Risky? Yes. I never know when Demeter might be watching. She frowns on any use of my gift that might draw attention to an Immortal on Earth. Having power is a burden. Not using it, a constant struggle. Though each use of my magic risks Demeters wrath, finding one of the missing, saving them, tips the scales in my direction. A justified risk for the greater good. Necessary so that I can continue with the mission, so that I can bring another victim home, so that maybe, someday, I can go home.
Yes, youve discovered my deep, dark secret, Zack. When they get too close, tell the truth. Its too absurd for anyone, even a werewolf, to believe. Im really a goddess with special powers. You may now throw away your lucky rabbits foot. Stick with me and your next promotion is most certainly right around the corner. I punctuate my special brand of sarcasm with a very noisy slurp of tea.
Zacks not deterred in the least. Im not looking to get promoted, Emma. I belong in the field. I want to stay in the field.
Seriously?
He nods solemnly. Seriously.
Strange as it might seem to some, I understand that. Promotion is the furthest thing from my mind. Since joining the Bureau as Emma Monroe, Ive been fortunate enough to be paired with ambitious partners. Unlike them, I havent wanted to move up. My clearance record has benefited all of them as they climbed the Bureau ladder.
Zack may have alpha in him, but theres something else there, too. Hes ambitious and driven, but not for power or control. For what? I have no idea. Zack Armstrong is one complicated man.
I take another slurp of tea. So, how recently did you break up with your ex?
I cant tell if its the fact that I changed the subject or the question itself thats surprised him. Just as I reach the conclusion hes going to tell me to mind my own business, he comes out with her name.
Sarah. Her name is Sarah. Referring to her as an ex makes . . . whatever we had . . . seem more significant than it was. It was a thing. It was casual. Its over. End of story.
End of Zacks version. If she followed him from South Carolina, it couldnt have been that casual.
Okay. You want to work with me, find yourself a girlfriend. I gather up my plate and Zacks, stroll over to a nearby trash can, and toss it all in.
Zacks risen from his chair. Girlfriend? I havent had one of those since I was seventeen.
Somehow I find that hard to believe. Its a condition.
He frowns. Its a stupid condition.
I respond with a show of my hands, palms up to the universe in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture.
So, have I found myself a partner? He slides on his sports coat. We good?
Were good.
For now.
I make a quick stop in the break room and pour myself a cup of coffee. When I return to my desk, I find Zack looking happier than a kid on Christmas morning.
Check this out. They delivered everything on the supply list I sent. He is brandishing a pack of red gel pens in one hand and a pack of black in the other. Theres a pile of various-colored Post-its in front of him.
I slide into the chair at the desk across from his. Pens. Post-its. Very exciting.
You think thats exciting? Look at this.
Zacks fingers fly across the keyboard, and his computer comes alive. Im all hooked up.
I leave Zack fiddling with his computer and settle in to review the printout of Amys appointment calendar. From the way its laid out, Amy spent most days doing what she loved, painting. From time to time shed have a personal appointment in the afternoon. On occasion shed spend an hour or two meeting with someone at the gallery. Thanks to Haskells meticulous notes, we have not only a record of who Amy met with, but a summary of the meeting and what, if any, follow-up was needed. Haskell also added an addendum if a commission was accepted that specified details of the contract such as price to be paid, deadlines, and when that contract was filed.
I whistle softly.
Zack looks up. What?
You should see what Amy gets paid for some of her paintings. Twenty, twenty-five thousand. Apiece.
Told you she was good, Zack says. And shes just getting started.
I meet Zacks eyes. I just remembered something. A case I read about a few years back. An up-and-coming artist was murdered. The killer did it to increase the value of his own collection.
Cant rule anything out. Im thinking if that was the motive, though, wed have found a body. He turns back to his computer. The PD stored copies of Pattersons hard drives. Ive got her emails, browsing history, years worth of documents. He strikes a few more keys. And here are the financials on Amy, Haskell, and the gallery.
That was fast.
He talks as he scrolls. The gallery looks to be turning a nice profit. No red flags. Taxes collected and paid. Amy paid cash for her condo and a bundle to have the second unit converted for the studio. Otherwise, she lives pretty simply. There are some statements for a few personal investments, an IRA with a very nice balance, a smaller rainy-day savings account. Nothing unusual or out of proportion to what shes bringing in from her artwork. Haskells accounts are healthy, but again, not out of proportion to what she earns.
What about email? Browsing history?
Theres been a series of recent email discussions with Haskell about the New York exhibit. Theres a lot here to go through.
Send me the link. You take the documents. Ill take the emails and browsing history.
He nods. Fueled with caffeine, I go to work. The job is tedious. I spend two hours scanning emails, then another reviewing a long list of Web sites. I finally land on hers. Theres a link to her official Facebook page. There are hundreds of posts from worried friends.
By the time I look up, most of the other agents have left for the day. Ive gone back a full month. Theres nothing remarkable in her emails or her browsing history.
I have no idea why I wanted to work with you, Zack says, stretching his arms over his head. Clearly, you suck.
I wad up a scrap of paper thats on my desk and chuck it at him. He doesnt bother ducking. He just casually reaches up and plucks it out of the air. With Were reflexes, he probably could have done it with his eyes closed.
So, what have you got, hotshot?
Nothing concrete so far. Im going to put in a request for her cell records.
I nod. Good idea. Ill dig deeper into her calendar, put together a more comprehensive background check tonight.
So, how often do cases like this end up on your desk? People disappearing with no overt signs of foul play, no enemies, no ransom request, no apparent motive . . . ?
You know the drill. Its not a crime to go missing. There are fewer than two hundred reports filed in San Diego County each month. Seventy percent of those resolve with little to no effort within seventy-two hours. Run-of-the-mill cases barely get investigated by SDPD, never mind our unit.
So practically never?
Practically never.
Zack climbs to his feet. Well, I have to start someplace. Lets hope this Amy Patterson doesnt show up in two days with a hangover and a new husband.
And the blood in her apartment?
He pauses. Might not be a waste of time. . . . He grabs up his mug. Time for another cup of coffee. Want one?
No, thanks.
Zack heads for the break room. I go back to perusing Amys Facebook page. Its after six. I pull up the photo tab and stare at an image of Pattersons smiling face. Where are you? I ask, wishing I could compel the all-knowing Internet to reveal the answer.
I live in a converted carriage house in one of the oldest sections of town. I use the term house loosely. At less than four hundred and fifty square feet, the tiny structure is smaller than the hotel room Liz and I stayed in when we went to Dana Point on her last birthday for a spa weekend. Over the years Ive lived in many apartments this size in buildings that came with noisy and nosy neighbors.
The carriage house is in back of a larger estate in Mission Hills. The owners alternate between their homes in San Diego, Santa Fe, and Honolulu. When theyre absent, which is most of the time, I pick up their mail and water their plants. They love the idea that Im a federal agent. It makes them feel as though they have personal security on the grounds. I put on a show of walking the perimeter once a day, checking the inside when theyre absent. They let me occupy the carriage house for free.
No neighbors, noisy or nosy.
Its a sweet deal.
The first thing I do when I get home is fire up my laptop, which is currently on the dining room table. I have no designated workspace. I work anywhere and everywhere. The dining room, which is approximately ten by ten, is a stones throw to the kitchen, which is smaller. I make a beeline for the fridge, where theres a cold bottle of chardonnay waiting. After pouring myself a glass, I call Expressly Gourmet. Theyre a local delivery service that will pick up from more than a dozen restaurants. I have them on speed dial. Tonight Hector is taking orders. He recognizes my voice.
Emma! Whats up?
Not much. Whats the wait time for China Express?
We can pick up in twenty, have it to you ten minutes after that. Things are slow tonight. Hey, did you hear about that artist whos missing? Are you working the case?
Hector started as a delivery boy a couple of years ago, fresh out of high school. His first day on the job, I answered the door with my gun still clipped to my belt and made the mistake of explaining what I did for a living. I dont have to watch or read the news to keep up with the local crime scene. I just have to check in with Hector.
Yes.
Really? His voice goes up a notch. It occurs to me he always asks me if Im involved in the story of the day and its the first time Ive said yes. That pendejo on Fox is saying its all probably some scam to make money. I guess artists fake their own death all the time so that the demand for their stuff skyrockets. What do you think?
All the time? Quality journalism at its finest.
I cant talk about an ongoing investigation, but I agree wholeheartedly the guy on Fox is a pendejo. Ill take an order of spring rolls, pork fried rice, and the black pepper chicken.
Got it. Wait till I tell my mama youre working on the case. Shes gonna flip. Talk to you later.
Talk to you later. I always wonder if Hector ends every conversation that way, or if he reserves that close for customers who order practically every night, like me.
Like Amy.
A long shot butHector?
Still here.
Amy Patterson wasnt
He sighs. A customer? No. I checked. Just out of curiosity. He sounds disappointed.
Okay, Hector. Thanks.
I take my wine back to the dining room. French doors open onto a small deck where I have potted plants. I open them and take a moment to enjoy the evenings breeze. My thoughts drift to Zack. And how muchor how littleI really know about him. A temporary assignment is one thing. Now that hes my partner, the stakes are higher. Seconds later Im in front of my laptop poking around in his past, using the multitude of resources at my disposal to find out what I can about the Were Im going to be joined at the hip with for who knows how long.
There are the usual stats: hes thirty-two years old, six foot three, two hundred and ten pounds. His most recent fitness scores are off the charts. Not surprising. While in the Academy he achieved a perfect marksmanship score. Nothing I didnt already know. What I really want to know about is what he did before the Academy. Hed previously made reference to being a soldier. Id been under the impression hed served in the marines. But I cant find a matching service record. Maybe it was the Army? I go back to check out his SF-86, knowing it will be there from when he applied to the FBI Academy. There isnt one on record. Theres always an SF-86 on record. Something in it must be highly classified. But what?
Out of curiosity, I run his exs plate. Sarah Marie Louis. Also thirty-two. Born and raised in Hilton Head, South Carolina. No arrests. No warrants. Not even a traffic ticket. I check employment records and come up empty. The address on her drivers license is the same today as it was when she first got her permit at fifteen. I pull up an image of the house on satellite. Its a sprawling beachfront estate a stones throw from the Atlantic. A quick title search reveals it to be in the name of Charles Louis, the colorful and notoriously conservative Republican senator from South CarolinaSarahs father.
Just as Im about to enter Zacks last-known address into the satellite search, my doorbell rings. Its time for dinner and time to get back to work on the other background check. The clock is ticking for Amy Patterson. Shes already been gone two weeks. The odds of finding her alive decrease with time, so the mystery of Zack Armstrong will have to wait for now.
Ill unravel it eventually.
I always do.
CHAPTER 4
Day Two: Wednesday, April 11
Im at the office earlybut evidently not early enough. Zack has beaten me in. He is engrossed in what hes reading but that doesnt stop him from noticing my arrival.
Morning, Monroe, he says as I approach, not bothering to look up.
Pesky Were senses.
He lays down the folder hed been studying and zeroes in on the file Im carrying. He raises an eyebrow and holds out a hand. Homework?
I place it on his palm. Amy Patterson in word and deed.
He turns the folder around. Whats this? he asks, pointing to a stain on the cover.
I shrug. Looks like the sweet red sauce that came with the spring rolls. Did you make coffee?