“Please tell me we get to interview that man.”
“I’ll be taking Paige with me instead.”
“I hate you so much right now.”
I laugh. “Nina, please continue.”
A grin curling her lips, she turns back to her computer. “Tal is Israeli-born and holds dual citizenship both here and there,” she says. “He served in the IDF for eight years, then moved here and began working for a private security firm before striking out on his own, establishing his own company, Executive Solutions. He’s been working with Senator Barlow for the last seven years. He’s squeaky clean. No police records, pays his taxes, and counts some of DC’s biggest movers and shakers as clients—it appears that he hires former US Special Forces exclusively and has a reputation for being one of the best trainers in the biz.”
“Well, it makes sense. Those guys would certainly know how to take care of their protectees,” Astra says.
“Nothing hinky in his background?” I ask.
“Nothing I can find right now. But I haven’t gotten into the real nuts and bolts just yet,” Nina replies. “I’ll drill down deeper later on. But for now, he’s on the back burner.”
“Okay, how about the aunt?” I say.
She taps a few keys, and the DMV photo of a woman with champagne-blonde hair and bright, seafoam eyes replaces Lieb Tal’s photo on the screen. She has a round face, big, doe eyes, and full, bow-shaped lips.
“Violet Wagner. Thirty-six years old,” Nina says. “She has a very spotty work history. She’s mainly worked as a restaurant server or coffee house barista while trying to make a go of it as an actress—she’s got a few IMDb credits but mostly as background characters. She does not appear to have ever gotten her big break. Violet has also taken a few collars—mostly when she was young.”
“Let me guess, drug charges? Maybe even a solicitation charge or two?” Astra asks.
“Ding ding ding,” Nina chirps.
“So cliché. But par for the course in that industry,” Astra groans.
“Most of those were years ago though,” Nina goes on. “She seems to have been clean for a fairly long while now—”
“I’m guessing she cleaned up her act right around the time her sister died,” I say. “Then moved in with her brother-in-law to look after her niece.”
“Hey, you’re pretty good. You should be a profiler or something,” Nina says.
A grin flickers across my lips. “So, Barlow gave her another chance.”
“After a stay at New Horizons,” Nina says.
“What’s New Horizons?” Astra asks.
“I’m guessing it’s a rehab center for rich people,” I answer.
“As always, a good guess,” Nina says.
“Just because she’s clean doesn’t mean everybody in her life is,” I muse. “Nina, look into her connections. Known associations.”
Nina taps away at her keyboard. “I can’t say whether she’s still connected to any of these people or not, but she has an old boyfriend—Nick Zane—who’s got a lengthy rap sheet that’s got plenty of drug and violent offenses,” she says. “He’s been charged with armed robbery, assault, even caught an attempted murder charge once, but that looks to have been dismissed.”
“So, he’s a peach of a guy,” Astra says.
“Exactly.”
“Okay, do me a favor and see if you can get a line on Nick,” I say. “I want to know if he’s still in Violet’s life. Also look into New Horizons. See if she’s got any sketchy connections there.”
“On it,” Nina says.
“Are we going to grill the aunt?” Astra asks.
“Not yet,” I reply. “We’re going to figure out where Ashley was taken from first.”
“Needle, meet haystack,” Paige quips.
“At least we know the general area of haystack to start searching in. That’s more than we usually start with,” I say.
“It ain’t much, but it’s all we got, so let’s work with what we have,” Astra says.
“My thoughts exactly. So, let’s start beating the bushes and see what jumps out.”
As we head out of the black site, I hear the tick of the clock echo in my mind. It’s a stark reminder that with every second that passes, Ashley Barlow may be getting farther away from us.
The Weatherton Academy; Arlington, VA
I stand across the street from the Weatherton Academy with Astra and Paige, admiring its old-world architecture and the ivy-covered red brick facades. We watch the students in their dark blue uniforms, milling about behind wrought-iron fences. Black SUVs and town cars pull to the curb in front of the main gates disgorging yet more students who then strut into the school like they’re walking the red carpet at some Hollywood premiere.
“Man. You can really smell the money and privilege wafting off that place from all the way over here,” Paige says dryly.
