meaningful to contribute to society.”

Hearing that makes my blood boil. No father has a right to say such things to their child, regardless of how they disagree with their child’s decisions. I bite down on my lip so I can keep my commentary to myself.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I went to massage therapy school just to spite him. At that point, I wasn’t even interested in it anymore. I did it for a while but ended up hating it. I finally quit and ended up drifting around jobs. That’s when my uncle finally stepped in…my uncle Steven. He told me to at least go take the FBI entrance exam. Said it could be a good career. So I thought what the heck, and then I aced it. When my father heard about it, he called me up and told me that I would just drag the place down, that I didn’t have anything meaningful to contribute.”

“Are you serious?”

“I wish I wasn’t. But I am, and I went through with it just to spite him. I had hardly graduated from Quantico when I started to believe what he told me. It ended up sticking with me like a bad virus. I figured it didn’t matter how hard I worked, I would never be good at anything, so I just kind of gave up trying.”

Everyone in the office has always known that Daryl’s Uncle Steven is New York’s Lieutenant Governor. We’ve known that the only reason he still has a badge is because of the political clout his uncle brings to bear on Daryl’s career. If it wasn’t for that, Daryl would have been fired long ago. But all this background information is new to me, and it helps me see him in an entirely new light.

“Around that time, I started to put on weight,” he continues. “I didn’t always carry around an extra eighty pounds. Everyone knows I can’t pass a physical. My uncle is the only reason I’m still at the Bureau. If it wasn’t for him, I would have been tossed out long ago.”

“So what changed recently?” I ask as I merge onto the highway.

“My dad’s cancer. It made me realize that I’ve spent all this time living under the burden of his opinion of me. For the first time, I could see my life without him in it. Like, what if he does die? I’ve still got my life. Why should I let one person’s opinion drag me down?”

“I hope your father makes it, Daryl. But either way, I’m glad to hear that you’re starting to stand on your own two feet.”

He nods. “You’ve been through a lot, Darcy. More than I’ll ever go through. And I look at you and see how strong and dedicated you are. You haven't allowed that to be an excuse for being sloppy or lazy or selfish.” He crosses his arms and stares out the window. “But I have. And I’ve decided that I don’t want to anymore. I want my life to matter. Screw my dad and what he said. I can choose to make my life count, and I’ve decided that’s what I’m going to do.”

“There are no free prizes,” I tell him. “Sometimes you have to fight for what you want and for who you want to be.”

“Yeah. I see that now. And sorry. I didn’t mean to spill my life’s story.”

I merge the car onto the highway and make for downtown. “Don’t apologize for a thing, Daryl. Your father was wrong to say those kinds of things to his son. For what it’s worth, the rest of us are seeing the change, and we like it.”

“Yeah.”

“Absolutely. And back there talking to Skelton? You kicked ass. Keep it up.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him sit up a little straighter. “Thanks, Darcy. I think I will.”

Chapter Fourteen

Sal’s Burgers and Beers

Albany, NY

“You should have seen them,” Jenkins laughs. “Must have been twenty guys from upstairs outside that interrogation room.”

Skylar wags her eyebrows. “What can I say? I can attract a crowd.”

I still can’t believe Skylar went to the APD and turned on her sex appeal in order to get someone to talk. At just about any other station in the country, heads would be rolling right now, so I’m glad everyone is being cool about it.

I use my straw to stir the ice in my glass before taking a sip, raising my voice above the lively din of the busy restaurant. “So what did you do? Details, my dear, details.”

“Okay, so the guy was a real hardass. A bona fide lumberjack who works the upstate forest. Rough hands, flannel shirt—you name it.”

“Well, look at you,” I chuckle. “Getting to interview Mr. Brawny himself.”

“Except it wasn’t like that at all,” Skylar says. “Trust me.” Beside her, Jenkins nods his head in agreement.

“He had a lot of muscle, but it was all covered beneath an ample amount of fat. Some of his teeth were missing, and those that weren’t were either black, leaning, or both.”

“Okay, so not Mr. Brawny. Got it.”

“So anyway, I may have unfastened a couple buttons on my blouse before I went in. Nothing overboard, you know? Just enough to get his eyes to rove.”

“Uh huh.”

A grin breaks across her lips. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see how much she enjoyed this. “All I had to do was step in behind him, lean down, and tell him how much I would like to go grab a drink with him when he got out of there. Somehow, I think my hot breath may have tickled his ear.”

“You’re terrible,” I laugh.

“He needed a little more coaxing. He was worried about his friend who committed the murder. But in the end, he couldn’t resist my charms.”

Jenkins shakes his head again. “I seriously thought for a second she was going to throw a leg over him and straddle him. Thought we were going to have to turn the cameras off.”

“So Operation Honey Trap was a success,” I say. “Well done, Sky. Well done. Only you could have pulled that off.”

She dips her head in a mock bow. “Thank you, dear. And you can bet that I will never let Kemper forget that he asked me to do that.”

“Go easy on him. He was already feeling uncomfortable about asking.”

“Hey,” Jenkins says, spreading his hands. “It was for a good cause. And I think I can speak for everyone at APD, you’re welcome to interrogate any of our suspects or witnesses any day of the week.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She tosses him a wink, then runs a french fry through a dollop of ketchup and tosses it in her mouth. “But enough about me. Darcy, I saw Daryl getting on the elevator before I came over here, which tells me you didn’t kill him. Here I was, having the time of my life while you were probably wishing you had an ice pick to shove into your eye.”

I pick up my glass and lean back in my chair. “Actually, it wasn’t that bad. He actually contributed. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I had a good time with him.”

Both faces across the table deadpan me. “A good time?” Jenkins asks. “Is there another Agent Simmons in your office I don’t know about?”

“That’s the thing. It felt like he was a different agent. You should have seen the way he handled this guy we were squeezing for information. Definitely not the lazy, pompous agent I’m used to dealing with.”

“Is he on some new medication?” Skylar asks. “We have seen him acting a little different than usual.”

Before arriving back at the office, not wanting to betray any confidence, I asked Daryl if I could share his news with a couple of others. He was resistant at first, but I assured him that people would actually care, that they would want to know. He finally agreed but requested that I not spread it around the entire office and asked me to keep the part about his father telling him he wouldn’t amount to anything between us.

“Daryl’s father is dying of cancer,” I tell them. “He doesn't have much time to live.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jenkins offers.

“It’s prompted Daryl to reassess his life. He’s realizing that he wants more out of life and wants to contribute more. I should probably leave it at that.”

“Ugh.” Skylar closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. “His dad is dying? I feel like such an ass.”

“Good,” I tell her. “You should. Of everyone in the office, you’ve historically been the least patient with him. Maybe even a bully.”

“Okay, hold on. I haven’t been his biggest fan. And sure I’ve made fun of his weight a time or two. But a bully?”

Jenkins shrugs. “Look, I’m not over at the AFO all that much, but I’ve seen you come at Daryl with gloves swinging. Bully…it could be the right word.”

“What? You two are serious? You’re just going to gang up on me like this?”

I don’t say anything, just stare while I sip my soda.

Her shoulders finally sag. “Okay, fine. You’re probably right. I haven’t been super awesome toward him. And hearing that his father is dying makes me feel awful.”

I set my glass back on the table. “I’m glad to hear you say that. Honestly, I think if you just went up to him and told him you were sorry to hear the news, that would go a long way.”

She nods. “I can do that. For sure.”

A companionable silence descends on the table as we finish what’s left of our meals. I’m glad Skylar wants to try to make things right with Daryl. Honestly, I expected nothing less. She’s a good person with a caring heart, and to her credit, Daryl has given her plenty of good reasons not to like him.

Jenkins drains the last of his beer and waves at the bartender for another. “So, any movement in finding Nola Walker?”

“None,” I reply.

Skylar works down the last bite of her burger and slides a napkin across her lips. “You didn’t get anything from that lead Kemper had you go talk to? The one who used to work for Babic?”

“We did get something helpful from her.” I spend the next few minutes filling them in on our conversations with Jennifer Creech and Archie Skelton. “The problem is,” I continue, “to your question about Nola, none of this is getting us closer to finding her.”

“Right,” she agrees. “So where do we go from here?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. For now, we still have no leads on Nola. Zero. And these last couple of days, we’ve been making progress uncovering more of our city’s underworld. Parts that we were unaware of before. Even with all the work the AFO and the DA’s office had put into gathering intel on Babic’s business, there are still a lot of gaps. We know that Babic is responsible for Nola’s disappearance, so I say we make him feel the pain of that decision.”

Skylar grins. “You want to keep following the trail we’re on and see if it leads to something we can really nail Babic with.”

Jenkins gnaws down on his bottom lip and channels Bugs Bunny. “Gee, I gotta say, I like your energy, doc.”

“I want to double down,” I continue. “Babic thinks he can get away with kidnapping and probably murdering a witness. Fine, let him. But I want him to know that he made the worst mistake of his life. I want to follow every thread, every new line of inquiry, until we get what we need. I want to understand the hidden part of his organization so well that we don’t even need a single person’s testimony to put him away for life.”

“You don’t have to twist my arm,” Skylar smiles. “Count me in.”

“I like it,” Jenkins says, and raises his beer before setting it to his lips and tipping it back.

“Where do we go from here?” Skylar asks.

“I’m still thinking through that. Jenkins, have you ever run into a character by the name of John Cardone?”

“Cardone? I don’t think so. Why?”

“He owns The Grinning Reuben. It’s a sandwich shop out near the South End District.”

Recognition passes over his face. “The Grinning Reuben? I love that place. Great sandwiches, good lunch vibe. “

I bring Jenkins up to speed on our conversation with Dae Park, following the man in cornrows to the sandwich shop, and the conversation I overheard between him and Cardone. “He’s got that kid on the streets for him. My guess is he’s just one of many. Looks like he’s trying a little too hard to be a gangster with those cornrows.”

Jenkins gives a rueful shake of his head. “Who would have thought that the owner of The Grinning Reuben is running an extortion ring? These criminals are like roaches. You squash one, and the rest scatter into the dark, only to appear somewhere else later on.”

“Just to clarify,” Skylar says. “Siphoning money from Cleanest Threads is John Cardone’s doing. Not Babic’s. As much as I would love to clean up every craphole in this city, I want to make sure we don’t get distracted. Our focus needs to stay on Babic.”

I nod in agreement. “Yes. But there’s no way it’s not all connected. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Cardone works for Babic and gives him kickbacks.”

“Okay. So what now? I have a feeling that we’ve just scratched the tip of the iceberg. Who knows what’s lying underneath?”

A wry smile presses into my lips. “I have a few ideas.”

Chapter Fifteen

Temporary Residence of Lila Hunt

Albany, NY

“Knock, knock!” I call out as I enter the house. There is no answer as I make my way to the living room in the back. I find Lila on the couch, curled beneath a blanket with her head on a pillow. On the TV, Mary Tyler Moore is in the newsroom arguing with Lou about a story she wants to push.

Lila’s eyes flutter open, and I shush her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

She blinks hard, then sits up on her elbows. “What time is it?”

“A little after five. I just got off work. Really, go back to sleep.”

She struggles to a sitting position, and her mouth opens in a big yawn. “No, I won’t sleep tonight if I don’t get up now. I didn’t think you were coming by until the weekend.”

“That was the plan, but I couldn’t stay away. I miss you, and I don’t see any reason not to come over as much as I can. Where’s Buzz?”

Her brows knit together. “He went to the store to get some groceries, I think. Maybe he’s upstairs sleeping. Or…some things are still running together in my head. I’m sorry.”

I reach out and take hold of her hand. “You have nothing to apologize for. Can I get you anything? Something to eat or drink?”

“Some orange juice, maybe?”

“One glass of orange coming right up.” I head into the kitchen, pour her a glass, and take a can of Coke for myself.

“Thanks,” she says as I hand over the glass. Her eyes rove to the television as she takes a sip. “I remember Mom used to like this show. I got in a few episodes before I fell asleep.”

“She did love this show. There were—” I cut the sentence off. This isn’t the first time I’ve caught myself reminiscing about the good parts of the past. On instinct, I want to tell her how many nights I cuddled with Mom in her bed as we watched reruns of Mary Tyler Moore or Charles in Charge. But Lila missed out on all that, and so much else. I don’t want to rub salt in the wound. “Did you ever watch any TV?” I ask instead.

“Some. Most of it was old black and white stuff. Nothing at all like this. Father liked to—” And now it’s Lila’s turn to catch herself. Her nostrils flare as the lies return in all their force.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s okay.”

For so long, she had gotten used to calling Marvin Hess “Father.” He had brainwashed her so fully to believe that the world beyond them, including her birth family, was completely evil. Over time, she came to see him as the only person who truly had her best interest in mind, who was initiating her into the truth of the world around them.

“I thought he loved me,” she says with an edge in her voice. “How could I have been so blind?”

“You were a little kid, Lila. You didn’t stand a chance against his lies. Not for as young as you were.” I pluck a tissue from the box and hand it to her.

“Darcy, do you think we could go to the cemetery one day, whenever they let me out of here? I want to see Mom and Dad’s graves.”

“Of course we can. I’m glad you want to. Buzz and I tend to the graves. Not a blade of grass is out of place, I can assure you of that.”

“Sometimes I feel myself getting so angry inside,” she says, and stares off. “I missed the rest of their lives. All that time. I finally made it back, and they’re gone.”

Lila’s journey to recovery will be a long one. There are so many lies and so much pain for her to navigate. She was kidnapped before smartphones or social media got much traction. The cultural landscape is different from what she was born into. She was kept in such isolation that for almost two decades, her only social interactions came from Hess or Parsons.

I take a sip from my soda can and set it on the coffee table. “How is your therapy going? Your therapist came today, didn’t she?”

She nods. “It’s exhausting. The worst part is the fear. Every time my therapist comes over, I wonder what other lies will be exposed. I’m still having to unlearn so much. Some days, it feels like I’m staring into a dark void, and I’m being asked to jump in. What might await me down there terrifies me.”

“It will be scary,” I tell her. “But Buzz and I aren't going anywhere. We’re here for all the ups and downs, whatever they look like.”

“That means the world to me. It really does feel like I’m floating between two worlds. You and Buzz are the anchors in all of this. I don’t know what I would do if you weren’t going through this beside me.”

“Well, we are, and that’s what matters.”

Our attention drifts to the television, where Mary is bantering with Rhoda in her kitchen. My stomach forms a knot in response to Lila’s next words. “I wish Toby were here.”

Any response gets caught in my throat, and I sit there for a while with my heart thumping in my chest. I finally manage to get something out. “Toby? Why?”

“He loved me. After you were pulled out of my life, I didn’t have anyone else. He was a good brother to me. He taught me how to play guitar, how to cook, and would read the Edda to me for hours on end.”

The Edda is a Nordic religious text that Hess twisted to his own religious ends. It’s what he used to poison my sister’s mind for so many years, what he used to fuel his own cultish and murderous imagination.

“Toby is funny, Darcy, really funny. He always makes me laugh. I didn’t see as much of him the last few years. He had moved out and was making his way in the world. But when he would come home for a visit…I lived for those times. He has always been a good brother to me.”

I expected conversations like this to take place between us. I knew that there would be things about her old life that she would feel some nostalgia for. I can’t fault her for that. Her life with Hess and Parsons, while demented and illegitimate, wouldn’t have been all bad.

“Lila, he tried to kill you. He blew up your hospital room.”

She’s quiet for a long time, frowning deeply as she stares into a past I cannot see. “I know you’ve said that. Everyone has said that. But I can’t believe it. He wouldn’t do that to me. Toby is my brother. He loves me.”

“Lila, you were with him when he amassed a small army and assaulted our city.” I struggle to keep my voice even. “So many innocent people died that day, including law enforcement. Some of them were my friends.”

She nods slowly. “I know he did some bad things. But maybe he had good reasons. Not everyone is who they say they are.”

I don’t want to upset her, and I certainly don’t want to start an argument. We have time to help her work through all the facts that are keeping her confused and disoriented. But I do want to nudge her toward the truth. “They convinced you to murder me, Lila. Parsons was a part of that deception. And Hess had him under orders to kill you as well.”

I haven’t told her how Hess stalked me and even set up a shrine in the guest bedroom of my house. I haven’t told her how Parsons has toyed with me and is out there actively plotting my demise, that I live under the imminent spectre of that each and every day.

A tear slips down her cheek. “What am I supposed to believe, Darcy? You say that he was going to kill me too. But was he? Maybe he wasn’t. And with everything else, maybe he was just doing what he thought was right.”

“Lila,” I say softly. “Lila, look at me.” Slowly, her eyes meet mine. “It’s okay that you miss him. That’s not wrong of you.”

More tears streak her cheeks. She stares into her lap. “I want to see him again. Do you think that I can?”

“I can’t promise that. Maybe you can. But how about we take things a day at a time?”

“Why do I feel so empty inside? I feel hollow. And I’m scared. So scared. I don’t know what to believe anymore. And I—” She winces suddenly and grips her face with an open hand.

I reach out and place a hand on her knee. “Are you okay?”

Her breath quickens. It takes her a long time to answer. “It feels like a rock tumbling behind my eyes. I need to lie down. Can you turn off the TV?”

“Absolutely.” I switch off the TV and help her get settled on the pillow. Then I pull the blanket over her. “Just rest for now.”

Her brain continues to heal from the trauma the bullet inflicted on her. Talking about something so difficult probably elicited a physical response. She closes her eyes, and before long, her breathing has settled and she’s slipped away into sleep.

I stand over her for a while with a silent prayer for healing on my lips. Then, wiping away tears of my own, I lean over and plant a kiss on her cheek. “I love you, Sis. I’m going to get you through this.”

Chapter Sixteen

Home of Darcy Hunt

Avondale Heights Neighborhood

Albany, NY

Young Darcy stood at the top of the stairs in her nightgown. The hallway was dark. Only the light from the front porch illuminated the staircase. She couldn’t remember getting out of bed and walking over here. The last thing she recalled was switching off her bedside lamp and tucking in beneath her blanket.

She felt that she should go downstairs. Someone was waiting for her there.

Her feet padded softly down the wooden boards. As usual, the third one from the end uttered a thin creak. When Darcy reached the bottom floor, she stood there wondering where to go. Where did they want her to go?

It was chilly, and she wrapped her arms around herself. The backyard. She didn’t know why, but that’s where she needed to go.

Darcy moved down the main hallway through the living room and found that the back door was already standing open. She stepped onto the back porch. It was dead quiet, except for a low creaking sound that turned her attention to the large oak in the center of the yard.

There was no breeze. The tire swing was still. But the creaking persisted.

Stepping down the stairs, Darcy’s bare toes pressed into the coolness of the grass as she made for the tree. She stopped and looked up.

Her father’s feet were swinging near her head. He was wearing his work boots, the kind he always wore when he worked in the yard.

Darcy looked up to see the rope wrapped around his neck, his head resting at an unnatural angle. His eyes were wide and looked off blankly into the void.

“They told me you didn’t kill yourself,” she said to him.

The rope creaked again. “They were right.” But the reply was not her father’s voice. Not deep, not male, but that of a grown woman. Darcy glanced to her right to see her grown sister standing by the tree trunk. She held a gun in her hand. Blood trickled down one side of her head, oozing from a bullet wound.

“They killed him,” Lila said, “and they let you believe that he wanted to die. What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know. I’m scared. I want to go back to bed.”

“If you go back to bed, then Toby and I will find you. We’ll kill you. I love Toby. He’s a good brother. He loves me.”

“I love you,” Darcy said. “I always have. I miss you.”

“I miss Toby,” Lila said.

Her father’s voice boomed over them, causing her to look up again. “You’d better get that.” His jaw worked awkwardly against the rope.

“Get what?”

“You don’t hear it? They need you.”

Maybe she did hear it. Yes, there it was. A faint trilling from somewhere distant.

“They need you,” he repeated.

Louder now. Darcy frowned. It was unpleasant, foreign to her surroundings. The sound didn’t belong here.

Suddenly Lila stepped away from the tree and started toward her. “They need you!” she screamed, her voice shrill and urgent. “Go to them!”

Then she raised the gun at her sister…and fired.

My eyes flick open as I bolt from my pillow and grip the sheets. My lungs suck in hungry gulps of air as I try to catch my breath. Beside me, my phone is trilling. I reach out and check the caller ID through blurry eyes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I fall back on the pillow and answer. “Jenkins, hey.”

“Darcy,” he says, “sorry to wake you. I’m out at a crime scene. Figured you would want to come out and have a look.”

My grip tenses on the phone. “Is it Nola?”

“No. Not Nola. But you’d better come take a look.”

I sigh loudly into the phone, trying to shake off the dream.

“Text me the address. Should I call Skylar?”

“Nah. No need to wake her too. Are you all right? You don’t sound so good.”

No, actually. I’m not all right.

“It’s two in the morning, Jenkins. What do you think?”

“Got it. Hoot hoot. Come join the owls.”

Not in the mood for humor, I hang up and lie there, still catching my breath. Images of my father’s work boots and my sister’s bloody face stream across my vision, sending a chill down my spine.

I swing my feet onto the floor and rub my face. This is one of those rare moments when I wish I had a normal job—something like an accountant or a retail manager. I tread into the kitchen and get a pot of coffee going before moving into the bathroom and splashing water on my face. I walk out the door ten minutes later, still groggy and quietly cursing my family history.

Jenkins’s directions lead me to the dark outskirts of the city, near the entrance of a fenced warehouse. Red and blue lights strobing against the trees tell me I’ve arrived. Pulling over to the shoulder, I step out and find Jenkins speaking with the medical examiner. Seeing me slip beneath the tape line, he excuses himself and comes over.

“Darcy, you’re here. Good.” He pauses and assesses my appearance. “You go bar hopping last night or something? Lookin’ a little rough.”

“Jenkins, it’s a weeknight, what do you think? My apologies for leaving my diva mask at home. I didn't know I was coming to a graveyard shift beauty contest.”

He grimaces. “Apology accepted.” I’m about to plant a fist into his shoulder when he shoots me a grin. “Just kidding. Come on. Over here.”

He leads me past the coroner’s van and into the tall grass flanking the road, where a generator purrs, powering a tower light directed down on a man’s body. “Everything’s been documented already,” he says. “They’re about to take the body, but I wanted you to come see it first.”

I step closer, and my adrenaline kicks in as I recognize the tight blond cornrows running neatly down the young man’s scalp. Three bullet holes are evident in his blood-soaked shirt.

“Thomas,” I recall. “What’s his last name?”

“Bledsoe. His wallet was in his back pocket. Looks like he’s from New Salem, not too far from here. Nineteen years old. I remembered what you said the other day about a young guy in cornrows working for John Cardone. Figure this had to be him.”

“It’s him all right. Who found him?”

He nods down the drive to the warehouse. “The security guard. Said he saw a car stop out at the road, throw something out, and haul ass. He came over to check it out.”

“What are you doing on this?” I ask him. “You don’t typically work graveyard.”

“Owens needed me to cover for her tonight. Some family issues or something.”

I pop my hands on my hips, thinking. “Cardone wasn’t happy with him at the sandwich shop the other day. I guess this is his version of working it out.”

“Like I said, I never heard of Cardone before, but he just made my list. How do you want to play this? I’ve got the murder, but I know you’re trying to work an angle on Babic. I don’t want us to step on each other’s toes.”

“Do your thing,” I tell him. “Just don’t run over and question Cardone if your investigation doesn't lead to him on its own. If you can find a direct line from him to Cardone, then they’ll expect the authorities to come knocking.”

He nods. “Good point. Okay, I won’t get Cardone involved unless I find my own ties to him.”

“Let me know if you do. If this guy’s robbing small business owners and killing off his foot soldiers, then I want to give him up to the DA on a silver plate. But not before I find out how he might be tied to Babic.”

“You got it.”

“Thanks for the call.” I step away from the body. “Now I’m going home to get some more sleep.”

“Beauty sleep, I should hope. You really need it.”

I shoot him a look while trying to suppress a chuckle. “You’re such a jerk.”

Chapter Seventeen

Residence of Terri Bledsoe

New Salem, NY

The old grandfather clock ticks off the seconds, the only sound in the old, quiet house. The curtains are drawn. The walls are a dingy brown, the carpet nearly matching, and the yellow lights are dim. I nearly have to squint at the grieving mother. Finally, she speaks again, her voice choked.

“When the police came and told me this morning, it was like I was almost expecting it. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for the last year, wondering when I would get the knock on the door. And today is the day. Wonder of wonders.”

“Terri, when was the last time you spoke with Thomas?” Skylar asks her.

Her thin face is lined with wrinkles that seem too deep for someone her age. A long braid streaked with gray snakes down her back. She wears a nondescript sweatshirt and baggy jeans, and her fingers are warring with a tissue clutched in her hand.

“A month ago,” she replies. “He came by asking for money. I finally put my foot down and told him I wasn’t his personal bank. He slammed the door on his way out, and I hadn’t heard from him since. Not even a text.”

“I know this is hard to speak about,” I tell her, “but it would be helpful for us to have a sketch of his life. We’re needing to get a fuller picture of his recent habits and whereabouts.”

“The police said there are no direct leads to who killed him yet? Is that right?”

“Unfortunately, that is correct at this time. We hope to change that very quickly.”

Terri brushes a rogue strand of hair from her face. “A sketch of his life. Well, I’m not sure what all you need to know. Thomas was such a sweet boy when he was younger. His smile would brighten any room. He was always happy, always bursting with energy. But then his father left us. Thomas was ten at the time. That’s when things started to change for him. His grades plummeted, and over the next few years, he changed into a bitter, angry young man. Nothing I did helped. His school recommended that I get him into therapy, so I did that. A lot of good that did. He wasn’t having any of it. Thomas started to believe that the world owed him a favor, that he was a victim and was owed something for it. He never did get over his father walking away. In some ways, I understand that. A boy longs for the approval of his father.”

“How long had Thomas been living in the city?” I ask her.

“Two years now. Maybe a little less than that. As soon as he graduated high school, he took off for what he thought were greener pastures. And I understood that too. Other than our annual fair and car show, New Salem doesn’t have much to offer someone excited about stepping out into life. The city was attractive to him. It held opportunities.” Terri shakes her head. Pain and regret stand hard in her eyes.

“What kind of opportunities did he find?” I ask. “Did he secure employment before he went out there?”

“No,” she huffs. “And that was the first problem. He and a friend just wanted to get out of here. They knew someone else who had moved to Albany the year before. It’s my understanding that they lived with him in his apartment for a while. At some point, the friend moved back here to New Salem. That’s when Thomas got in with some bad people. At least, it seemed to be that he did. His attitude got even worse, he started dressing differently, and I got onto him for that ridiculous hairdo he had. Those cornrows. He looked like he was trying to be a rapper or some kind of gangster.”

“We’ve been trying to understand the network he was involved in,” I tell her.

“The criminal network,” she says spitefully.

“Unfortunately, his phone has not been recovered. Do you know the name of anyone he might have worked with? Any contacts or associates?”

“No. Thomas kept that part of his life to himself. And I didn’t ask. I don’t think he would have told me if I had. But like I said, he did have that one friend who started down that path with him. Lance Howell. I wish to God that Thomas had the fortitude to step away like Lance did. And now look where it got him.” Her face pinches into a sob, and her whole body begins to shake as she cries into her tissue. “I’m sorry,” she says finally. “I wanted to get through this without crying.”

Skylar smiles kindly at her. “No need to apologize, Mrs. Bledsoe. This is a very difficult time for you.”

She grabs a fresh tissue and runs it beneath her nose. “Agents, do you have any idea at all who killed him? Or who he was working for?”

Skylar shoots me a glance, and I see that we’re both thinking the same thing. It wouldn’t help Terri to know that her son was used as some of the muscle that extorted money from hard-working people. Once we have a fuller composite of the people Thomas was working for, we can share that with his mother. Until then, it wouldn't serve Terri well to leave her with the limited information we currently possess.

“We don’t have any certain leads at this time,” I tell her. ”But we’ll let you know as soon as we have something more substantive. You said this friend that he moved to Albany with came back to New Salem?”

“Yes, that’s right. Lance Howell. He’s grown into a fine young man.”

“And where can we find Mr. Howell?”

Chapter Eighteen

All Terrain Treads

New Salem, NY

“Ihate interviewing grieving mothers,” Skylar gripes as we drive out of Terri’s neighborhood. “I always come away wanting to do something to make them feel better.”

“Leave that to family and friends,” I tell her. “The best thing we can do is find who ended her son’s life and give her some kind of closure.”

“I know. It still sucks.”

“That it does.” I brake at a four-way stop. “Where am I going?”

She looks down at the GPS app on her phone. “It’s less than a mile from here, on State Road 85. Take a left.”

A few minutes later, we’re pulling onto a stretch of pavement in front of a tire shop. The signage is new, and a fresh coat of dark gray paint adorns the structure’s half-dozen bays. We walk up to a bay and get the attention of a mechanic with a long gray beard. He sets a wrench down on his toolbox and starts toward us, wiping his greasy hands on a shop towel.

“Help you?” When I inform him that we’re looking for Lance Howell, he points at the furthest bay, where an SUV is up on a lift. “He’s putting some new tires on the Tahoe.”

We start for the Tahoe and are met with the shrill squeal of a pneumatic drill. On the other side of the Tahoe, a tire drops to the ground and bounces a couple of times before strong hands guide it down. Skylar and I come around to find a young man in dark overalls and a T-shirt. He sports a full mustache. The rest of his face hasn’t seen a razor in a couple of days.

“Lance Howell?” I ask.

He looks to Skylar, then to me. “A couple cops if I’ve ever seen any. This about Thomas?”

“You’ve heard?” Skylar asks.

“I heard.”

“We’re actually FBI. Agents Mills and Hunt. Can we get a few minutes of your time?”

He turns and calls out to the man who directed us to him. “Barry, stepping away for a minute!” He leads us to the side of the building, away from the view of any customers, and lights up a cigarette.

“Look, Thomas and I ran in the same circles for a while, but I’m clean. I don’t want any trouble. I’ve got a good job and a fiancée. I don’t need any problems.”

“We’re not here to cause any trouble for you,” I tell him, “but we would like to identify the person who killed Thomas.”

“How come it’s the FBI coming out here to talk with me? How come it’s not the police? Don’t the police handle murders?”

“They do,” I reply, “and they are. You might get a call from Detective Jenkins. Our investigation into Thomas’s murder is part of a wider investigation into the business dealing of Miroslav Babic.”

“Babic?” Lance whistles low. “Good luck.”

“We had him going to trial,” Skylar says. “We were one testimony away from locking him up for twenty years. But he managed to swipe our witness before we could get her on the stand.”

He shrugs. “Not sure how much help I can be, but fire away.”

“We just came from speaking with Terri Bledsoe. She mentioned that you moved out to Albany with Thomas a couple years ago.”

“That’s right.”

“Can you tell us why you came back to New Salem?”

He nods, and his expression grows thoughtful. “Thomas and I were good friends all the way through high school. After graduation, we wanted to get the hell out of this one-horse town. Albany was fun for a while. I got a job at a transmission shop, and he started working for a plumber. We’d go out and party on the weekends. And all that was fine for a while.” Lance draws down on his cigarette and blows out a hazy line of smoke. “But then Thomas got connected to a guy who was making good money. He offered for us to join him.”

“Good money,” I repeat. “Doing what?”

Lance holds up a hand. “I’d rather not elaborate. I know things, but I don’t want to get in trouble for not saying something sooner. Like accessory after the fact.”

Lance is a smart guy. He’s right. If he knew about or witnessed a crime and didn’t say anything, then he could be charged with accessory after the fact. Lucky for him, I’m not always a stickler for the rules. The rules exist to serve justice, plain and simple. If Lance won’t feed me information because he’s afraid of us coming down on him, that doesn't help anyone.

“I see you’ve thought this through,” I tell him. “And you’re right. Right now, our focus is on finding Thomas’s killer and, if I’m honest, unraveling the network he was working for. I don’t want to make any trouble for you. It’s commendable that you’re trying to walk a straight path. You don’t know me, but I give you my word that I’ll turn a blind eye to anything you should have told us before now. Except for anything very serious, you understand. We’re looking for some help to get the people who killed your friend, but we also want to shut their entire operation down.”

“You’re the FBI,” he says. “You had Babic on trial. Are you telling me that you still don’t have enough information on his business to just straight take him down?”

“That’s right.”

“Good lord.”

“We might be the FBI, Lance, but we’re not all-knowing. Studying a major crime organization can take years, and even then, we can only see certain, often isolated, parts. And by the time we have enough to bring a case against someone, they’ve changed how they do things, making the information we’ve acquired nearly irrelevant. These people have been doing this kind of thing for a very long time. They know how to hide and know how to keep their hands clean.”

“Now do you understand why we could use some help?” Skylar asks him. “This is how we build a case, by talking to one person at a time. People just like you. Sometimes things come from it, sometimes not. But we don’t know unless we ask.”

Lance reaches up and scratches the stubble on his face. “Here’s what I can tell you. Thomas’s guy got me standing on a street corner downtown a couple nights a week. It was a couple hours of work for a couple hundred bucks. Someone would come by and hand me a backpack. I would hold on to it until someone else came by later on and picked it up.”

“What was in them?” Skylar asks.

“No idea at the time. They were serious about us minding our own business. And really, I didn’t care. It was easy money, and who doesn't like that?”

“How long did you do that for?”

“Six months. But then I got wind of someone else getting busted for it across town. They had him with like a kilo of H. That’s when I checked out. Four or five hundred bucks a week wasn’t worth jail time and a record. Thomas, though…he kept it up. After a while, he got a promotion or something. They had him driving some lieutenant around and probably other stuff he wouldn’t tell me about. Thomas would get back to the apartment way after midnight. Sometimes his knuckles would be bloody or he would have blood on his shirt. I finally decided the party was over. That’s not the kind of life I wanted for myself. I moved to the city to chill and get wasted where my mom couldn’t see. But the dealing and the violence? That wasn’t my lane.”

A breeze kicks around the building and stirs my hair, compelling me to tuck a rogue lock behind my ear. “And Thomas kept going?”

Lance flicks his cigarette away. “Thomas liked the thrill of it all. He liked the feeling of being in control. All those guys do. Me? I’m okay with a simple life. One day, I’ll probably open up an auto shop of my own. Until then, I’m content going to bed with a clean conscience.”

I’m impressed by Lance’s maturity and his willingness to do the right thing, even if it means more sweat. “Is that when you came back here?”

“I stayed with my job at the auto shop for a few more months before I came back.”

“It appears that Thomas was working for or with a man by the name of John Cardone,” I say. “Does that name jog your memory?”

“Cardo? Sure.”

“I’m sorry, you said…Cardo?”

“That’s what everyone calls him. He owns that sandwich shop, right?”

“The Grinning Reuben,” Skylar notes.

“That’s the one.”

“What can you tell us about his business? Not the sandwich shop.”

Lance strokes his chin. “Not much, other than he’s your vanilla guy in organized crime. Nothing as high profile as Babic. And I heard that he and Babic had some beef between them. But Cardo has distributors. Runs coke, H, pills, that kind of thing.”

In my mind’s eyes, I see Dae Park coming out of her business and shaking her fist at Thomas. “What about extortion? Siphoning money from local businesses.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. Thomas never mentioned anything along those lines.” Lance shifts on his feet. “I’ve got a customer waiting for her Tahoe.”

“One more thing, and we’ll let you get back to work. Did Thomas ever mention anyone else in Cardone’s network? We’re working on putting the pieces of his operation together. The faster we can identify all the players involved, the faster we can speed up our progress.”

“Not lately. Not that I can remember. After I moved back here, I tried to steer our conversations clear of his line of work. But I probably don’t have to tell you that Willy Maddox would have that kind of information.”

Skylar and I share a look. “Willy Maddox, you said?”

He glances between the two of us, dumbfounded. “Seriously? You’ve been investigating Babic for how long, got him on trial, and you don’t know who Willy Maddox is?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Damn, those guys are good. The FBI doesn't even have Maddox on their radar.”

“So who is he?” Skylar asks.

“An OG, that’s who. He’s been around for a long time. He’s probably the one who influenced Babic to keep his hands off everything and run the business through other people. Maybe that’s why you’ve never heard of him.”

“And how can we find Mr. Maddox?”

“Last I heard, he wanted out. He was getting older and got diagnosed with cancer, which he attributed to stress. Maddox turned everything he had over to Babic. Still gives him kickbacks from the business he runs. That’s probably the only reason Babic hasn’t fed him to the fish yet. I’m sure you know, Babic doesn’t like people being disloyal to the business. Makes him nervous. People like that are willing to rat.”

“What business is Maddox running?” I ask him. “You’re saying it’s legitimate?”

“As far as I know. It’s a bakery in uptown. He lets his granddaughter run it. Last I heard about him, Thomas said he spends most of his time at The Tipsy Lantern shooting pool and enjoying retired life. Thomas seemed to take Maddox’s current lifestyle as his own life goal.” Lance shrugs. “My information could be outdated. For all I know, Maddox is at the bottom of the Hudson, which could be why you’ve never heard of him.”

I offer him my hand. “You’ve been very helpful.”

He shakes my hand and sets another cigarette between his lips. “Thomas enjoyed the affirmation those guys gave him. He felt needed by them. The last time he came back here, I tried to talk him into letting it all go.” Lance pauses and sniffs. He looks away. “Deep down, he was a good dude. A good friend. Do me a favor and find the bastards who put him down.”

“We’ll do our very best,” I tell him. “That I can promise.”

Chapter Nineteen

The Tipsy Lantern

Albany, NY

“Icould so go for a drink right now,” Skylar says over the psychedelic sounds of Pink Floyd playing loudly through the bar. We’re perched on two stools at a bar table in a dark corner away from the ruckus. For now, we’re crowd-watching until we find the moment we’ve been looking for.

“Get a drink,” I tell her.

She arches her brow. “We’re on the clock.”

“We’re working, yes. But it’s after hours. But mostly, it’s going to look strange if two women come into a bar and are only drinking water.”

She smiles. “So me having a drink would be serving the investigation?”

“Precisely.”

“In that case, twist my arm.” She hops off her seat and makes her way over to the bar, returning a few minutes later with two bottles of beer. “I got you one too, just to make it look good. You don’t have to drink it. But I thought, as agitated as you look, you might want to reconsider.”

“Agitated? What are you talking about?”

“Girl, you are not fine. Ever since we started back from New Salem, you’ve been grouchy.” Skylar eyes me, daring me to disagree with her.

“Fine,” I sigh. “It’s because I’m realizing how little we know about what really goes on in our city. Lance was right back there.”

“How so?”

“That we’ve been investigating Babic for as long as we have, got him on trial, and yet still have as many gaps as we do.” I eye the bottle in front of me, and my will cracks. Grabbing it up, I take a long, slow pull. I close my eyes, relishing the cool liquid sliding down my throat and the familiar taste of hops.

“There you go,” Skylar chuckles. “Take your medicine.”

Setting the bottle down, I shake my head. “We’re the premier law enforcement agency in the nation. Half the AFO has worked on Babic’s case at some point or another over the years. So have a lot of good people down at APD. And yet what we have on him is so thin that the best we could do is put him away for a couple years. We’re the good guys. We’re supposed to have the skills and the resources to get ahead of the criminals.”

I field a grin from Skylar. “What?”

“Feel better?”

“Not really. This is a problem. I’m not naive enough to think that we have to be aware of all the crime that happens around here. But the networks and the major players? We should be ahead of that by now.”

“I get it,” she says. “Not only has a witness gone missing, but it happened on our watch. It’s frustrating. But you know what isn’t?”

“What?”

“Progress. We’re doing old-fashioned investigative work, and it’s leading us places. John Cardone hasn’t been on anyone’s radar. Neither has Willy Maddox. We caught a break with Nola’s journal.” Skylar wipes a bead of sweat off her bottle. “You’re by far the most level-headed and objective agent at the AFO. It’s not like you to get worked up like this. Not about things that are out of our control.”

“But that’s just it. It’s not out of our control. We just haven’t been looking in the right places or going about this the right way.”

“Darcy.” Her tone has a chastening edge about it. “If you don’t stop this, I’m going to order you a round of shots, and we’ll have to come back another night.”

She’s right. I know that. It’s not like me to get so worked up like this. This case has had me on edge—I even stormed up to Babic’s house, for crying out loud. Maybe this is a good time to reset and resolve to let all our efforts work themselves out.

“Message received.” I lift the bottle to my lips and take another sip. “Thanks for talking me down.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Her voice drops, and she looks down at the table. “Hey, don’t look now.”

A moment later, a man drifts past us and heads for the bathrooms. His features have a hard, weathered appearance. His nose is long and leans to the right. His eyes are a pale blue, and his gray hair reaches to his shoulders. He wears jeans and a black leather jacket.

“Ready?” Skylar asks.

“As I’ll ever be.” I slide off my stool. “Let’s do this.”

The bathroom doors are nested behind a privacy wall, out of view of the rest of the bar. We cut around it, and Skylar follows me to the door that says “Gentlemen” and stands guard as I push it open and step inside.

Willy Maddox is at a urinal with his back toward me. Moving quickly, I lean over and check that the two stalls are empty. Satisfied, I step over to the counter, lean back against it, and cross my arms. Maddox finishes his business, flushes, and is still working his zipper up the rest of the way when he turns around.

“What in the hell?” he chuckled. “Hun, I think you’re in the wrong place.”

“Willy Maddox?”

He eyes me, all humor gone from his eyes. “What is this?”

I badge him. “Darcy Hunt, FBI. We need to talk.”

A crimson flush creeps up his neck and settles in his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he growls. “They’ll kill me if they knew I even said hello to you. Do you realize how much you’ve compromised me by just walking in here like this? I oughta⁠—”

“Ought to what? Strangle me? Kill me? We don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll get right to the point. First of all, I’m meeting you in here to keep this strictly between the two of us, and you free from any suspicion or exposure. Second, I need some detailed information that I know you’re privy to. If at any time I feel as if you’re lying to me or offering up half-truths, I’m going to make sure that Babic finds out that you’ve been getting friendly with the FBI. What do you think his take on that will be?”

His eyes narrow on me in anger. “You wouldn't. That’s⁠—”

“Call it whatever you want, but it will happen. End of story.”

His eyes twitch, as if fresh understanding has come into them. “This is about the girl that went missing, isn’t it? That witness who was supposed to testify against him?”

“You know something about it?”

“No—” he says quickly. “No. But you are trying to find her?”

“I am.”

He nods to himself. “This makes a little more sense then. Babic sowed the wind taking that girl, now he’s reaping the whirlwind.”

“Something like that.”

He casts a concerned glance at the door. “I don’t know where she is.”

“I didn’t expect you would. You’re out of the game. Why would they tell you something that sensitive?”

He nods. “Right. Exactly.”

“So here’s what I want, Maddox. John Cardone’s operation. I want to know all about it.”

“Cardo? No way. I’m no rat.”

I give him a stony glare. “Clock’s ticking. You can have an easy conversation with me or a hard one with Babic.”

He curses loudly, then follows it with a hard punch to the wall of the stall. He winces in pain and examines his hand, opening and closing a fist. “You’re wrong for this,” Maddox tells me.

It really is very satisfying to see a bad man squirm.

His nostrils flare. “Cardo…he runs your typical operation. Skims off businesses, distributes substances, some prostitution. He and Babic have had some bad blood over the last year, mostly over territorial infractions on Cardo’s part. I’ve heard that over the last year, they’ve started to make amends of some kind. Might be making moves to join forces. They’re worried about getting undercut by new muscle coming in from New York City that’s starting to encroach on their territories.”

“Who works for Cardone? Names.”

“Umm, Jimmy Knapp, Craig Peck…Oscar Lott.”

I type the names into the notes app on my phone. “He runs The Grinning Reuben. Is that his headquarters?”

Maddox hesitates, still visibly furious. A muscle twitches in his neck. “He does some work out of there. But his headquarters, as you put it, is out at Clear Tundra.”

“Which is where?”

“Out on the north end of the city. It’s a commercial ice operation.”

“We haven’t come across any other businesses in his name,” I say.

“It’s in his half sister’s name. Don’t ask me. I don’t know it.”

“Agh,” I say. “Family.”

“Anything else?”

“Oh, yes. How is The Bait House tied in?”

“The Bait House? Never heard of it.”

I continue to move us quickly along, knowing that someone could come through that door at any moment and compromise Maddox. “A guy from Cardone’s crew turned up dead this morning. Thomas Bledsoe.”

“Don’t know a thing about that. I’ve made a point of keeping my nose out of everything. Not many people like me get to retire. So I’m doing my damnedest to enjoy it.”

“Which leads me to another item for discussion. I’ve never heard of someone stepping away from organized crime and living to tell about it. Why hasn’t Babic silenced you yet? He’s skimming off the top of your bakery every month, but that doesn’t seem like it’s worth the risk of having you around.”

Maddox smirks. “I have dirt on him. Evidence. I’ve shown a copy to him. If I don’t stay healthy or if I mysteriously disappear, my lawyer sends the evidence to the DA’s office.”

“What evidence is that?

He shakes his head. “No, no. It’s mine. I don’t share it with anyone. It’s the only insurance policy I have.”

“I could subpoena it,” I tell him.

“And I could just say that I was lying about the evidence. Look, if you want to put the screws to Babic, that would be just fine with me. I handed over my entire operation to that a-hole, and yet he’s still skimming off a bakery that I planned to deed over to my granddaughter.”

“And yet you aren’t willing to give me the evidence you have on him.”

He shakes his head. “Like it said, it’s an insurance policy. And besides, while it’s enough to uproot a couple of his largest revenue sources, it’s not something that would send him away for very long.”

Outside the door, I hear Skylar’s voice, no doubt trying to keep someone out. We don’t have much time. “So what else do I need to know to take him down, Mr. Maddox?”

He glances at the door again. “There’s this guy, Skelton. He does a shipping run for Babic once a month. Don’t know what, but they’re tied in somehow.”

“We’re aware of that. What else? I need something he gets close to. He’s good at keeping his own fingerprints off everything.”

“Babic has changed up a lot of things since I was in the game. He has to in order to stay insulated. A static organization is too easy to pin down. You’re asking a guy for directions to a place that may not exist.”

“Who are Babic’s lieutenants?”

Maddox rattles off several names. Unfortunately, I’m already familiar with them all. “Thank you for your time,” I tell him. “It might be best if you waited a while to come out after me.”

“I understand the drill,” he spits.

I stop beside the door. “One more thing. If we have any reason to think you’ve tipped Babic off, or anyone in his organization, we’ll come and get you. You might have evaded us when you were active, but be assured that now that we’ve had this conversation, we’ll be motivated to make your retired life very difficult if we suspect your interference in any way.”

I exit the bathroom and slip around the corner into the bar. I can’t help but laugh when I see Skylar across the room, standing beside a pool table, making out with a man in a leather jacket. Stepping up, I clear my throat and tap her on the shoulder.

“Hey,” I say. “Excuse me?”

She pulls away and gives me a sly smile. Her face is flushed with pleasure. “Hey, yourself.”

I have to admit, the man is gorgeous. With cool green eyes and a smooth, square face, he looks like he could bench both of us at the same time. He gives me elevator eyes. “Who’s your friend?” he asks Skylar.

“Uh, don’t worry about it,” she tells him. “I’d better get going.”

“What do you say I get your number?”

“Actually, I’m flying back to LA tonight.” She reaches up and slides a finger down his jawline. “But thanks for the heat.”

Grabbing her elbow, I shepherd away and out into the parking lot. “You’re something else,” I chuckle. “What was that about?”

“Just doing my job. He wanted to use the john, so I pounced on him. Once we came up for air, I asked him to buy me a drink, and I led him away.”

“Then I’m lucky no one else had to use the bathroom.”

“Hey, girl, I’m one person. And luck always plays a part in cracking any case.” She runs a hand across her collarbone and sighs. “That man was a master at making out. We need to do things like this more often.”

“You’re awful.”

“Just doing my civic duty,” she says as we get in the car. “Get anything from Maddox?”

A smile curves my lips. “You bet I did.”

Chapter Twenty

Residence of Buzz Trumbull

Eagle Hill Neighborhood

Albany, NY

Iannounce my presence as I step into the home and shut the front door. Passing down the hallway, I head into the wood paneled living room, where the television is tuned to a show with multiple women on a beach in bikinis. The backside of a gray head rises over the top of the couch.

“What are you watching?” I laugh as I plop onto an overstuffed armchair.

“Some stupid reality show. Bunch of people stuck on an island doing stupid things to win stupid prizes.”

“So if it’s stupid, why are you watching it?”

He raises his eyebrows at me.

“Right,” I chuckle. “The bikinis. You would, old man.”

“I’m not old yet. But I am indeed a man.” He picks up the remote and turns off the television. “What brings you over?”

“I talked with Lila’s security team. They said they thought it would be best if you came back here for a few days?”

“Yeah. They figured if Parsons took a look in my direction, it might seem suspicious that I haven’t been home in so long.”

His shoulders are slumped, and his eyes are missing their typical brightness. “You seem a little glum,” I tell him. “You all right?”

He pushes off the couch and starts for the kitchen. “You want a beer?”

“No, thanks.”

I hear him rummaging around, then the hiss of a top being popped off a bottle. He returns to the couch with a bottle and a bag of chips.

“Where’s your cane?” I ask him.

“My leg has felt better the last few days. Haven’t needed it.”

Deep down, Buzz is a gentle, kind-hearted man, though he covers it up with a hard, crusty exterior. It’s obvious to me that something is bothering him. Luckily, I’m probably the one person on the planet who can get him to open up.

“I'm thankful that you’ve been staying over there with Lila,” I say. “I’m sure it’s been really good for her. Is anyone there while you’re back here?”

He takes a swig from his bottle. “One of the nurses. Gladys, I think. Lila likes her a lot.”

“So what’s wrong with you? Or am I going to have to go find your cane and beat you with it?”

Buzz runs the flat of his hand across his knee. I can see that he’s deciding whether to tell me what’s really on his mind. I wait patiently, not wanting to sway him one way or another. “Being over there has been more difficult than I thought,” he finally says.

“How so?”

But then he waves me off. “You don’t need to listen to me griping right now, Darcy. You have enough on your plate as it is.”

“You’re right,” I tell him. “I do have a lot on my plate. And it means something that you care about that. But Buzz, we’re family, and that comes before anything. I promise you, whatever you have to say, it’s probably not anything I’m not already working through myself.”

He nods and then is quiet for a full minute. “We knew that if Lila ever woke up, her road to recovery was going to be a long one.”

“That’s right.”

“And now, being around her every day, talking with her, it feels surreal. I’m sure you feel the same way.”

“I absolutely do.”

“You’re not around her as much as I am, but this last week especially, she’s been hard to be around. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame her for that.”

“Buzz, you’re dancing around the point. What are you trying to say?”

“Hold your horses. I’m getting to it.” He looks over at the blank television. A frown creases his forehead as he continues. “Lately, Lila has started to question what’s real. She’s questioning whether Hess really was telling her the truth. She said she misses Toby Parsons. I knew these could be the kinds of conversations she would need to have, but now that I’m hearing them, I don’t know that I can handle very much of it.”

I nod, totally agreeing with him. “She said as much to me last time I went to see her.”

“No kidding? You didn't mention it.”

“No need to burden you with it. But it sounds like she’s indiscriminate about who she’s talking with about it. That can be good. The more people speaking the truth to her, the better.”

“Darcy, those men were from the pit of hell. Parsons still is. He blew up her hospital, for crying out loud. I know she’s confused, but I’m so damn angry that they poisoned her mind like that.”

“Me, too, Buzz. I walked out of there in tears the other day. It’s a lot to deal with.” His jaw flexes. Right now, he looks ready to take a baseball bat to something. It’s a strange way to see him behave. He’s always so chill and relaxed about things. “What else?” I ask him. “That’s not the only thing eating you up.”

A wry smile presses into his lips. “Nothing gets past the federal investigator, does it?”

“Right now, I’m your niece. And you might as well cough up the rest.”

“Some days it feels like I’m dreaming, having Lila back. It’s been so long since that weekend your father took you four camping. I’m angry that my sister never got to learn that her youngest daughter had been alive after all those years. She should be here having a reunion with the two of you. I’m mad that she isn’t.”

I watch as moisture begins to gather in his eyes. He stands up and returns to the kitchen. When he returns a few minutes later, his eyes are dry, and he’s clutching a fresh beer.

“Thanks for talking to me,” I say softly. “It means a lot.”

He nods, but says nothing.

“What you said reflects everything that I feel most days. I’ll get bombarded with a hurricane of different emotions. I’m angry at Hess or Parsons, angry at the universe for allowing things to turn out this way. Or I’m sad. Some days the grief of Mom and Dad not being with us anymore to enjoy the reunion feels like an anvil on my chest. And that’s only on the days the fear is not as prominent. I worry about Lila and how she’ll come out of all this. It sounds cliche, but I’ve learned that I have to take things a day at a time because each one brings new challenges of its own.”

“You’re wise in your old age, young one.”

His comment gets a laugh out of me.

“So enough of all that,” he announces. “Have you talked with Jeff Fletcher again?”

Another laugh bubbles up my throat. “You want to move on from talking about Lila to the man who says my father didn’t actually kill himself. Wonderful.”

“Sorry,” he says, uncharacteristically looking unsure of himself.

“It’s fine.” I take a breath. “To answer your question, no, I haven’t spoken with him in a while. Ever since the explosion at the hospital, I haven’t had the emotional bandwidth to step into that cow pie. Lila is my priority right now. Unraveling everything about Dad will have to wait.”

He raises his bottle. “Here, here,” he says, then turns the TV back on.

But what I don’t tell him is that the death of my father continues to haunt my dreams.

Chapter Twenty-One

FBI Field Office

Albany, NY

The conference room hums with the quiet chatter of voices, punctuated by occasional laughter. About twenty of us are assembled for a team review of the case, with the end goal of getting everyone to direct their attention to nailing the most corrupt individual in our city.

Kemper enters with his laptop and a stack of folders tucked under his arm. Taking a seat at the head of the table, he hands the folders to the agent on his right and instructs him to pass them around.

“I appreciate everyone making it to the meeting on such short notice,” he begins. “As you all are aware, Nola Walker was kidnapped several days ago, resulting in the dismissal of the case we helped the DA prepare against Miroslav Babic. At this time, with no indication as to Ms. Walker’s whereabouts, we are presuming her dead.”

The announcement turns my stomach, sending up a twinge of nausea. I know it was the job of the U.S. Marshals, and Dunning in particular, to keep her safe. But I still bear some of that responsibility. I was the one who debriefed her and promised to keep her safe.

“That’s said,” Kemper continues, “no one is to discount any information that could lead to her whereabouts.” He reaches down and fumbles with his chair lever for a moment. “This week, we’ve seen a lot of good progress in identifying crime networks in our city that we had, until now, been unaware of. For that, I want to thank Agents Hunt and Mills, who have been doing excellent work wringing out new leads.”

I raise my hand and interject. “Just for clarification, sir. Agent Simmons has played a big part in this too.”

At the other end of the table, a blush creeps into Daryl’s cheeks. “Right, yes,” Kemper says. “Thank you as well, Agent Simmons. Good to see you putting your skills to good use.”

“Yes, sir. Glad to.”

Kemper looks over at ASAC Akers and turns the meeting over to him. Akers clears his throat and flips open a folder on the table in front of him. “You’ll see in your packets,” he begins, “that we’ve updated our schematics on organized crime in the region to include two other heads, John Cardone and Willy Maddox.” Akers goes on to explain Maddox’s retirement and his connection to Babic. “Additionally, John Cardone, while new to us, apparently has deep routes within the organized crime ecosystem. The word is that Cardone is beginning to merge his operation with that of Miroslav Babic.”

“So Babic is consolidating with his competition,” someone says.

Akers nods. “He’s positioned himself in a way that makes it sensible for Cardone to join with him, though specific details surrounding that are still up for grabs.” Akers flips over a page of his notepad. “Also, additional fieldwork has brought up some questions about an old bait shop. Cheetah, you want to let the room know what you found there?”

Hearing about The Bait House perks my ears. Cheetah nods, sits up a little straighter in his chair, and slides his finger across the trackpad on his computer to wake it up. “Sure thing. So out on a quiet patch of the Hudson River, there’s a run-down shack that used to sell bait and tackle. It’s been deserted for a while, and there is no longer any business being conducted on-site. It’s in an undeveloped area of town. Over the years, all economic interests have moved a couple of miles north of there. Really, it’s perfect. Taxes stay paid up, and there’s no reason for it to draw attention from anyone. No one except, say, a realtor or real estate investor, would ever be curious to look into it. And then all they would see is the front company, which would dismiss any interest in the property.” Cheetah taps his trackpad and scans the contents of his screen. “What’s interesting is that the address is actually being used by what appears to be a front company, and that has been expertly hidden behind several layers of legal entries intended to provide insulation. However, we secured a warrant to peek behind the layers, and one of the names we found was none other than Miroslav Babic. This front company claims to be involved in charity work.” That detail gets a chuckle out of everyone present. “But digging deeper, we found a confusing web of associated entities and trusts, which is exactly why they would have set things up the way they did. It makes it very challenging for law enforcement to make sense of everything in a timely manner. My team is working hard to gain access to additional data so we can unravel connections, data that all of you agents out there in the field can act on.”

Akers nods to our cyber lead. “Thanks for that, Cheetah. Brooks and Cheng, I’ve got you running point doing discovery on Cardone’s lieutenants—Jimmy Knapp, Craig Peck, and Oscar Lott. I want you to learn their habits and trace their movements. Being that we’ve just discovered Cardone’s existence, he won’t suspect that we’re on to him. He’s had a good run with us off his back. Now that we’re changing that, let's not give him any reason to think that anything has changed.”

“We’re on it,” Brooks tells him.

Kemper jumps back in. “I spoke with Detective Larkin down at APD this morning. He’s fairly certain that Willy Maddox employed several aliases that have connected to major crimes over the last decade or more. That’s probably why we haven’t heard of him until now.”

“Are we bringing him in for further questioning?” someone asks. “He’s got to have a lot more details than what he shared with Agent Hunt the other night.”

“I’ve considered it,” Kemper answers. “But in the immediate, I’m going to hold off. I don’t want to show our hand. Hunt and Mills did a great job confronting Maddox while reducing the chance of exposing him. Scared people run or tattle, and we don’t want any of that. For now, I’m going to let APD continue to dig around on Maddox. The priority in this room is to bring down Miroslav Babic, and Babic only. I don’t want anyone getting distracted and chasing squirrels. That said, we do have several threads to follow. What I want is for us to narrow them down and identify the one we’re going to follow all the way to the bank. What’s the one thing that will ensure that Babic goes away for life? I’m not interested in anything less. Follow the leads you’ve been given, and let’s see if they can lead us to something more substantial. Now, as you’ll see in your folders, understanding Cardone’s operation might be how we do that.”

Cheng raises his hand and gets the go-ahead. “I’m seeing a sandwich shop and a commercial ice company under Cardone’s supervision. Are those the only two businesses we know of right now?”

“Yes,” Kemper replies. “And the ice company is an interesting one. It has trucks. Trucks running under a legitimate company name can transport illegal goods, which is what I would expect in this case. As you know, people like Babic and Cardone are quite resourceful. This could be the break we’ve been looking for. If we can locate shipments of any black market items and tie them back to these front companies, we can build a strong case around that.”

Kemper goes on to mention Archie Skelton and the monthly shipment he does for Cardone. “And one last thing, and I cannot emphasize this enough, based on a series of leads in the back of Nola Walker’s journal, Hunt and Mills have progressed in their investigation without tipping their hand. In other words, they’ve approached this from the bottom up. As far as we know, Babic and Cardone, and their people, are unaware that we have made these recent discoveries. It’s imperative that any decision you make be weighed against whether the clandestine nature of our investigation will remain intact. If there are any doubts about that, run them by me first.” Everyone offers their assent, and Kemper dismisses the meeting.

Skylar flips through her file and runs her finger down a page. “They’ve got us on Cardone. How do you want to play this? I’m not sure how to proceed without tipping our hand. Other than doing strict surveillance. And you know how much I just love doing that.”

“We need someone close to him, or at least in the know,” I say.

“Which we don’t exactly have on speed dial.”

“You sure about that? I think we know someone who knows a little about a lot. He might be able to give us something helpful.”

Skylar frowns, thinking, but then understanding lights up her face. “We do know someone, don’t we?”

I stand up and gather my things. “Come on. Let’s go pay him a visit.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

State Route 85

Albany, NY

“You sure this is it? I don’t see anything.”

“He said near mile marker nineteen,” Skylar says, peering into the woods as I slow my speed to twenty miles per hour. “Back in the woods a little ways is what he said.”

“I was expecting to find an empty building or a road leading into the woods,” I tell her. “Not a virgin forest.”

“Me too.”

I pull over to the shoulder and allow a car to pass before steering back into the two-lane road. “Let me go a little further.” But that doesn’t help. A few minutes later, we’re passing a marker stamped with 21.

“I don’t know,” she says, “Maybe turn around and let’s go by again. We must have missed something.”

Checking the road ahead and behind, I pull a U-turn and retread the stretch of road we’ve just examined. A handful of homes are the only thing worth noting, nothing resembling the kind of encampment we came out here looking for.

One mile ticks by, then another, and then another. Finally, I let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Why don’t you call Griffin and see if he can help? He’s the one who told us about the other place in Krank Park.”

“Okay. Hang on.” Skylar draws her phone from her pocket, then glances back out the window. “Hey, wait. You see that?”

“What?” I ease down on the brakes and lean over, peering over the dash to where she’s pointing.

“Right there. It’s a trail of some kind.”

Sure enough, a narrow cut runs deep into the trees. I pull over onto a trailhead beside the road, which gives me enough room to safely park. We step out into an easy breeze that rustles the leaves and scents us with pine and damp leaves.

“Look at that.” Skylar draws my attention to a marker that says 17. “He got it wrong.”

“No big deal. We’re here. At least, I think we are. Let’s find out what’s on the other end of this path.”

We start down it, following it for at least a hundred yards and around a bend before reaching a large clearing that is punctuated with a dozen mismatched tents. A thin line of smoke rises from a small fire in the center of the small community. At the far perimeter, a rope is stretched between two trees for clothes to dry on.

“Nice place,” Skylar quips. “What do you think the resale value of one of the plots is?”

“Don’t be a snob,” I scold her. “All of us are only a series of bad steps from ending up in a place like this ourselves.”

An older woman appears from around a red tent and starts toward us. She walks with a halting gait and grimaces with every step. “Help you?” she says as she reaches us. Her face is deeply seamed, and she has no teeth. She wears jeans and a torn puffer jacket.

“I’m Darcy, this is Skylar.” I reach out and shake her hand. I keep back the fact that we’re feds. I don’t want to make her unnecessarily nervous. People who live on the down and outs often have very different reactions to law enforcement. “We’re looking for Skippy. Is he around?”

“Skippy? I don’t think so. He’s out with Iris.”

“Iris? That’s his girlfriend?”

“Sure is. I keep trying to get him into my tent, but he’s got a real thing for that girl.”

Beside me, I see Skylar’s body tense as she struggles to suppress a laugh.

“Do you know when he might be back?” I ask her. “He’s an old friend.”

“No idea. He doesn’t tell me. There a message for him?”

I pop my hands on my hips and twist my lips as I think about the best way to go about this. We could wait around for a while. But people like Skippy really are on a schedule of their own making. There’s nothing to say that he would even be back today.

“Let him know that Darcy stopped by,” I answer. “And ask him to call me.”

“He have your number?”

“He sure does.”

“Okay then. I’ll have him—” She glances over my shoulder and then juts her chin in the same direction. “Speak of the devil. There’s Skippy now.”

I turn to find him coming down the path hand-in-hand with a woman. She looks like she’s in her mid-thirties, with short blonde hair and a red beanie tucked down over her scalp. Her cheeks are sunken, and her eyes are a little cloudy.

Skippy starts when he sees us. “Darcy, what are you doing here?”

“Hey, Skippy. We have a few questions. You have a minute?”

“Sure. This is Iris.” He nods at his girlfriend, who offers us a half-cocked smile. She is clearly uncomfortable.

“Hi, Iris. Do you mind if we steal Skippy for a few minutes?”

“Is he in some kind of trouble?”

I’m about to answer when Skippy laughs. “In trouble? Nah, they’re friends. But let me talk with them. I’ll catch up to you at the tent.”

“Okay, but don’t be long.”

“How did you find me?” Skippy asks after she’s gone.

“You told us where you lived,” Skylar says.

“I did?”

“Yeah. ‘Route 85, near mile marker nineteen.’ Those were your exact words.”

“Mile marker nineteen? No, it’s seventeen.”

“Yeah,” she says dryly, “but you said nineteen.”

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have said that. It’s seventeen. Why would I say something different?”

“I don’t know. Why did you?”

“Okay, children,” I laugh. “That’s enough. Skippy, how come you’re all the way out here? It’s a little far from a central location.”

“We’re not wanted anywhere,” he replies. “You know that. The guy that owns this property used to be transient and found his way to a better life somewhere else. So he lets us live here as a way to give back. We have a community moped. Grease over there owns it.” He indicates a burly man sitting beside the fire. “We pay him a little money, and he takes us where we want to go. Just now, we got dropped off by the transport bus from the shelter. Is that your car out by the road?”

“Sure is.”

“So what is it you need?”

“So we’ve just tuned into John Cardone’s operation. You heard of the guy?”

Skippy reaches up and scratches a sore on the side of his neck. “Whaddya mean just tuned into?”

“I mean, we were unaware that Cardone was a player until this week.”

He blinks. “What do you guys do all day up in that office of yours? Cardo’s been around for a minute.”

“Trust us,” Skylar tells him, “we’ve had those conversations already. The truth is, we know now, and we’d like to understand his organization a little better. We know he does some work out of The Grinning Reuben and that ice company.” She snaps her fingers, trying to recall the name.

“Clear Tundra,” I say.

“That’s the one.”

Skippy shrugs. “I don’t know anything about those.”

“Anything would be helpful.”

He lifts a hand and waves to someone behind us, then rubs his chin as he thinks. “I ain't gonna lie, Darcy, I’ve bought some of his product on the street over the years. But his foot soldiers change. I don’t know who’s running his corners these days. The FBI trying to bring him down?”

“That’s the idea,” I tell him. “But we need a lot more details before that’s even a remote possibility.”

“I saw him around some, back a few years ago. But now he’s wearing bigger britches. I heard he’s not running as many drugs as he used to. The word is, he’s running different products now.”

“Products? Like what?”

“Not sure,” Skippy says. “Stolen stuff. Furniture, electronics? I don’t know.”

Skippy’s answer makes me think about what Kemper said in the conference room, that trucks running under a legitimate company name can transport illegal goods, which is what he would expect in this case.

“If you know Cardo at all, then you know that he’s got one of his top guys running that side of things,” Skippy goes on. “Cardo’s real good at keeping out of the spotlight. I guess you know that if you’ve only recently even heard of him.”

“Who’s in charge of running the products?” Skylar asks.

“It’s one of his top guys, Craig Peck. I was downtown yesterday, pushing around a cart and seeing what I could find to resell, and I got to talking to Dr. T. You know Dr. T?”

Dr. T is a homeless man of many talents. Among transients in the downtown region, he’s almost a legend in the downtown area. Nearing eighty years old, he’s slept on the street for most of his life. But it’s his ability to juggle and play the mandolin that has won him his local fame. He’s always happy to receive a little change in exchange for your entertainment.

“I think the whole city knows Dr. T, Skippy.”

“Right, okay. So he was telling me that he heard one of Cardo’s guys just got pinched. A young guy?”

My antennae go up. “Yes, go on.”

“Well, that created a tremor among Cardo’s crew. One of his main guys didn't like the decision. So there’s some bad vibes between some of them right now.”

“Which guy didn’t like it?”

“Knapp.”

“Jimmy Knapp?”

Skippy nods. “That’s the one. Dr. T said that if Knapp keeps up the open disdain for Cardo’s decision, then he might be the next to get pinched.”

I nod my understanding. “And what about Miroslav Babic? What do you know about him?”

“Oh, he’s been around forever. You’re just learning about him?”

“No,” I smile. “We’re not that incompetent.”

“Oh.” Skippy goes on to rattle off all the facts he knows about Babic’s organization, but they add nothing to our current understanding.

I pan my gaze around the property. “This is a good setup, Skippy. I’m glad you have a good community here.”

“We like it. Sure beats a box under the overpass. When I started going with Iris, she invited me to come out here with her. There’s a creek through the woods over there a little where we can wash our stuff. It’s nice.”

Reaching into my front pocket, I draw out a fifty-dollar bill I brought for the occasion. “You and Iris get something to eat on me. No drugs, you understand?”

His lips peel back in a smile, showing a dark cemetery of teeth. “No drugs, Darcy. I promise, I never get any treats with what you give me.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Maybe I’ll get Grease to take us to McDonald’s. Haven’t been there in a minute. A milkshake might hit the spot.”

“You stay out of trouble,” Skylar tells him. “Thanks for the info.”

“Anytime, anytime.”

“And keep the nature of our conversation quiet, all right?” I say. “Not even to Iris.”

“Of course.” He draws his fingers across his lips. “Mum’s the word.”

Skylar and I start back down the trail. “One of these days, we should take him to lunch and have him download everything he knows,” Skylar says. “Maybe Dr. T too. I’d be willing to bet that something good would come of it.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea.”

“So what’s next? Sounds like we need to find a way to connect with Craig Peck.”

I nod my agreement. “Frustration doesn’t mean disloyalty though. We’ll have to be very strategic with how we approach him.”

“Crazy that Cardone and Babic are looking at joining forces. I would like to see that not happen.”

“Same.”

I can’t help but feel like we’re starting to build some momentum in this case. Progress has been slow and tedious, with clarity forming with the speed of a dripping faucet, rather than a firehose. Patience isn't one of my strengths, and I would have liked to have had all these criminals in cuffs yesterday.

I have to remind myself that we’re pointed in the right direction. In the last few days, we’ve become aware of more pockets of organized crime than we were before. That’s huge in itself. And hearing of two crime organizations possibly joining forces is even bigger.

Miroslav Babic is consolidating his empire, looking to extend his reach and his power. That man will stop at nothing to get whatever he wants. He’ll hurt anyone he has to so that he can get ahead. Men like him feast and thrive on the weakness of others.

We’ve had a pretty good idea of the scope of Babic’s operation, but with the recent revelations this last week, I’m starting to think that we haven’t even scratched the surface. If he really is looking at absorbing Cardone’s operation into his, then it just goes to show how brazen he’s willing to be, even in the face of all the pressure we’ve brought down on him.

But Babic is impassive, as his getting rid of Nola Walker testifies. He’ll stop at nothing to get whatever he wants. And knowing that makes me wonder just what all the man has his greedy fingers in.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The MS Nautical Albatross

Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean

The air was hot and cloying, thick with the smell of rust and saltwater. The only constant sounds were the creaking of the cargo ship's belly and the distant hum of its engines. Malani Popovik sat on a thin, stained mattress, her back against the cold metal wall of the cargo hold. She hadn’t seen the sun in three days. Her only surroundings were the cramped surroundings of this room and the lavatory next door.

She shared the space with nine other women. None of them were over twenty, all of them hoping for a better life. And in another couple of days, they would have it.

After her mother died last year, all Malani had dreamed of was freedom. She had to run off to get away from her stepfather. That sick man had been eyeing her for far too long, and with her mother gone, there was no one to protect her from the inevitable. She moved to Belgrade, the capital city, and got a job as a waitress. She pinched and scrimped wherever she could, living in dirty hostels and skipping meals so she could save enough for the trip to America.

It took fourteen months, but she finally had enough saved, and two weeks after she paid the final lump sum, she was on her way in a bus through western Serbia and across Montenegro, where she finally boarded this ship at a port on the Adriatic Sea.

Her heart was bursting with hope when she came on board. She was leaving the country she had always known forever and setting off for what everyone called the land of the free. She wouldn’t have to worry about her stepfather catching up with her. There was no longer anything for her in her country, and she needed a new horizon, somewhere she could better herself and make something good of her life.

For years, Malani had dreamed of going to university and getting a degree in fashion, then perhaps to New York City and finding employment as a fashion designer. And now here she was, on her way to the great nation of opportunity. Some moments, she just couldn’t believe it.

“I’m so thirsty. Do you have anything left in your water bottle?”

The question came from Jelena, a dark-haired girl with fair skin. She was a year younger than Malani and had shared that she wasn’t running to something as much as she was running from someone. Back in Serbia, her boyfriend was a drug dealer who would beat her and allow his friends to have his way with her. She’d had enough. One night, she found his stash of money and slipped away, using the cash to pay her way to a destination where he could never find her.

Malani held up the bottle and jiggled it to show that there was nothing left.

“What, do they think we are cattle?” Jelena quipped. “I would have brought my own if I had known they were going to treat us like this.”

“Not much longer,” Malani tried to assure her. “We must be past the halfway point by now. Soon we’ll be breathing fresh air and starting a new life.”

Jelena nodded, then closed her eyes and laid her head back on the metal wall.

The hold had been mostly silent these last few days. The atmosphere in the room was full of tension, with hopes and dreams that were fringed with tension and fear. Everyone seemed to be running from something, seemed to possess an unspoken belief that speaking too much of the good that was to come might undermine such an outcome.

No one had a phone. Those had been confiscated when they came on board. Malani hadn’t cared too much. One less way for her stepfather to find her, should he ever want to come looking. She would just buy a new one when they arrived.

But no phones meant boredom. Too much time for worry to develop into fear. They were, after all, trusting their lives to people and a process that they were completely unfamiliar with.

Jelena fingered the bracelet on her wrist. Just before boarding, they had all been fitted with one. The bracelets were not much more than a tough, fibrous string, and color-coded. Everyone’s was either blue or green, except for Malani’s, which was red. What they were for and what the colors represented, no one knew. Malani assumed it was to assign them into groups for processing when they reached their destination. By why she had been singled out with the red, Malani didn't know. For now, she just had to wait. It would all be revealed in time.

“When do you think they’re going to feed us again?” Jelena asked her. “I’m starving.”

“Me too. Hopefully soon.”

“Do you have any more of that beef jerky you brought with you?”

Malani shook her head. “Last night was the last of it. I would have brought more if I thought we would need it.” She wiped a bead of sweat off the side of her face. The back of her shirt was soaked. It was so hot down here. “I wish they would let us go topside, just for a little fresh air.”

“It’s starting to feel like a sauna,” Jelena agreed. “I just keep telling myself, only a couple more days. Then it will all be—” She was interrupted by a loud clang sounding through the small space. The lock on the door snapped back and opened with a loud creak. “Finally,” Jelena said. “Some food. And I have to pee.”

Two crew members stepped inside. One was tall and muscular, with a full black beard and a thick brow. The other was short and stocky, carrying a hefty weight around his midsection. They silently eyed the women. They had brought no food.

“Where is our meal?” one of the women asked impatiently. “We’re hungry.”

“And thirsty,” another chimed in.

Malani’s stomach twisted beneath her ribs. Something was wrong. The men were eyeing each of them in turn, as if assessing them. And the look in their eyes—that hungry, expectant look—she had seen it more than once in her stepfather.

The man with the beard stopped his gaze on Jelena. He jammed a meaty finger at her. “You. Come here.”

“Why?” she asked, drawing closer to Malani. “What do you want?”

“I said come here! Now!” His voice boomed around the cramped room.

“No. I’m not leaving.”

The man scoffed as though this were a game. Stepping closer, he reached out, grabbed Jelena by her hair, and yanked her up. Her screams were filled with both protest and terror as she was dragged out of the room and forced down the corridor.

Complete and utter fear was the atmosphere of the room now. Everyone was huddled together, whimpering under the trauma.

The stocky man smiled hungrily when his gaze fell on Malani. He reached for her, and she was prepared to fight him tooth and nail, but then his eyes fell on her bracelet, and he froze. Muttering under his alcohol-laced breath, he took stock of the room again, of each woman cowering beneath him.

Finally, he decided on the youngest of the group, a blonde with large breasts and long legs. Like the other had done, the stocky man grabbed her by the hair, yanked her up, and dragged her toward the door. Malani bolted to her feet and initiated an assault on him with her fists.

But it didn’t help. She may as well have been swatting a fly. Uttering an irritated grunt, he shoved a palm into Malani’s chest. It launched her off her feet and into the wall. She crumpled in agony onto the mattress. By the time she had partially regained her senses, the door had slammed shut, and the heavy metal lock on the other side was engaged. The blonde girl’s screams faded down the corridor. Soon they had evaporated completely.

Cries and whimpers filled the small room as the remaining eight women were left to rethink the entirety of their futures and wonder which among them might be next.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Saratoga Lake

Saratoga County, New York

The sun flashes off the water in thousands of tiny reflections as I guide the boat in a wide arc across a bend in the lake. The wind streams across my face, whipping my hair and whisking the heat from the sun’s rays off my skin. It’s been a long time since I’ve been out on a speedboat, even longer since I’ve been behind the wheel of one.

Wearing a bikini, Skylar is up front, clutching a tumbler and watching the water rush by off the gunwale. We’re nearly matching in our attire, except for my worn jean shorts. It really is the perfect day to be out on the water. It’s too bad we’re not out here to have fun. I wouldn’t mind slipping on a pair of skis and letting Skylar pull me across the lake.

I call out to Skylar, and she picks up the binoculars in her lap. Setting them to her eyes, she pans them across the vista, then raises her arm and points off the port side. I angle the boat according to her navigation and enjoy the rush I feel skimming over the water at fifty knots.

A few minutes later, Skylar raises a hand and points again. I ease down on the throttle, and the outboard winds down from a loud growl to an easy putter. Fifty yards off our starboard bow, another speed boat is anchored, its owner standing near the transom watching his fishing line.

I flip the boat’s radio on, and the lively sounds of Lady Gaga pump loudly into the air. The man in the other boat looks over. Even with sunglasses on, it’s not hard to discern an irritated expression on his face. It doesn’t last long though. Setting the binoculars down, Skylar stands up and starts dancing to the music, which cements his attention.

I wave at him and bring the throttle down even more to reduce any wake as we continue our approach. Skylar turns around and eyes him, then begins a series of dance moves that can only be deemed sexy, before quickly bordering on the obscene. I can’t help but laugh inside. I’m in awe that she can strut her stuff with absolutely no sense of propriety. We might be partners and best friends, but situations like this are where we couldn’t be more different.

I idle up beside the other boat and call out a hello. Skylar is blowing him kisses now, holding her tumbler and swaying on her feet as though she’s had too much to drink.

The man is average height, with dark hair and a hat turned backward on his head. With strong cheeks and a rugged jawline, he’s not that bad looking. At this proximity, I still perceive a level of frustration. After all, coming alongside him like this is breaking every bit of watercraft etiquette. Thankfully, his hormones seem to be getting the better of his irritation.

Skylar calls out to him over the music, blows him another kiss, and then, as I draw right alongside, swings a leg over the gunwale and tries to step into his boat. He drops his rod and grabs her before she tumbles into the water.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he asks her.

She gives him a sultry smile and runs a hand along his chest. “I saw you out here alone and thought you might want some company. Was I wrong?”

His eyes swarm her body, while I leave the wheel and hurry to tie off on a cleat on his gunwale. “Look, I was fishing, okay?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Skylar presses her fingers over her lips, as if she’s surprised. “You were fishing. And we scared the fishes, didn’t we?”

“You could say that.” He sighs.

“You don’t want to party?”

“I don’t even know you,” he tells her.

“Fine,” she pouts. “I’ll leave. But first, let me get a picture. You are so hot.” Before he knows what’s happening, Skylar has slipped her phone from the small of her back and is holding it out in front of them. She smiles and snaps a photo, distracting him just long enough for me to climb over and join them.

“Hey, whoa,” he says, glancing at me. “Ladies, I came out here for some peace and quiet. I appreciate the company, but I need you to leave.”

Skylar drops the act. The smile evaporates off her face, and her tone is flat. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m sorry?”

Reaching into the back pocket of my shorts, I slip out my badge and hold it out to him.

He curses loudly. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Look, this boat is private property. If you don’t have a warrant, then you need to go. Now.”

“Nah,” Skylar says. “We have questions, Jimmy.”

“I’m not saying a damn thing. Now get off my boat. I’m calling my lawyer.”

“Call your lawyer,” she says, and turns her phone around so he can see the screen. “But what do you think Cardo is going to do when he sees this picture of you partying with a couple FBI agents?”

Jimmy rips off his sunglasses and glares at Skylar.

“Look,” I tell him. “We tried to do you a favor by meeting you out here like this. We could have gone over to your house and made a scene. Out here, no one will even know we talked. Unless, of course, you don’t tell us what we want to know.”

Skylar taps her phone’s screen again to remind him of the photo.

Jimmy shakes his head over and over, muttering under his breath. “What do you want?”

According to what Skippy told us, Jimmy Knap wasn’t too keen on Cardone’s order to have Thomas killed. To me, that seems like the best place to attack.

“Why was the order given to have Thomas Bledsoe killed?”

“Thomas?” He huffs. “I knew that was going to come back on them, ditching the body the way they did.”

I stare blankly at him, waiting for a reply to my question.

“He was naive, that’s why. Cardo liked that he was a hard worker. He did good for a while. Then he got cocky, thought he was entitled to move up faster. Stupid punk finally threatened to out Cardo to the cops. What was Cardo supposed to do?”

“What did you think of that decision?” I ask. “Do you think it was appropriate?”

The boat bobs in the breeze as Jimmy considers whether to answer. Finally, he says, “It doesn’t matter what I think. What’s done is done.”

Skylar returns her phone to the small of her back. “Who killed him?”

“Not saying. I’m no rat. But the kid was weak. Arrogant.”

As much as I would like to find Thomas’s killer, that’s not my investigation. Any information I learn I can pass on to Jenkins. However, my current directive is to bring down Miroslav Babic. So for now, I don’t push the issue of who pulled the trigger on Thomas.

“Tell us about the ice company. Clear Tundra, is it? What are you guys running out of there?”

“I don’t know. That’s never been my responsibility. I don’t know what goes on there.” My knot on his cleat is coming loose. Jimmy reaches over and tightens it.

“Uh huh,” Skylar says. “Surely you all talk amongst yourselves? You’re one of Cardone’s lieutenants.”

Jimmy smirks. “You guys don’t get it. Cardo has evaded you guys for so long because of the way he does things. He keeps the business siloed.”

“Siloed?”

“Yeah, you know. Segregated, dissociated. We all have our own lanes. We don’t cross over and don’t ask questions. Cardo has Craig on the ice company and logistics. It’s not my realm.”

“And what is your realm, Jimmy?”

He thinks about it, then shakes his head. “That’s something I’ll answer with a lawyer.”

“Fair enough.”

“We hear your boss is teaming up with Miroslav Babic,” I say.

“Something like that.”

“Why would Babic want to do that? And Cardone has been working for years on his own, hasn’t he? Why would he merge with someone else and relinquish the top seniority he currently enjoys?”

“Babic’s a real bastard. Sneaky, but a good businessman, and Cardo likes that. Word is Babic’s getting into other avenues of income, putting the standard stuff that he’s built out over the years into Cardo’s hands.”

I give Jimmy my full attention. This is the kind of information we came out to the lake to hear. “Go on.”

“Babic’s crew has been working with Craig on something big since he handles logistics. Some new product they’re moving. Craig runs our transport routes, and Babic likes that they’re already in place. He doesn't have to build that out himself. Anything beyond that, I can’t help. Like I said, we’re siloed. I stay in my lane and remain incurious. It’s how you stay alive in this business.” Jimmy picks up his rod and reels in the line. “We done here?”

“Almost. What do you know about Archie Skelton?”

“Again, that’s Craig’s lane. Logistics stuff.”

I look over at Skylar. She gives me a nod. “All right. We’re done. Thanks for your time. If you decide you want to protect your future, we’ll get you all the protection you need. But I wouldn’t wait long. At some point, we’re coming in, and any deals will be off the table.”

“Protection? Like you did for Nola Walker?”

Inside I wince but manage to keep a straight face.

Jimmy leans over and begins to pull up the anchor. “If you tell anyone I talked to you, I’m a dead man.”

“Relax,” I say. “We went through all the trouble to talk with you out here. Unlike the people in your crew, we actually want to save lives. But I will tell you, if we find that you’ve misled us in any way, we’re going to have a problem. We will arrest you in public and hold you for a couple of days. Long enough to make Cardone think that you’ve cut a deal.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

FBI Field Office

Albany, NY

“This is where we get him,” I say, tapping my notepad with the tip of my pen.

I’ve spent the last hour marking up pages of notes, trying to assimilate all the information we have so we can determine our next move. Thankfully, we’re not the only ones working on this. Our entire team here at the AFO has been great. Agents have been out in the field gathering data, and Cheetah’s team has been working overtime to uncover additional connections that we so desperately need to make.

“And what is that?” Skylar asks as she picks at a nail. Her own notepad is filled with notes, doodles, and diagrams.

“It has to be this angle that Jimmy was talking about. They’re planning something big, and I think we’re just in time to find out what it is.”

“You mean the new product he said they’re moving?”

“Yep. Think about it. As far as we can gather, neither Cardone nor his crew know that we’re on to them. Of course, that could change at any minute. Someone like Willy Maddox or Jimmy Knapp could risk telling them. But assuming they don’t, we can keep moving this ball down the line without concern that they might change up their plans.”

“It would be nice if we knew what the big product was,” she gripes, working an emery board across the tip of a nail.

“We’ll get there,” I tell her.

She sets the emery board down and swivels her chair toward me. “But will we? Babic joining forces with Cardone was a genius move. By moving Cardone directly under him, he’s insulated himself. If anything goes wrong, Cardone takes the fall. I mean, come on. It’s brilliant.”

Skylar’s frustration is evident, and I feel it myself. Her sentiment isn't wrong. In spite of Cheetah’s best efforts, there is literally no paper trail that leads to Babic. All his income comes from what appear to be perfectly legitimate sources. No doubt it’s laundered, but that’s just the point. The money is clean, and we’re having one heck of a time finding the dirty stuff.

“We need to get another viewpoint of what’s going on. The problem is, I don’t know how. We’ve talked to everyone we can without tipping our hand.”

“And that’s the rub,” she says. “If they find out we’re onto this angle, they’ll change everything or call it all off for the time being. Then we’re back to square one.”

I flip a page of my notepad, still searching for anything that might tell us what our next move is. “It’s such a delicate balance. Do we corner someone else and get them to talk? But then we run the risk of showing our hand. And you know the funny thing about all this? I want Babic. That’s where I started, and that’s where I’m going. Cardone is a terrible guy, I know. But he isn’t Babic. And that’s who I plan on getting.”

“Right,” she says, “but maybe we have to go through Cardone to get the prize. Finding Cardone could be our blessing in disguise if it helps us learn more about Babic’s dealings.”

Skylar turns to her purse, and a grimace appears on her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“My shoulders.” She lifts the shoulder of her blouse and peeks beneath the fabric. “I got a stupid sunburn out there on the lake the other day. I was hoping for a tan, not a freaking skin peel.”

I can’t help but smile. “I literally handed you a bottle of sunscreen.”

“Whatever.”

“You try aloe?”

“I put some on before I went to bed last night. Lot of good it did.”

“You know what does good? Sunscreen.”

“Phht.” She waves me off.

“You have to admit,” I say. “It was great being out there on the water.”

“So great,” she agrees.

“We should get a bunch of us from the office and go make a day of it sometime.”

“I’m in. As long as you remind me to apply sunscreen.”

I stare at her incredulously. “I literally handed you the bottle. What are you, a child? I'm having to treat you the same way I know you have to keep an eye on Reuben.”

“Actually, Reuben is terrified of getting sunburned,” she sighs. “A bad experience when he was seven.”

“So your twelve-year-old son is actually more mature than you,” I laugh. “Makes total sense now.”

She sticks her tongue out and scrunches her nose.

“Tell me we’re not doing all the work while you two are sitting here shooting the breeze.”

I turn around to see Brooks standing there, a grin tugging at his lips. Cheng steps in around him.

“Oh, right.” Skylar snickers. “Because we haven’t seen the outside of these walls in weeks.”

“I was sorry to hear that I missed out on your excursion on the lake,” Cheng says with a big smile. “Heard you both dressed the part.”

Skylar’s expression goes blank. “You what?”

Cheng’s face drains of color as he realizes his mistake. He swallows hard. “Sorry, I was just⁠—"

“Are you sexualizing me? A co-worker? Because you heard I was in a bikini?”

“No—no, I was just⁠—”

“Just what?” Her eyes bore into his, and I’m beginning to think he’s going to wither to ash in front of us.

Brooks breaks in to save him. “Knock it off, Skylar. He hasn’t been around long enough to know that you’re joking.”

Hearing that, Cheng shoots a glance at his partner, as if to seek confirmation. “Joking?”

Skylar finally breaks character and starts laughing. Cheng’s entire body relaxes. He looks like he might throw up.

I reach over and smack Skylar’s arm. “You have got to stop doing that. You’re going to give someone a heart attack.”

She winks at him. “You’re a good sport, Cheng. I get it. If I were you, I would want to visualize me in a bikini too.”

“You’re unbelievable,” I laugh. “Knock it off.”

“Anyway,” Brooks says, trying to hide a grin of his own as he moves to change the subject, “you know that Kemper has had us running point on Cardone’s lieutenants. Since your conversation with Jimmy Knapp the other day, we’ve been keeping our focus on Craig Peck since he’s in charge of all their routes.”

“Right,” I say. “Find anything?”

“I think we did. Cheng, why don’t you redeem yourself and tell them what we’ve got.”

“Uh, sure.” He shifts on his feet and nervously clears his throat. “So we’ve been working on understanding exactly what kind of routes they’re running. Like, origination points and destinations. Once we have that, we can start to focus on the actual products they’re moving.”

I nod. “Makes sense.”

“At the lake, Jimmy Knapp told you that Babic’s crew has been working with Peck on something big, since he handles logistics. Right now, we don’t have enough ears to the ground to understand what they might be. Frankly, it’s going to take a lot of time and planning to do that.”

“For instance, take the ice company,” Brooks interjects. “It has trucks moving in and out to local businesses and regional distributors, as you would expect.”

“There’s no way they aren’t using those trucks and those routes to move stuff,” Skylar says.

“Agreed,” Brooks says. “But all this just got on our radar. None of us even knows what they might be moving. Is it stolen merchandise, drugs, or something else?” His shoulders lift in a shrug. “We need to work on getting someone on the inside. Maybe even a wire. We also need teams who can follow trucks and scope out routes. We’re talking a major operation with a lot of planning.”

“Which means a lot of time,” I sigh. “We’re talking weeks or even months.”

“Afraid so,” Brooks agrees.

“But,” Cheng says, “there’s another angle you guys can work. Apparently, Craig Peck is a creature of habit. He eats at the same diner every morning, and sometimes he’s accompanied by business associates. Brooks and I were thinking that the office could get on a rotation and inhabit the booth next to his. Keep an ear out.”

“It’s a long shot,” Brooks says. “But who knows?”

Skylar rolls her eyes. “You know Darcy. She’s always game to attack anything even close to roulette odds.”

“Hey,” I say, “I have a decent track record against bad odds.”

“Right, like that time you nearly drowned in a lake taking down Edgar Caine. You got out of there by the skin of your teeth.”

Her words make my stomach clench. Tackling Caine off the end of a lake sent us both into the water, but not before he hit his head on the dock, rendering him unconscious. The weight of his body pinned me under the water, trapping me below the surface. The only reason I survived was because Marvin Hess pulled me out of the water.

Unbeknownst to me, he had been following my every move, and the only reason he pulled me from that lake was because he wanted to be in control of the moment of my death. Even now, the thought of it all sends a shiver down my spine. I blink away the memory.

Studying my expression, Skylar appears to understand that she’s taken me back to a place I would rather not revisit. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I wasn’t thinking.”

I force a smile, not wanting her to feel bad about it. “It’s nothing.” I look back at Brooks. “I do like the diner idea. But if it takes weeks to gather intel that way, then there’s a good chance my waistline will go up a size or two. In that case, all bets are off.”

“Or we could just park Simmons there for the duration,” Cheng chuckles.

Surprisingly, his comment grates on me. After Daryl accompanied me for several hours last week and shared his personal details with me, I find that I’m actually feeling a little protective of him. “Hey, none of that,” I say. “No more jokes at Simmons’ expense, please. At least, not in this cubicle.”

Cheng’s gaze falters. “Right. Sorry.”

“No worries. Now, what’s the name of this diner?”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The MS Nautical Albatross

Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean

She was still shaking.

It had been hours since the other two had been taken, and Malani’s hands were still shaking. Fear clawed at her insides.

Everyone was wondering if they would be next.

She glanced around at the faces of the others—each one a mask of fear, confusion, and betrayal. They had come here with dreams, with the promise of freedom and a better life. But now those dreams were nothing more than cruel illusions.

Hopes had morphed into nightmares.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly in the darkness. The ship’s engines were a constant reminder of their journey, but now it felt more like they were being dragged toward a new kind of prison rather than a hopeful beginning. The absence of Jelena and the blonde girl was palpable, a void that filled the room with an abyss of fear.

Malani glanced at the others for the hundredth time. The light had drained from their eyes, leaving dark pools of worry and regret. They were powerless, all of them.

The images and sounds of them being taken haunted Malani’s mind. But one image in particular she could make no sense of. The man had drawn up short when he saw her bracelet. He stopped dead in his tracks and then chose someone else. What did it mean? What did the bracelet have to do with anything?

It had been many, many hours since they had last eaten. Her fear overwhelmed her hunger, but she could feel the lethargy in her limbs. Adrenaline was a fine fuel for a while, but it couldn’t last forever. Now that it had subsided, she was left weak and numb.

It was surreal, this metal hovel and the floor of dirty mattresses. After her mother died, Malani was confronted with the stark fact that there was no one left in this world to protect her. No one loved her enough to watch over her. Now it was her against the world, and the world was winning.

Malani had heard all the horror stories about journeys like this. She knew what the risks were when she paid Relja the money for passage. For some reason, she had assumed she was exempt from the hardships she’d heard about in journeys to America gone wrong. Pain and suffering had curled its fingers around so much of her life that surely she was owed a brief reprieve. At least one that would get her safely to a new country?

But life was not as merciful as she had given it credit for.

Every soul in the cramped room jolted against the wall when the lock on the outside of the door slammed back. Moments later, the door creaked open, and the blonde woman was shoved inside. No sooner had she landed in a limp pile on the mattresses than the door was slammed shut again.

Several of the women scrambled to her. She was completely naked except for a torn undershirt. Her lips were swollen and oozing blood, and her eyes stared blankly at the wall. Someone removed their sweater, another their jacket, and they draped it over her. Malani thought she might throw up when she spied blood oozing down her thighs.

It was a long time before the abused woman moved. The others finally got her to sit up and rest back against the wall. Eventually, Malani asked her a question that required only a single word. “Jelena?”

The woman’s eyes were empty, soulless, but she finally answered with a simple shake of her head. “She…she wouldn’t let them. She fought so hard. They…killed her.”

Everyone gasped. Malani felt that she could not breathe. Pain shot through her ribcage.

“And then,” the woman continued, “the men…they both turned to me. They both—” But she could not finish. She did not need to.

Malani pulled her feet in close and tucked her head between her knees so they couldn’t see her cry. Before, she knew what it was like to fear, to hate. But this was the first time in her life she had ever felt completely and utterly powerless. There was nowhere to run and no one to help them. They were all on their own. And Jelena. She had only wanted what they all wanted—to be free and live in peace. But instead, they were bobbing over a relentless sea into a dark and hopeless future.

Malani longed to go topside, only not for the fresh air this time. A vision of grabbing onto the outer railing and heaving herself overboard now felt like freedom to her. Death was suddenly a welcome thought. Anything to be free of this living nightmare, this place where they were all nothing but flesh to be used and abused at the will of another.

The realization sat on her like a wet blanket.

They were cattle.

And she had walked blindly and willingly into the slaughterhouse.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Sunshine Diner

Albany, NY

“Need a warm-up, hun?”

I nod and nudge my half-empty mug of coffee to the edge of the table. The waitress holds the carafe over it and fills it up. I nod my thanks, and she moves on back to the kitchen.

“What do you think?” Skylar asks, shoving the last of her omelet into her mouth. “He’s way overdue.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s not coming. Just finish your meal, and we’ll get going.”

We’ve been here for almost an hour, waiting for Craig Peck to arrive. It’s the second time Skylar and I have come. We’re alternating mornings with other agents from the office, trying to get an ear on what Cardone might be planning.

So far, we’ve completely struck out. Peck has been here only one morning of the three, and that time, he was alone, which meant nothing to listen to. He didn’t even take a phone call.

When Cheng informed me about Peck’s regular morning visits here, I was optimistic that we might overhear something. Now, cynicism has definitely encroached on my outlook. Being here feels like a waste of time, time we could be been spending on something else more productive.

Skylar shoots me a smile. “Why so glum, chum?”

“You know why.”

“Come on,” she says, “you’ve hardly touched your eggs. And not touching your cheesy grits is considered a crime where I come from.”

I nudge my plate toward her. “You want them?”

“No way. I’ve had enough to eat. What I want is for you to stop being so petulant.”

“Petulant? Rude. I’m frustrated is all. I want to see things moving forward, and right now, this is our lowest hanging lead, as weak as it is.”

“Okay, fine. But it’s not the end of the world, Darcy. With everyone at the AFO invested in this, something’s bound to turn up. You just have to be patient.” Then she laughs, knowing full well that I’m probably the least patient person she knows.

An older couple vacates the corner booth behind Skylar, and a young man sporting a struggling mustache comes by and quickly busses the table. Before we came in the other day, I had never been to this particular greasy spoon—it’s on the opposite side of town from where I frequent. I do like it though. With dark, wood paneled walls, worn vinyl seats, and country music playing low on a jukebox, it has a nostalgic Americana vibe to it. Most of the people here are older, the kind that enjoy spending time in a place that reminds them of a time when life was simpler and moved at a much slower pace.

I haven’t allowed myself to relax here because I’ve been in work mode both times I’ve come. If it wasn’t for that, I would enjoy sitting back and taking in the overall atmosphere.

Both Buzz and Skylar never tire of reminding me that I’m an old soul. And I feel that. So often, I go through my days feeling a deep nostalgia for a time I’ve never known. Streaming television, social media, and the ubiquitous cell phone ensure there’s always a distraction, always something vying for your attention. I live in an age where FOMO—fear of missing out—is actually a psychological category. Long gone are the days when you got your news from a newspaper. Now we’re bombarded with real-time news from every corner of the blogosphere and expected to form an immediate opinion.

Honestly, it’s exhausting. While I’m not about to complain about air conditioning, air travel, or ready access to antibiotics and top rate medical care, I can definitely see myself living in a bygone era when families and neighbors congregated on the front porch listening to the sounds of peepers and crickets marking the close of another day.

I think that’s why someone like Allie Bishop and I have connected so well. While she reads a lot more books than I do, we both prefer a simpler way of living and have an affection for a slower pace of life.

“Hey.” Skylar dips her head slightly as she looks over my shoulder. “Touchdown,” she says, and averts her gaze.

Moments later, two men step past us and settle into the booth behind Skylar. Relief sidelines my sense of impatience as I recognize Craig Peck. He’s in his mid-thirties with high cheekbones that sit beneath skin tanned from sun and a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of a straight, strong nose. His hair is dark brown, neatly trimmed, with a slight wave that’s tamed by a side part. He wears black jeans and a red polo, which is graced by several thin gold chains.

He’s accompanied by a man who looks to be around Buzz’s age, his face worn by time. He has wavy blonde hair, shot with gray, that spills over his large ears. The waitress quickly attends to them and heads off to put in their order.

Peck’s associate is facing me, while Peck sits directly behind Skylar. She and I make quiet, easy conversation while keeping our ears perked for anything substantial. The men are relatively quiet, with only intermittent statements that are answered with only one or two words. Their attention is mostly given to scrolling on their phones. But when their food arrives, they set down their devices and engage with each other. Thankfully, Peck has a deep voice, and I can catch most of what he’s saying, even though he’s facing away from me.

“Here’s the deal. The merger is just about complete. How the rest of us line up near the top is still unknown. Cardo is going to decide what that’s going to be and let us know. In the meantime, I’m sure you’ve heard of the shipment coming in later this week.

“I heard. We talking more laptops? I made a killing off those last time.”

“No,” Peck replies. He pauses as he forks another bite into his mouth and gets it down. “Nothing like that. But you’re going to be very happy with your take as usual.”

“That’s what I like to hear. So what do you need from me?”

“For starters, be on standby. I need you to run a van for us.”

“Sure thing. Where am I taking the product?”

“I’ll let you know the night of. Not more than half an hour away. When you’re done, park the van where you usually do. Someone will come and get it later.”

Peck’s associate lathers a pad of butter across his pancake, then reaches up and scratches his cheek. “We go back a long way, you and me.”

“I’m detecting some reservation on your part,” Peck replies.

“Look, I’m in all the way. You name the time and the place, and I’m there. But this merger…it doesn’t have you a little worried? Your boss is giving up a lot of his control. And it’s that control that’s allowed him to stay in the shadows for so long. Babic? The cops and the feds are all over him. It could lead to exposure you guys aren't ready for.”

The other table is silent for a long time as both men quietly work the food off their plates. “I am worried,” Peck finally says. “But the consolidation isn’t my decision.”

“You can walk away though.”

“Right. Because everyone who walks away from this business lives a long and happy life.” Peck shakes his head. “I’m in this, or I’m six feet under. Those are my only two options.”

“Suit yourself,” the older man says. “But as for me, you can count this as my last job.”

“You’re serious?”

“Damn right. I don’t like this merger. It shows a lack of foresight on the part of your boss. Like I said, it’ll bring too much attention. I’ve got plenty of work in Jersey and Brooklyn that I can pick up.”

Peck takes a long sip from his coffee mug. “I get it. But don’t you flake out on me this week. I’ll have your ass if you do.”

“Phht, I’m good for it. You know that. Besides, your crew pays the best. Can’t say I won’t miss that. Where am I meeting up?”

“The drop will be at location number four. Midnight, give or take.”

“Number four? You mean⁠—”

Peck shushes him and lowers his voice. “Come on, man. This is a public place. Are you really that stupid?”

“My bad.”

Peck takes a final swig from his mug, waves the waitress over, then asks for the check. Both men jump back on their devices. Conversation over.

Three minutes later, they’re walking out the door. Skylar looks as happy as a lark. “So that was productive.”

“Indeed,” I agree.

“Now we just need to find out what location he was talking about.”

“Number four. Let’s get back to the office and see what the team might have on that.”

We’ve been here for a while now, and our check is already sitting at my elbow. I pay and make sure to give the waitress a good tip since we’ve taken up one of her booths for so long.

Skylar and I slide out of the booth, and she rubs her hands together. “We’re getting closer, I can feel it.”

I nod. “I think you’re right. I just hope that whatever we find is enough to take all these people for good.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The MS Nautical Albatross

Location Unknown

The door opened with a loud creak.

The ship had stopped its gentle rocking and swaying hours ago. The loud vibrations from the engines had settled down from a continuous hum to a gentle purr. The small, cramped room was hotter than ever.

Until seconds ago, when the heavy lock clicked back on the other side of the door. Now, two men appeared. They were unfamiliar. Malani could not recall seeing their faces before. But they were large and menacing, with permanent scowls etched on their faces. The largest of them wore a sleeveless shirt and silver necklace. Barking at the women, he ordered them all out of the room.

Everyone stood up, slowly and painfully because of cramped muscles. They had been sitting here for days. Now they all exchanged worried glances, not knowing what was in store for them, fear digging its merciless claws into each one of their hearts.

One by one, they filed out through the door and stepped into the passageway. In front of them was a railing, over which they could see large generators and engines two stories below.

The air here in the passageway was cooler. Still warm, but not as hot, lacking the stuffiness of the cramped space.

“Go!” the men ordered, and urged them forward.

Obediently, they shuffled ahead. The ship was much larger than Malani had imagined. They moved on for several minutes before turning left, progressing a little further, then being directed to go up a staircase.

The stairs were grueling on their aching legs as they went up, and then up farther still. Their escorts quickly grew impatient and hurried them on with shouts and insults. They passed through what looked like a large maintenance room, then another room full of vertical pipes fitted with large handwheels. Another staircase, another passageway, and they were brought to a landing that branched out in several directions.

The man with the silver chain jammed a finger at Malani. “You. Follow me.” He spoke with a thick accent she did not recognize. All women cast concerned glances at her. Malani did not budge. Fear had rooted her in place.

Grabbing her forcibly by the upper arm, the man pushed her down a narrow hall, where standard doors stood along the wall at intervals. It looked like they were crew quarters. They stopped, and the man nodded to the door in front of them.

“Go in,” he said.

Malani didn’t move. Her hands were trembling. She thought she was going to vomit.

“Go in,” the man ordered again, and this time he flung the door open. “You are to take a shower. There is a bag on the bed with new clothes. Change into them. I will be here waiting. You have ten minutes. Not a minute more.” Then he shoved her in and slammed the door shut.

Malani stood in place for a long moment, trying to understand. A shower? And clean clothes? She peeked around the wall to where the bed was. No one was in here with her as she had expected.

A shimmer of hope flashed through her mind. Perhaps things were going to be okay. Maybe some of the crew had been unable to contain themselves and gotten violent. Now that they were at their destination, perhaps the worst was behind them.

Melanie entered the bathroom, reached into the shower, and turned on the water. She peeled off her dirty clothes and stepped beneath the stream of hot water, relishing the soothing effect it had on her entire body.

She lathered up a washcloth and scrubbed away the dirt and sweat from the last few days. Pooling more soap into the palm of her hand, she scrubbed her scalp and ran her fingers through her hair.

She could stay here forever. The warm water, the quiet, and the fresh scent of the soap convinced her to linger. And the solitude was welcome after so much time in cramped conditions with people she hardly knew.

Ten minutes. Not a minute more.

His words compelled her to turn off the water and dry off.

Wrapping the towel around her body, she moved over to the foot of the bed, where a black travel bag sat. Unzipping it, she discovered a new pair of shorts, a shirt, and undergarments too.

Everything fit. Malani drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes on the slow exhale. It really was incredible how a shower and a new change of clothes could make you feel human again.

Her body jerked in surprise when a loud bang sounded on the door. It flung open. “Come,” the man said. “Let’s go.”

Stepping out of the quarters, Malani followed him back the way they had come. After another flight of stairs, he opened a door that forced her to shield her eyes from the light. She had not seen sunlight in many days, and now it was blinding. So very welcome, but blinding. The air was mingled with the smell of salt and burning oil.

Her escort gave her a moment to adjust before guiding her across the deck to a metal overhang resembling a pavilion. Beneath it, the others from her journey stood clustered together.

Malani frowned as they stared at her in amazement. None of them looked as if they had bathed—every head of hair was greasy and matted, every set of clothes still grimy. She was ordered to rejoin them.

A low murmur rippled through the group as they wondered why only Malani had been singled out—clean and presentable while the rest remained unchanged. She had no answers, and soon enough, they fell silent. Somewhere far below them, a seagull cried.

Huddled together, waiting impatiently for what came next, they flinched as a loud, intermittent beeping shattered the silence—Malani thought of construction equipment backing up. Then, a sudden clang rang out behind them.

A crew member they hadn’t seen before wrestled with a latch before stepping back.

The man with the chain waved them forward. “Go.”

No one moved.

A vein bulged on his forehead. “Go!” he snapped. “Now.”

One by one, each woman tentatively did as they were told. Malani swallowed around a hard lump in her throat and steadied herself for what was to come. Everything was completely out of her control, and all she could do now was to hope that somehow, in some way, everyone might be all right.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

North Point Industrial District

Albany, NY

Agust of wind blows across the flat rooftop, causing Skylar to gather her jacket tighter against her. “How are you not chilly?” she asks me. “My teeth are nearly chattering.”

I glance at my watch to find that it’s thirty minutes to midnight. The sun went down hours ago, leaving the night air to lose more of its ambient heat with each passing hour. For some reason, I’ve been just fine in a short-sleeve, Bureau-issued polo.

“I don’t know. I think the anticipation’s got me riled up.”

“Anticipation? This is our third consecutive night up here, and nothing has happened. For all we know, we completely missed Peck’s product transfer.”

“Remember what you told me the other day about not being so cynical? I decided to work on that. So I’m optimistic that we’ll get ahead of whatever they’ve got planned.”

“Then maybe some of that cynicism has transferred to me,” she gripes. “This sucks.”

Admittedly, it has been inconvenient and a little uncomfortable. I’ll give her that. After overhearing Peck’s conversation at the diner the other morning, Skylar and I circled back to the office and worked with Kemper to establish a game plan. In the end, with help from multiple field and cyber analysts, we identified several locations as potential sites.

Now, Skylar and I are on the rooftop of a vacant warehouse about a hundred yards from a gravel lot with a one-story abandoned office building on it. We’re hunkered behind a parapet on two lawn chairs. It rained just before we got here, and there are puddles all over the roof. The stars are only visible through the occasional tear in the roof of clouds above our heads, and the cooler the air gets, the more a thin fog begins to develop. Not exactly the most comfortable conditions for a stakeout, but at least it’s not snowing.

My phone buzzes with a text from Kemper—a check-in to us and the five other teams stationed around the city, requesting an update. Across the board, it’s quiet on the home front.

Skylar digs around in her tote and brings out a bottle of Mountain Dew. Unscrewing the cap, she sets it to her lips and takes a long chug.

“Seriously?” I ask. “Have you already forgotten our last stakeout? You nearly peed your pants in my car.”

“I’ll be fine. We’ll be here, what? Another hour or so?” She pauses. “You hear that?”

A low rumbling settles on the air, growing louder with each passing second. “I do. Sounds like a truck.”

Moments later, a pair of bright headlights spear through the dark, and a semitruck comes into view. My shoulders sag when I see North American printed on the side, and the truck lumbers on by to a destination unknown.

Having recently learned of not only John Cardone but his business merger with Babic, we’re all anxious to catch them in the act. Of course, Babic won’t be anywhere near a business operation, but the more data we can get on their movements, products, and personnel, the easier it will be to build a strong case against him. Our current operation is built on the expectation that our cameras will serve justice better than our guns. We need documented evidence of active wrongdoing. Once we have assembled a watertight box of evidence, we can hand it over to the DA for prosecution.

Another engine cuts through the stillness of the night. This one is far quieter than the semi. We wait, watching, then Skylar reaches out and grabs my arm. “Darcy.”

“I see it. Let’s get small.”

We shrink back from the parapet and watch as the fifteen passenger van turns into the gravel lot. It stops near the front of the old building and idles for a while before moving around to the rear of the building. Then the headlights cut off.

Skylar rummages around in her tote and brings out a surveillance camera with a zoom lens. Cautious and slow in her movements, she starts snapping pictures. “I can’t see the driver’s face,” she whispers.

I pull out my binoculars, set them to my face, and adjust the focus. The windows are darkly tinted, but the windshield is transparent. “I can’t either,” I reply, “but his build is the same as the guy in the diner.”

I’m feeling the buzz of adrenaline rushing through my veins now. This is what we’ve been waiting for—a major break that will allow us to start the documentation process and map out the movements of this criminal organization.

Another five minutes tick by. Ten, then twenty, and the adrenaline fades substantially. “He’s getting restless,” I say, peering at the driver again. “He keeps rubbing his hand on his legs and checking his phone.”

“Hopefully, the meet is still on.” As if in answer, we hear another truck rumbling down the road, followed by another pair of headlights. “Yes,” Skylar says as it turns in. She starts snapping pictures again. “Here we go.”

Dimming my phone’s backlight, I fire off a text to Kemper before lifting the binoculars again. The semi is loaded with a rusty blue shipping container. It lumbers across the lot, around the building, and pulls up alongside the van. The driver steps out, followed by another from the passenger seat.

The van door opens, and we recognize the man who was with Craig Peck at the diner. He joins the other two men at the back of the semi and starts a conversation. Soon, Peck’s guy is shaking his head, gesturing angrily. He paces back and forth, and soon he’s shouting at the top of his lungs. Then the driver of the semi pulls out a gun and points it directly at his head. His outburst stops cold.

Beside me, Skylar’s camera continues to click away.

Finally, Peck’s guy raises his hands in surrender and nods his head. The other man smiles and holsters his gun. Peck’s guy spits angrily onto the ground as the other two snap the cargo seal on the container’s lock and unfasten the latch. They tug open the door on the right and it lets out a loud, shrill creak into the night.

“Oh my god. Darcy.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands up. “I see.” My stomach sours, and my nostrils flare in anger.

Whatever I was expecting to see tonight—crates or boxes or packages—it certainly wasn’t human beings. I watch in horror as woman after woman is brought down out of the container and shepherded into the van. They look tired and disheveled, their clothes dirty and their hair tangled and greasy. Their eyes are bleary but full of trepidation and fear.

Skylar curses under her breath. “Sick bastards.”

I pick up my phone to inform Kemper but pause when Skylar draws my attention to another vehicle pulling into the lot. It looks out of place. The luxury car is painted metallic burgundy, and its front grill seems to shimmer beneath the dim glow of a sodium light. It pulls around to the back of the building to join the van and the truck.

“It’s that a Rolls-Royce?” Skylar asks.

I peer through the binoculars again. “Sure is.”

The car stops behind the van. No one gets out. The driver of the semitruck assists a final woman down from the container. She’s young, maybe twenty years old, with a narrow face and black hair. She’s beautiful, and unlike the others, she looks clean. There are no streaks of dirt or grease on her clothes.

The driver leads her to the back of the Rolls, says something to her, and shuts the door after she’s inside. Then he slaps a hand on the back of the van. Peck’s guy is already behind the wheel. He starts the engine, switches on the lights, and pulls away.

I curse, realizing that I forgot to text Kemper. Now, instead of texting, I dial his number and set the phone to my ear.

“Darcy, what’s the update?” he answers.

I step away from the parapet and keep my voice low. “The update is that the product exchanged just happened. And the product is people.”

“What?”

“They’re trafficking women,” I tell him. “We counted nine in all. Eight were placed in the van, and another in a Rolls-Royce. The van is driving away now. We need someone on it ASAP. It’s heading north on Fontaine Boulevard.” My heart is thudding hard in my chest.

“North on Fontaine Boulevard,” he repeats. “That leads to the highway. Did you get plate numbers?”

“I’ll have Skylar text them to you, along with the details of the other two vehicles.” I pause, thinking about my next course of action. “We’re going to stay on the Rolls. I’ll keep you updated.” I hang up and look over at Skylar. “Kemper needs the vehicles’ information. Now.”

Her phone is in her hands. “Already on it.”

Over the parapet, I hear the semi rumble to life and begin to pull away. Stepping up again, I watch it head north—in the same direction as the van. The Rolls finally creeps forward and crosses the gravel lot, pausing at the street.

“Sky, come on. We’re tailing the car.” I watch with interest as it pulls up to the road. As soon as I see it turn south, I’m pounding across the roof, splashing in puddles and making for the ladder mounted onto the back of the warehouse. “No, you don’t,” I mutter under my breath. “Not on my watch.”

Chapter Thirty

South Fontaine Boulevard

Albany, NY

“This is crazy,” Skylar says as my fingers encircle the steering wheel and my foot punches the accelerator. “The ‘product’ was people? They’ve gotten into human trafficking?”

“It looks that way. Can you call Kemper and put him on speaker?” I’m way over the speed limit now, rushing out of the industrial district in a desperate attempt to locate the Rolls-Royce.

“Sure. Hang on.”

Moments later, our boss’s voice fills the car. “Where are you two?” he asks.

“Trying to catch up to the Rolls,” I tell him, and provide our general location. “Trying to get it back in my sights. What’s happening with the van?”

“I’ve contacted APD—they’re dispatching units to the area to track it down. A chopper’s going up too. Brook and Cheng are the closest team to the transfer point, so I’ve sent them in as well.”

My eyes search the road ahead, looking for any sign of the luxury vehicle. My stomach sours as I wonder if it turned down a side street before we could get on the road. “If that van disappears, we’ll never find those women again.”

“We’ll find it,” he says. “In the meantime, you locate that car. I’ve got Cheetah’s team running plates. He’s sending them out over the wire to every local agency. I have to take another call. Keep me posted.” Then the call drops.

Skylar sits up straighter in her seat and leans forward. “Up ahead. You see the taillights?”

I squint and peer over the dash. “I do. Could be anyone though. And I don’t want to risk getting too close too fast.”

“Hang on.” She pulls out the binoculars and studies the road ahead. “Can’t tell. Need you to get a little closer.”

Up ahead, downtown looms in front of us, growing closer every minute. A lump forms in my stomach. If we don’t locate the Rolls in the next minute, then we’ll lose it for good in the vast networks of roads and side streets that compose downtown. Thankfully, my concerns are waylaid by Skylar’s next words.

“Yep, that’s the one. Texting the location to Kemper now.”

Still half a mile behind, I press down on the gas and ease closer. Once I’ve closed the gap, I hang back and follow from fifty yards. My mind is racing, wondering why they singled out one of the women and where they plan on taking her.

We follow the Rolls as it moves beneath an underpass, turns at a four-way stop, and heads into downtown. Thankfully, the streets are mostly deserted at this late hour, and it’s easy to keep up. At a red light, I ease in behind it. Like the van, its tinted windows reveal nothing inside. The light turns green, we cross the intersection, and a quarter mile later, the Rolls comes to a stop alongside the curb of a large building.

“Hey, I know this place,” I tell Skylar.

“It’s that new hotel, right?”

“Yeah. The Skyline Plaza. Daryl and I came here last week to interview Jennifer Creech, Babic’s former housekeeper.”

The Rolls’ front passenger door opens, and a man in a suit gets out. He looks to be in his early thirties, with a bald head, a sharp nose, and keen eyes. He grabs the handle on the rear door and, seeing us, waves us on.

“Crap,” Skylar says. “Keep going. We’ll have to circle back.”

I pull around the car and ease forward, not wanting to put too much distance between us, but also not wanting to draw any suspicion. I adjust my rearview mirror while Skylar cranes her neck.

“She’s out of the car,” she says. “Wow. You see that?”

“I do.”

“What the hell is going on?”

A sign escapes me. “I can only guess.” The young woman they transferred from the container to the car is now wearing a stunning, sleeveless dress that flows around her ankles. Her hair is coiffed, and her makeup is expertly done.

Skylar curses. “This is insane. We have to stop this. Did you recognize that man?”

“No. Call Kemper and update him.” My fingers tingle with nervous energy. “Tell him we need backup at the Skyline ASAP. I’m turning around.”

By the time I turn right at the intersection, the couple has already disappeared inside. I break half a dozen traffic laws whipping around to get back onto the main street, heading in the opposite way from where we came. Skylar and I keep our expressions neutral as the Rolls passes us, continuing away from the hotel. She’s just hanging up with Kemper when I pull to the curb.

“He’s notifying APD, but it could be a few minutes,” she says. “He said to use discretion on how we proceed.”

“Well, here’s some discretion for you.” I put my hazards on, fling open my door, and hurry across the street. By the time I reach the revolving door, Skylar is on my heels. We push through into the sprawling lobby, and my eyes begin a frantic search for them.

At this hour of night, I only see a couple nursing their drinks from the comfort of a couch. The restaurant appears to be closed, though loud music and strobing lights emanate from the club.

“They won’t be in there,” Skylar says, reading my mind, and we hurry to the long marble reception counter. The night manager pales when I flash my badge. Heavyset, he’s dressed in a blue pinstripe suit with a bright green tie.

“A younger, well-dressed couple just came through there,” I tell him, and go on to describe them. “I need their room number.”

“I am sorry, I did not see anyone come through.”

“Seriously?” Skylar says. “It was less than a minute ago.”

“Again, I’m sorry. I’ve been analyzing our housekeeping data. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Frustration claws at my insides, driving my mind to render a solution. “Past or present,” I tell him. “I need you to look up guest vehicle registrations and find a burgundy Rolls-Royce. It’s extremely important.”

He hesitates, but then relents. “One moment.” His fingers click across the keyboard. Beside me, Skylar is anxiously tapping her foot. “A burgundy Rolls-Royce,” he repeats. “Yes, we have one on record.”

“Great, please locate that customer and search for their current room number.”

He hesitates again and runs the flat of his hand across his face. “My apologies, I want to help, but I’m unable to provide customer data without a warrant.”

Skylar’s lips form a scowl as her eyes find his nametag. “Look, Doug. You have someone in your hotel who is trafficking women. We’re here to intervene. Now please kindly provide us with the customer’s name and room number. Otherwise, I’m going to arrest you and charge you with obstructing an investigation. That means jail time.”

He blinks and looks back at his screen. “The customer Mr. Ralph Salzan. Top floor penthouse. Room 1504.”

“Wonderful. We’ll need a key card.”

He nods, then programs a card and hands it over the counter. “For the penthouse, you need to scan the card inside the elevator. Otherwise, it won’t take you to that level.”

At that moment, an elevator dings softly across the lobby. The doors slide open, and the man who escorted the woman into the hotel steps out. He’s alone. Skylar and I exchange a glance, then watch as he strides over to the fountain and observes it for several moments before casually moving to the sitting area and depositing himself onto a plush leather chair. He takes out his phone and begins to scroll.

The anger flowing through my veins is only tempered by the urgency I feel to get upstairs. I pull Skylar aside and speak in a low tone. “Can you wait here? There’s a fair chance that Doug here could be on their payroll. I don’t want to risk them knowing we’re coming. And someone needs to keep an eye on that guy over there.”

She nods and slips me the key card. “I’ll wait for the police to arrive. Go. And be careful.”

I hurry to the elevators and step inside. Scanning the card, I punch the number 15. The doors close. My heart is thudding in my ears all the way up, making it hard to even hear my own thoughts.

I draw my sidearm as the elevator comes to a smooth stop with a soft chime. Stepping out, I scan the hallway in both directions. Four doors—one at each corner—confirm that each penthouse occupies a quarter of the floor.

It’s utterly silent as I pad down the hall. Reaching room 1504, I stop and listen. Again, I’m only met with silence. My mind rapidly spins through multiple scenarios as I prepare myself to enter the room. My mouth is dry, adrenaline coursing through me like a double shot of whiskey.

Raising the key card to the digital reader, I silently hope there’s no secondary latch on the other side. A soft click signals the lock’s release. Clenching my teeth, I press down on the handle and ease the door forward. It opens without resistance.

I’m standing in a foyer that leads to a room in front of me and a hallway to my left. A man’s voice drifts from somewhere unseen. Stepping forward, I ease the door against the strike plate, careful not to let it latch.

Clutching my gun in a two-handed grip, I move into a spacious room with a coffered ceiling and elegant crown molding. Sheer curtains veil the expansive windows, and a deep blue carpet patterned with gold paisleys stretches across the floor. Leather and velvet furnishings add to the opulent atmosphere.

I move past the couch, following the voice that’s now much closer. Edging toward the doorway, I peek around the frame and spot another seating area, along with a partial view of a large bed. Advancing slowly, I step inside and pause, frowning.

That voice—I know it. Deep, heavily accented.

Gooseflesh prickles my skin as I step farther into the room and spot the young woman from the Rolls-Royce. She stands at the foot of the bed, still in her gown.

Before her, his back to me, stands a broad, muscular man. His arms are thick with dark hair.

It’s Miroslav Babic.

A shiver crawls through me as he takes the tip of a finger and, starting at her shoulder, drags it down her arm. A tear streaks down her cheek. Her eyes are shut tight, and she struggles to keep back a sob. Babic is trying to tell her that everything will be all right.

Suddenly, the woman’s eyes flick open. The surprise at seeing me causes her to flinch, and her captor follows her gaze over his shoulder.

“Freeze, Babic! Don’t move!”

But before the words are even out of my mouth, he moves. In a flash, he snakes an arm around the woman’s neck, yanks her back against him, and uses her as a shield. His other hand reaches behind, pulling a revolver from beneath his shirt. The muzzle presses against her temple.

We lock eyes. “Agent Hunt, what a surprise.”

“I’m sure it is. Mr. Salzan, is it? Nice little alias you have there.”

He shrugs. “I do what I can. Now, why don’t you put the gun down?”

The young woman’s eyes are two saucers of terror.

“I don’t think so, Babic. How do you think this plays out? You shoot a federal agent, and you’ll never be able to hide. Oh, and your van of eight other women has been intercepted.” I haven’t gotten confirmation on that yet, but he doesn't need to know that.

His nostrils flare. “How did you find them?”

And that’s when the irony of this whole thing hits me. “Actually, it was because you decided to have Nola Walker kidnapped. We found some helpful information in her journal.”

“Journal? I already told you, I had nothing to do with⁠—”

“Let her go,” I interrupt. “Put the gun down and walk away from this.”

His arm stays locked around the woman’s neck. She winces as he yanks her even closer with a violent pull.

“It was foolish for you to come here alone, Agent Hunt.”

“A team is on their way up as I speak.”

“You lie.”

“You’re an evil man, Babic. Watching your little empire crumble and knowing you’ll rot in prison for the rest of your life is going to give me great pleasure.”

His laughter booms eerily across the room. “I’ll be on a plane to South America before they even know you’re dead.”

Then, in one single, swift motion, he turns the gun on me. My finger is tightening on the trigger when a blood-curdling scream rips through the air.

The woman’s legs buckle beneath her. With Babic’s arm still locked around her neck, her sudden drop yanks him off balance, sending him pitching forward. It doesn’t stop him from firing—one shot, then another.

The first bullet streaks past my ear. The second punches into the bed.

I return fire, my aim deadlocked as I seek to avoid hitting the woman. Babic takes two rounds in the throat and falls limply onto his face. The woman screams for a second time and scurries away on all fours.

Cautiously approaching Babic, I lean down and pry the gun from his fingers. Sliding it across the floor, I keep my gun on him and struggle to turn him over using a single arm. Finally, he’s on his back.

Blood gurgles from his throat in short spurts. Babic’s eyes are wide, and if I didn’t know any better, filled with fear. He locks eyes with me, but is unable to speak.

I want to tell him how much he deserves this, that, after all the people he has spent his life hurting, this is what justice looks like. But I don’t. I suppose that even an evil man, taking his final breaths, should be offered some kind of peace.

His chest hitches as he chokes on his own blood. His jaw moves slowly, as if he’s trying to say something. Then his chest shudders and lowers for a final time. He lies still.

Miroslav Babic is dead.

“Here, would you like some water?”

She nods, and I hand the bottle to her. She unscrews the cap and takes a quick sip. Her hands are still trembling.

“What’s your name?”

“Malani. Malani Popovik.”

We’re sitting on a couch in a hotel room on the fifth floor. Backup arrived only a minute after Babic died. I immediately requested an empty room so I could bring her somewhere quiet, where she could feel safe away from Babic’s body.

“I’m so sorry that this happened to you.” I hand her a box of tissues. She plucks out several and uses them to blot her eyes.

“I only wanted a better life,” she says in a thick European accent. “I don’t know why this happened to me. The others, are they okay?”

“Yes,” I tell her. “I received a call a few minutes ago. The van was intercepted, and all the women who were traveling with you are safe now.”

Her body visibly relaxes. “Good. I am glad for that. Do you know why they brought only me here to the hotel?”

“I don’t, but we will try and get all your questions answered as soon as we can.”

“Jelena. They killed her.”

“Jelena?” I press.

Malani gets a faraway look in her eyes. “She was a friend. They killed her on the boat a few days ago. They took her, and then they raped and killed her. That man upstairs. He was going to…going to…” But she’s unable to finish and bursts into tears again.

I lay a hand on her shoulder and let her cry.

Chapter Thirty-One

The Cellar Door

Albany, NY

“And here’s where it gets really good. You ready for this?”

Stanley Clark placed his fork on his plate and listened with great interest as the councilman continued to elaborate.

“The city council will be approving another three million dollars to the new causeway’s current budget. That will add another six hundred thousand to your part of it.”

A broad grin spread across Stanley’s plump face. “That’s great, Greg. Really great. All of our costs were accounted for in the last round of funding, so every penny of this is gravy.”

“Indeed. And since I get twenty percent of your take, it’s going to work out nicely for both of us. I might take Sue to Italy for a couple weeks. Maybe buy her a new Mercedes. God, I love being a public servant.”

The men shared a hearty laugh and continued working down their meals. Stanley couldn’t be happier. He’d spent most of his life trying—and failing—to fit in with the cool kids. But last year, after meeting Greg at a charity auction, they recognized an opportunity. A working relationship between them could go a long way in lining their pockets.

The first project, which served as a test run, was an elementary school remodel in South Albany. Stanley way overbid it, and Greg made sure to get it through the city council for approval. The end result was a thing of beauty—the school got a facelift, and Stanley’s margins were by far the best they’d ever been.

The best part was that every city council member had a pet project they siphoned money from. Most had been playing the game for years, with auditors firmly in their pockets. No transparency meant no accountability—and everyone walked away a little richer.

Politicians were masters at skimming off the top of projects. The construction could be subpar, deadlines were never urgent, and the numbers were always inflated so that everyone got a piece of the pie. On top of that, extended timelines were often used to go back for more funding so work wouldn’t keep stalling out.

For Stanley, the money might as well have been growing on trees. And now, here he was, enjoying a two-hundred-dollar business lunch at The Cellar Door—one of the city's most exclusive restaurants—with a councilman he was doing good business with.

It made him feel important. And Stanley liked feeling important.

His father had told him years ago that to get ahead in life, you had to know the right people. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know. Now, Stanley’s company, Pinnacle Heights Construction, was set to close forty million dollars this year, with overhead and profit hovering close to thirty percent. The causeway project wasn’t a major chunk of their bottom line, but the margins were insanely good.

Stanley forked another bite of pasta into his mouth and spoke around it. “What project are we thinking of next?” he asked. “Pinnacle will be done with the Henderson Street Bridge by the end of next quarter. I would love to have something else to put in its place. Something big.”

Greg slid a cloth napkin across his lips, tossed it on the table, and gestured enthusiastically as he spoke. “Get this. What about a new high-rise condo right on the Hudson. Twenty stories, rooftop pool and bar, you name it.”

Staley chuckled at the thought. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack, my good friend. Plans are already being drafted. I’ll be asking you for a bid come the end of next month. So be ready, and be greedy. I’ll make sure to get it pushed through.”

By the time Stanley started his walk back to his downtown office, he was on cloud nine. If this kept up, he would be able to buy a third house, maybe overseas. It really was amazing what a motivated councilman, supported by an unsuspecting public, could accomplish. And he had been lucky enough to get in on it.

Reaching his building, Stanley crossed the lobby and took the elevator to the tenth floor, then entered their suite of offices at the end of the hall.

“Mr. Clark,” his receptionist greeted him, “you had three calls while you were out. I sent the details to your email.”

“Thank you, Emily.” He stole a glance at her cleavage and smiled inside. She was definitely his best hire this year, even if she was a little ditsy. That body was gold.

He entered his office and shut the door, started for his desk, and was startled when his high-back desk chair swiveled around. A man was sitting in it and had a gun pointed right at him.

“Hello, Stanley.”

“Who are you?” Stanley demanded. “What is this?”

“We need to talk.” The man flicked the end of the gun toward a chair on the other side of the desk.

“How did you get in here? This isn’t funny.”

“Oh, I agree with you there. This isn’t funny at all. Not sit your ass down.”

He did as he was told, and his gaze shifted nervously between the gun and the man’s face. “Wait a minute,” Stanley said. “You…you’re that guy who was on the news. The one they said carried out the attacks on the city.”

“And your point?”

“I—well, we did a lot of the rebuilding at the Capitol complex last year. And aren’t you on the FBI’s most wanted list? What do you want with me?”

“What lists I may or may not be on are of no concern to me,” Toby Parsons said. “But this last year has given me a lot of time to think. And I have plans. Very big plans. So big, in fact, that I need your help with something.”

A lump formed in Stanley’s throat, and cold sweat prickled the back of his neck at the sight of the gun. “Look, I don’t want any trouble, okay? Whatever it is you need, I’m sure there are far more suitable people out there who can help.”

“I’m here, aren’t I? Obviously, I’ve decided that you—” With his free hand, Parsons closed one eye, pointed a finger gun at him, pulled the trigger, and made a clicking sound with his tongue. “—are my guy.”

Stanley stared at the intruder, dumbfounded. “This is insane. What could I possibly help you with?”

Parson’s face brightened. “And there is the million-dollar question. I am so glad you asked. You got your start in concrete, didn’t you? You moved from carpentry into concrete and built your little empire that way, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“It just so happens that I’m in the market for concrete. And stone.” Parsons spread his arms wide while keeping a grip on the weapon. “Really big stones.”

“Okay…”

“By my estimate—and I think it’s a conservative one—we can get the whole thing done for three hundred thousand dollars.”

“Sure, if your money is good. Why not?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Parsons chuckled. “I didn’t mean my money. I meant yours. You’re going to be a nice guy and foot the bill for me.”

Stanley’s ample face reddened. “Like hell. What makes you think I’m going to do something like that? Because you have a gun pointed at me? I can’t do it for you if I’m dead.”

Parsons clicked his tongue again. “You are a smart one, you know that? But, no. There are four reasons why I think you’re going to help me. Reason number one, Della.”

Stanley paled.

“Reason number two, Frankie. And…reason number three, Mandy.”

“Fine,” he growled. “I get it. You’ll come after my family. What’s the fourth reason?”

“The fourth,” Parsons said, “is the little cash cow you have going with our beloved city. The city contracts? Oh, you think no one knew about it? Well, I do. Let me assure you, I do.”

Stanley suddenly felt exposed, naked. How could this man have found out?

“Oh, Stanley, don’t look like such a putz. You swindled the good people of this city out of a lot of money. I don’t want to take all that from you. Just a little bit, because I really am a nice guy. So I’m going to give you my plans and where I want my project built, and you are going to get it done for me.”

“I think you’re lying,” Stanley said. His heart was thumping hard in his chest. If the scandal broke, he’d be done for. “You’re aware that I know some people on the city council. But you don’t have proof of any shady dealings.”

That drew a contented smile from Parsons. “Don’t I? I mean, you could try me, I suppose. I already have an email drafted to The New York Times. I can leave here right now if you wish. But then I’ll have to send that email.” He shrugged. “You’ll be indicted by the end of the week, removed as chairman of the board of your company by Monday, and fired by Wednesday. And that will only be the beginning. In the end, you’ll do, I don’t know, fifteen, maybe twenty years in the old graybar hotel. The jumpsuits aren’t bad. You get used to those. And depending on the facility, the mattresses can be all right too. But the food. Stanley, you don’t want to spend the next two decades of your life eating that slop. Trust me. I know. And then there’s your family. They’ll have to be factored in. Do I drown them or shoot them?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I don’t like you, Stanley. That’s the simple truth. You act like you’re a good person, a friend of the people, but you just use them. You know, my father—well, he wasn’t really my father. He murdered my parents when I was eight years old and kidnapped me. But I grew to love the old bastard.”

Stanley suddenly recalled the gray, bearded man in the papers last year. The serial killer who had been at it for decades.

“So anyway,” Parsons continued, “my father taught me that people cannot be trusted. Society is evil and needs a good purging from time to time. Like the old belief about bloodletting, you know? There’s a lot I didn’t end up agreeing with him about, and it turns out that he was actually planning on killing me—go figure. But he was right on that count. Some people don’t deserve to live.”

“And you do?” Stanley huffed.

Parsons got a faraway look in his eyes and spoke, as if to himself. “I’ll surprise her, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m taking her back to where it all began. She’ll hate me for it. But it will be absolutely perfect. Like…like good poetry.”

“Huh?” Stanley asked, frowning. “I’m sorry, who are we talking about?”

Parsons blinked and came back to the present. “I’m sorry, I…I got distracted for a moment.” He stood up and laid a piece of paper on the desk. “Here are the initial plans. I’ll be in touch. I hope it goes without saying that you’re not to mention any of this to anyone. And remember, wherever you try to run, wherever you try to hide, I’ll find you, Stanley. You and your beautiful family. Just carry on. Business as usual and everything will be fine.”

And with that, he was gone.

Chapter Thirty-Two

FBI Field Office

Albany, NY

“Aheck of a job, you two,” Kemper says from behind his desk. “DA Lopez is more than thrilled. In fact, every law enforcement official in this city is as well. I was pleased to see the entire office come together on this one.”

It’s been three days since the trafficked women were rescued and Babic was killed. Since then, we’ve spent all our time peeling back the layers of Babic’s underworld activities. John Cardone has yet to be arrested, although much of his crew has been. I have no doubt that he’ll be in cuffs himself in the next few days.

“What’s the word on all the women?” Skylar asks. “Are they still at the women’s shelter?”

He nods. “And will be for the foreseeable future. There’s a lot of paperwork that has to get sorted out first. In the meantime, they’re all together in a safe location.”

“I would like to go over and see Malani sometime,” I tell him. “Can you set that up?”

“You bet I can.”

Kemper picks up a piece of paper from his desk and scans it. “You should know that seven employees at the Port of New York and New Jersey have been arrested. They’ve been tied to falsifying invoices and manifest numbers, which let the container slip through. Additionally, Internal Affairs has launched an investigation into corruption at the APD. With the level of extortion happening in this city, a lot of cops had to be looking the other way.”

“I don’t know about you,” Skylar smiles, “but hearing about arrest and internal affairs is music to my ears.”

Kemper sets the paper down and looks at me. “How are you doing, Darcy? Killing a man is no small thing.”

“Thanks. It’s not. But if I’m honest, I haven’t lost any sleep over it. Babic made his own decisions. But I have lost sleep over seeing his finger slide down Malani’s skin like that. Thinking about it still makes me shiver.”

“Bastard,” Skylar mutters.

Kemper runs through a few more items before waving us off a few hours early. “You deserve it. Go get a massage, take a nap—whatever. Just take it easy. Tomorrow’s another day.”

Skylar and I thank him for the time off and head back to our desks to gather our things. “A massage sounds great,” Skylar says, “but I think I’ll go fishing.”

“Fishing,” I laugh. “Have you ever touched a fishing rod before?”

“Hey, I have. It’s been a while, but I have. And anyway, I thought I would go shoot the breeze with Otis for a while.”

“Otis? Sorry, remind me?”

“Otis, the old guy who fishes on the Hudson. Right near The Bait House.”

“Yep. I remember.” The thought of her fishing alongside him brings a smile to my face. “That’s really cool of you, Sky. He’ll enjoy that.”

She shoulders her backpack. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you then.”

I check my email a final time before shutting down my computer and spending a few minutes organizing my desk. Coming back to a clean space always lets me get started on something new with a clear head.

Finished, I take the elevator downstairs and cross the lobby, eager for an afternoon to myself. Pushing open the door to step outside, I nearly collide with someone.

“I’m sorry,” I say to the young woman, and then freeze. My mouth drops open.

“Agent Hunt.” Her hands are clasped nervously in front of her, and she speaks with hesitation. “I was just coming by to speak with you. Do you think we can talk somewhere? I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”

I could swear that I’m looking into the face of a ghost. Because the person standing in front of me is Nola Walker.

“So let me run back through everything and make sure I have it straight,” I say. “All of this starts with you and Jovan having a romantic relationship. And you faked the entire kidnapping.”

I still can’t believe that I’ve spent the last hour sitting in an interview room, listening to Nola explain to me how she’s actually alive. I hadn’t completely written her off as dead, but we certainly had nothing to indicate that she was still with us.

“Yes,” she answers. “I wasn’t certain that it was the right thing to do. In fact, I’m still not. But whatever happened, I’m glad that I had a part in Babic’s undoing. He was such a terrible man.”

Nola is a pretty young lady. Blonde hair frames an oval face, and high cheekbones and clear, brown eyes make her look older than she is. As she has been describing it, a year ago, she began a relationship with Jovan Byers, one of Babic’s right-hand men. I recall briefly meeting Jovan when stormed into Babic’s house that day. Jovan, sporting bleached white hair and a tattoo of a snake curling up his arm, escorted me to my car.

Nola met him when she worked as a housekeeper for Babic, and because Babic didn’t want any of his employees dating each other, they had to keep their relationship a secret. But the biggest influence on Nola’s recent disappearing act was that Jovan no longer wanted to continue a career in organized crime. As Nola has been telling me, his father was in organized crime and was murdered before he hit his mid-forties. More recently, Jovan had decided that he wanted a different life for himself. The problem was, you didn’t just walk away from the business, especially when Miroslav Babic was your boss.

“Who conceived of the idea of you faking your kidnapping?” I ask her.

“That was me.”

I scratch a note across my notepad. “All of this started with you claiming to witness Babic murdering a man in his own backyard, Bruno De Luca. Was that accurate?”

Nola looks away, and I can see that she’s struggling to tell the truth. So I reach across the table and place my hand over hers. “Nola, just be honest. The truth will always come out anyway. You came here to tell me what happened, right?”

She nods. “Babic did murder Mr. De Luca in his backyard. But I didn't see it. Jovan did.”

A couple more pieces click into place for me. “But he couldn’t come forward with that information because he was too close to Babic. The boss wouldn’t have stopped until he was dead.”

“That’s right,” Nola says. “Even in prison, someone would have gotten to him—Babic would have made sure of it. So instead, we agreed that I would come forward as the witness. The only problem was, I couldn’t bring myself to lie. I knew I couldn’t take the stand and commit perjury. So Jovan came up with a plan—one he believed could completely unravel Babic’s organization.”

“By you providing the FBI with clues in your journal,” I say.

“That’s right.”

“But why not just come forward with all the information upfront?”

“Because Jovan didn’t know everything. That’s how Babic kept control—compartmentalization. Only certain people knew certain things. Jovan spent a lot of time planning the leads he wanted me to leave for you in my journal. He knew that if he laid the right trail of crumbs, the FBI would follow—and that would eventually lead you to the bigger things.”

“So he knew The Bait House was nothing more than an address for a front corporation,” I say.

She nods. “That’s right. He hoped that once you discovered Cleanest Threads was having money siphoned off every week, you’d follow that trail into Cardone’s organization. He didn’t just have me hand you everything because if you hadn’t started where he intended, Cardone and Babic would have caught on that you were looking into those areas of their business.”

I sit back in my chair and suppress a smile. I am actually very impressed with how Nola and Jovan went about this. I’m not ready to let her know that, as I’m not the one who has to hammer out whether any charges will be brought against them. I highly doubt they would for Nola, but Jovan has probably done some very bad things working for Babic. Further investigation and some long conversations with the DA will need to be had.

“Well, Nola. You should know that your course of action saved nine women the other night. They were all heading into very dire circumstances.”

Her face brightens. “I read about them in the news. I’m so glad you guys were able to shut all that down. And I am glad that I had a hand in it.”

“And I’m glad you’re alive. I’ll be honest with you, I’ve felt a lot of guilt for not keeping you safe. I don’t say that to make you feel good.”

She nods again, and her brows lower into a concerned frown. “What do you think will happen with Jovan? And me too, I guess. We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

I open my mouth to answer but am cut short by the door to the interview room opening. Kemper steps in and introduces himself. “Ms. Walker, Agent Hunt is supposed to be taking the afternoon off, so I’m going to excuse her now. I do have some more questions of my own, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, of course. Am…am I under arrest?”

“No,” Kemper chuckles, “I can’t say that we would have advised you on the course of action you took, but look where it got us.” He glances at his watch. “Give me ten minutes, and you’ll be free to go. And as for your question about Jovan, he seems to have completely distanced himself from the trafficking, and we don’t currently have anything on him. I think that between that and him directly informing our investigation, he should be all right.”

Nola visibly relaxes in her seat. “Okay. That’s so good to hear.”

I push back in my chair and rise to my feet, then reach across the table and shake her hand. “I think what you did was very brave. Babic and Cardone aren’t the kind of men who are easy to pin down.”

“Thank you, Agent Hunt. And even more, thank you for taking them down.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Cleanest Threads Dry Cleaning

Albany, NY

The electronic bell chimes above the door as I step inside. The same man from before is watching the front counter, and he glances up from his magazine with a complete lack of interest, though with some recognition. “You want to see Dae?”

“Yes, please. Is she here?”

“Yes. Follow me.” He slides off his stool and leads me around the counter, through the curtain, and across the floor to the supply room where I spoke with Mrs. Park the last time I was here. “I get her for you,” he says, and walks away.

I absently scan the items on the shelves as I wait, my thoughts drifting to everything that’s happened since I was last here. The past few weeks have been a whirlwind, and only now do I feel like my feet are back on solid ground.

The door opens again, and Dae steps inside. A frown line appears between her eyes.

“Agent Hunt.”

“Hello, Mrs. Park. I wanted to come by and give you an update.”

She nods, hesitation flickering across her face. “Okay.”

“The last time I was here, you said that you wouldn't be able to keep your business running if they kept taking money from you every week.”

“Yes.” Her face blooms with fresh anger. “One thousand dollars each week. That is much money. My money.”

“And I completely agree. Which is why I wanted to come by and personally inform you that the men who have been stealing from you are now in jail.”

She stares blankly at me for a moment as what I said begins to register. “Jail?”

“That’s right. The man who was sending people here to take your money is named John Cardone. We arrested him two days ago. Not only that, but we’ve dismantled his entire organization.”

“Arrested?”

I nod. “Also, the young man who would come by each week for your money was recently murdered.”

Her eyes widen. “The boy with the strange hair? The braids?”

“Yes, with the cornrows. His name was Thomas Bledsoe. Mr. Cardone became distrustful of him and had him shot.”

She shakes her head. “They killed my Chang-woo. And now they kill this Thomas boy. They do not care about people. All they want is money and power. Cowards.”

“You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Park. They are cowards.”

“They might be in prison, but that cannot bring back my Chang-woo. They throw his body behind this building like he was a dog. I will never see my son again.”

“I know. I wish I could change that for you.”

“No.” She reaches out and pats my arm. “You have done enough. You are a good person, Agent Hunt. You did what you say you would do and find these people.”

“Also, I don’t want to get ahead of the judicial process, but Mr. Cardone has assets that the government has seized. Eventually, they’ll get sold off. The DA will be reaching out to you so they can put you on a list of victims. Again, I can’t promise it, but there is a good chance we can get you some or all of your money back.”

Before I know what’s happening, she has her arms wrapped around me and is squeezing me tight. “Thank you, Agent Hunt. Thank you.”

I return the hug. “You’re very welcome.”

She releases her grip and steps back. “Like I told you before, the police, I called them. They never did anything. They not even come out here to understand what was happening.”

“There will be an active investigation into all areas of Mr. Cardone’s business. People like him usually pay off law enforcement officials so they can keep getting away with their crimes. So the people who should be protecting you end up looking the other way. That might be why the police never came out here and investigated after you called them.”

“I call them many times,” she says. “They never come.”

“No one should bother you again,” I tell her. “But if anyone does, I want you to know that you can call me, and I’ll be down here right away. No one will ever steal from you like that again. Not while I carry a badge.”

Tears glisten in her eyes. “Thank you.”

“I admire people like you and your husband, Mrs. Park. You mentioned before that you came here from Korea for a better life. I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way you dreamed of, especially for your son.”

“Yes,” she nods pensively. “Me too.”

“This is the land of opportunity, and you have done an amazing thing, coming here and starting a business like you have. Chang-woo might be gone, but I hope that you can find your way forward and take advantage of all that this great country has to offer. I’m sorry so much was taken from you, but I hope you can find a way to begin again.”

A thin smile appears on her lips. “We will, Agent Hunt. Tonight, we will get good sleep. And we have you to thank for that.”

My heart is full as I drive away from the cleaner. It’s not every day I see a tangible impact from the work we do. Knowing that someone like Mrs. Park is finally free from the grip of a greedy enterprise is truly rewarding. Now, she can wake up each morning without the weight of extortion hanging over her, no longer forced to hand over her hard-earned money under the threat of violence.

Sadly, the fact that these things happen at all is an unfortunate reality of our world. But it’s also what drives me every morning. Our work matters because people matter, and that’s what gives it meaning.

There are days that leave me beyond frustrated and nights when I collapse into bed utterly exhausted—but I wouldn’t trade this career for anything.

And speaking of exhaustion, I need to decompress, and a sweet drink at my favorite coffee shop seems like just the thing. After that, I’ll head home, change into some workout clothes, and get some exercise. Right now, an abundance of tension resides between my shoulders, and there really is nothing like a long run to get the endorphins going, clear the mind, and relax the muscles.

Arriving at Frothy Bean, I order a caramel latte and settle into a spot in the back. The atmosphere is exactly my style—dark browns, deep greens, and muted golds blending into an earthy aesthetic. Velvet chairs and leather couches add to the warmth, mirrored in the canvas paintings lining the walls.

“Darcy?”

I look up to see a perky barista holding a white saucer beneath a matching mug.

“That’s me,” I tell her.

She places the drink on the small table in front of me. “You ordered my personal fav,” she says. “Enjoy!”

The foam brushes my lips as I take a sip, and I have to use the napkin on the saucer to brush it away. The delectable swirl of sugar, cream, and caffeine wakes my senses, drawing a long, relaxed sigh out of me.

Cradling the mug, I take another sip and peer out the window beside me, watching as a mother pushes a stroller down the sidewalk. Across the street, an old man is walking his poodle, and beyond him, a middle-aged woman hurries to catch the bus.

I’m so glad to call this city my home. When I graduated from Quantico, I wasn’t sure if they would give me my posting of choice. Thankfully, I get to spend my days serving the city where I grew up. This is home, and there is something incredibly rewarding about being able to go to bat for these people, fighting back crime and locking evil away.

It’s silly, I know, but sometimes I wish that I could get ahead of all the bad before it even has a chance to touch anyone. I wish we could help the Malanis and Mrs. Parks of the world before they’re taken advantage of.

Working for the FBI is a reactive job. We show up in response to crime, and then work to shut it down. But this isn’t Minority Report—we don’t have insight into people’s thoughts and intentions before they happen. So we do the best we can with what we have. And days like today, as I reflect on the good we’ve done, it’s enough.

I’m still staring out the window when a quick flurry of motion enters my periphery, and I realize that someone has just slipped onto the chair across from me. Sweeping my gaze from the window, every muscle in my body tenses. Adrenaline spikes in my veins as my breath catches in my throat.

Grinning happily across the table from me is none other than Toby Parsons.

“What is this?” I hiss, dropping my mug on the saucer with a loud rattle. Instinctively, I reach for my gun and find that it’s not there. Of course it’s not. Because I shot Babic the other night, I had to relinquish my sidearm until an internal incident review process has been completed.

“I wanted to say a quick hello,” Parsons replies, that god-awful grin still pressed into his handsome features. His hair is bound behind his head in a tight, sleek black ponytail. “It’s been so long since we’ve met face-to-face. I didn’t want to put a strain on our relationship by only sending notes and texts.”

“Right. Go to hell.”

“Like I told you before, we have a connection, you and me. I really feel that.”

My mind races. Sitting before me is one of the most wanted men in America. Last year, he sent an army of killers through the city, resulting in hundreds of casualties. And before that, he brutally murdered multiple young women. Whether Parsons is, in fact, the Hudson River Killer is still up for debate—but his murderous, sinister proclivities are not.

Everything in me wants to reach across the table and throttle him. And I would—if I didn’t know that he’s much stronger than me. Pulling out my phone to call Kemper or making a run for my car aren’t real options. Parsons wouldn’t risk getting caught just for a public conversation. He has a reason for being here.

For now, all I can do is sit and listen.

“I hate you.” The words tumble unexpectedly from my mouth, and I wish they hadn’t. I don’t want him thinking he has control over my emotions.

His cold eyes dance with pleasure. “I know you do, Darcy.”

“What do you want with me? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Leave you alone? Now that wouldn’t be very fun. I have plans. Big plans. We’re going to dance, you and me.”

“And if I opt out?”

A thin, unsavory smirk presides on his lips. “You won’t. I’ve already made sure of that. Hey, and listen. Sorry about Lila. That just had to be done. Tying up loose ends, you know?”

He still thinks she’s dead. Good.

“Lila didn’t do anything to you. She was a beautiful light, and you couldn’t stand that. You…” I cut myself off. Suddenly, my mind feels fuzzy. My arms are heavy, and I feel strangely rooted in place. It feels like—I glance down at my coffee. “You drugged me?”

“I couldn’t have you trying to chase or follow me out of here, could I? The barista turned her head for two seconds, and that was all the time I needed.” He snickers. “You’ll be fine in an hour. Until then, a little tired.”

“Why are you doing all this? I’m not interested in your little games, Parsons.”

I know what the answer is. He’s a sociopath. Unlike the rest of us, he has no conscience that tells him that he’s doing wrong or prompts him to think twice before he hurts someone. People like him get pleasure from inflicting pain on others.

“Don’t you understand, Darcy? You’re everything I’m not. You’re my nemesis, the yin to my yang, the Batman to my Joker. Darcy, you complete me.”

I scramble to find a way to get through, to make him understand the edifice of lies he’s built his entire life on. “Hess prepared Lila to kill me,” I say. “Then you were ordered to kill her. But if I recall, Hess had planned on killing you as well.”

His eye twitches.

“Except you didn’t know that. You thought you were his favorite. It never even crossed your mind that he might want you gone as well, that he would lump you in with the rest of us.” My limbs feel weak, as though someone unplugged them from their energy source. I can hardly lift my hand from the table.

“The old man had his own ways,” Parsons replies. “I don’t subscribe to them any longer.”

“At least Hess was driven by something bigger than himself, by some kind of religious commitment. You—you’re just pure evil.”

“Now, Darcy, don’t go overboard. I love a good sunset, a glass of fine whiskey, and Shakespeare. Someone who is pure evil wouldn’t enjoy those things.”

Fury pulses through my veins. Everything in me wants to see this man behind bars, if not worse. And yet here he is, taunting me yet again, making light of all the harm he has caused.

“You don’t have to be this way, Parsons. Hess might have taken you from your birth parents and raised you on a pack of wicked lies. But you can still choose a different path.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Come on, Darcy. You know I don’t believe most of the old man’s nonsense. And I have chosen my own path. I did that a long time ago. My way is much more fun than his.” He wraps his knuckles lightly on the table. “So, listen, I’ll be in touch. And we’ll dance. All right?” A gleam of pure joy dances in his eyes. “It’s going to be great, I promise.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving me to sit here like an invalid until the drug wears off.

I am relieved that he thinks that he got rid of Lila and that I’m the only one left. Lila’s safety is the most important thing to me right now. But another part of me is weary. So very weary. Ever since I went back to Miller’s Grove, I’ve been dodging Marvin Hess’s schemes. And now that he’s dead and I'm stuck dealing with the newfangled schemes of his son, it feels like I’m still running from the old man’s ghost.

This has to end.

Parsons always seems to be one step ahead. We have to find a way to get out in front of him. But just how to go about doing that is anyone’s guess.

Whatever the case, I know one thing. I’m going to put an end to this once and for all. A dance, he said? Bring it on. Because I’m good and done playing this man’s games.

Darcy returns soon in His Fatal Game. Don’t miss

her final showdown with Toby Parsons, and find out who remains

standing when the dust finally clears. Pre-order your copy now…

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Note from the Author

❤️ Dearest Reader,

Thank you so much reading The Lost Witness.

If you enjoyed spending time in Darcy’s world, would you be so kind as to recommend the book to other mystery lovers as well? As a self-published author, recommendations can go a long way to getting my books in front of other readers, and I’m working hard to write stories that you will continue to enjoy.

I’m off to work on Darcy’s next thrilling investigation, His Fatal Game, her final showdown with Toby Parsons. Make sure to sign up for my newsletter so you don’t miss it.

If this was your first time reading one of my books, please check out the Allie Bishop series. If you loved Darcy, you’re sure to love Allie too! Happy Reading!

Love,

Eva

P.S. If there are areas of improvement that you would like to suggest, or if you noticed any typos, would you email me directly and let me know? I reply directly to each and every email I receive: evasparksbooks@gmail.com. ❤️

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