“But that’s not completely unheard of in adults who have inappropriate relationships with kids. In fact, it’s relatively common,” I point out.

His hands ball into fists, and he looks like he wants to tear something in half. Maybe us. Lieb exhales a long, shaking breath, and it’s like I can see him physically pushing the emotion away as he gets himself back under control. He forces his hands to open and unclenches his jaw.

“I have never wanted children of my own, Chief Wilder,” he says with anger still dusting his words. “In some ways, though, I feel like Ashley is my child. I watched over her from a young age. I protected her. I value her safety and well-being more than my own. If somebody is telling you it was something more than that, they’re lying to you.”

He seems genuine to me. His emotions and reactions seem authentic, and they ring true in my ears. Lieb studies me as I study him, and in that brief moment of silence, I see the light of recognition dawn in his eyes as he realizes nobody had ever really said that about him and Ashley. Which, of course, they hadn’t. I simply needed to gauge his reaction. He frowns and shakes his head. He’s a very sharp, very perceptive man.

“I see,” he says. “So, I passed your test?”

“You did,” I reply.

“I do not like being manipulated.”

“I wish we didn’t have to play games like that, but it’s sometimes necessary in our line of work to get to the truth of the matter,” I tell him.

He nods. “I understand.”

He may understand, but Lieb’s distaste for our methods is loud and clear. I would tell him that I’m sorry for deceiving him, but it would be yet another lie. It’s my job. Uncovering the truth is all that matters to me, and I will do everything I have to do, employ every tactic in my bag of tricks no matter how shady, deceptive, or underhanded, to cut through the lies and find that truth. To save lives. And for that, I will never apologize.

“May I ask what your thoughts are about what happened to Ashley?” Lieb asks.

“We can’t say just yet,” I admit.

“Can’t? Or won’t.”

“To be honest, both. We can’t discuss the particulars of an ongoing investigation. I’m sorry.”

He nods. “I understand. If there is anything I can do—anything at all—please do not hesitate to reach out. My company and all the resources I have are at your disposal, Agents.”

“Thank you, Lieb. We may have some follow-up questions for you.”

He pulls a business card out of one of his pants pockets and hands it to me. “This is my personal cell. It is on twenty-four hours a day.”

“Thank you,” I say. “We’ll be in touch.”

“We appreciate your time,” Astra says.

We leave the observation room, letting him get back to work, and find our way back out to the parking lot. We came for some answers, and I believe we got them. Lieb isn’t our guy. As we climb into the SUV, Astra turns to me with a grin on her face.

“Mind if I hold on to that business card?” she asks.

I throw the card at her and laugh, then start the engine and pull out of the lot. We’ve got one more stop to make before we head back to the war room.

Mayhew Residence, Arlington Ridge District; Arlington, VA

“Wow,” Astra says. “Ashley’s man lives in a really nice house. I can see why he doesn’t want to leave this place. I’d probably want to live here forever too.”

“I guess when you’re playing with other people’s money, you can do whatever you want,” I say.

I pull the vehicle to a stop in front of a massive colonial-style house on a street lined with what I can only call mansions, all built in a similar style to the Mayhew home. According to a sign at the head of the street, it’s a historic district, which explains why everything looks so similar in design. Personally, I think it’s got a very cookie cutter feel to it. The only appreciable difference I can see between the houses is the color.

The Mayhew home is classic white with dark blue trim, matching shutters on either side of the windows on all three floors, and a dark slate roof. Red brick steps lead to a dark blue door beneath a high-peaked portico set squarely in the middle of the front façade. Built onto the right side of the house looks like a sunroom made almost entirely of glass. The yard is expertly landscaped and neatly trimmed, and the big flag hanging from a bracket on the portico just makes the place scream that it’s a big slice of Americana. I’m sure Bradley Mayhew’s clients appreciate the patriotic touch.

We climb out of the vehicle and head up the brick walk that leads us to the front door. It opens a moment before I knock, and we find ourselves greeted by the coolly professional face of a stout, middle-aged woman in a dark gray uniform.

“How may I help you?” she asks.

We flash the woman our badges. “We’re with the FBI, and we just need to have a few words with Tyler Mayhew.”

“May I ask what this is about?”

“We just need to ask a few routine questions,” I say. “Is he here?”

She looks uncertain about whether to send us packing or to let us in. Obviously, having federal agents knocking on her door isn’t a normal situation for her.

“Ma’am, this will only take a few minutes,” I tell her. “It’s important we speak with Tyler. You’re welcome to call his father if you wish, but I assure you he’s not in any trouble. We have just a few background questions.”

She still doesn’t look incredibly sure, but she finally relents and steps aside as she holds the door open for us.

“Mr. Mayhew is out by the pool with some of his friends,” she said. “Out back. Just go straight down the hall.”

“Thank you,” I say.

I lead Astra through the house. It’s like walking through a museum. Everywhere we look are classic pieces of art and antique furniture. I don’t see family photos anywhere or any other signs that typically make a house a home. The entire place is about as cold and sterile as a museum, with a lot of things under glass. All that’s missing are signs advising people not to touch this or that and velvet ropes blocking off entire areas. Growing up in a place like this would be tough.

“How often do you think they actually cook?” Astra asks as we pass through a gorgeous kitchen filled with all the latest gadgets.

“They probably have a professional chef who cooks for them,” I say.

“Yeah, that’s probably it.”

We step through a pair of French doors that lead us out to the backyard that’s filled with half-naked twenty-somethings flouncing around in and around the large kidney-shaped pool that I recognize from Ashley’s secret pictures. An octagonal gazebo sits in the green space beyond the pool, and half a dozen young men and women are gathered around out there, laughing, talking, drinking, and taking turns passing a bong around. The music is loud, the kids are even louder, and the air is saturated with the pungent scent of pot.

“This is ridiculous,” I say.

“This brings back memories,” Astra replies and laughs.

I look around and spot the sound system on the far side of the deck beside the outdoor range and kitchen and lounge setup. Several guys are gathered around the large flatscreen TV playing video games and seem completely oblivious as we walk by. I stare at the stereo system for a long moment, trying to figure out how to shut it off, but I might as well be staring at the panels in Mission Control before a shuttle launch.

“Allow me,” Astra says.

She reaches around me and hits a button, cutting the music off abruptly. The backyard falls completely silent as conversations cut off just as quickly and all heads turn our way. A moment later, the silence is shattered by the sound of drunk and high twenty-somethings groaning, moaning, and shouting out strings of curses in protest. They’re worse than a bunch of preteens.

“Okay, everybody, listen up,” I announce, and hold my badge up for all to see. “We’re with the FBI, and we need to speak with Tyler Mayhew.”