“So, there’s nothing there with him?” Astra asks.

“Lots of self-created smoke that he fans himself, but not even the first hint of fire,” Nina replies. “Trust me, I’ve turned over every rock I can find, and there’s just nothing there. If there was something to find, I would have found it.”

My frustration levels are rising, making my heart pound in my ears. There’s an invisible hand pressing down on me so hard, I feel like I can’t breathe. I always feel responsible for the victims, but this time, it’s something more. There’s an added weight. And that extra pressure is coming from the OPR review that’s hanging over my head and the possibility that failing to find Ashley will have severe consequences for my career.

I’m worried that if I don’t come through for DD Church and Senator Barlow, I really fear that as a practical matter, I might be done in the Bureau. At the very least, I’ll be exiled and stuck on a dead-end track until it sucks the life out of me, and I end up resigning. That’s just one of the many vast and varied reasons I hate politics so much. It’s like a live hand grenade. If you don’t handle it just so, it will blow up in your face.

“Bad news,” Mo says.

“More?” Astra asks.

“Unfortunately, so,” she replies.

“Lay it on us,” I say.

“I just got off the phone with a contact on the task force,” she says. “As of right now, they’re not aware of any trafficking rings operating in the area. He said he’ll keep his ear to the ground and let me know if he hears anything.”

“And the hits just keep on coming,” Astra says.

“Just because they’re not aware of one doesn’t mean there isn’t a ring operating,” I reply. “Rick, can you monitor the dark web? Maybe there’s some chatter about scooping up kids—or these kids in particular?”

“I’ve already been poking around the usual rancid corners of that cesspool,” Rick responds. “I haven’t found anything about Ashley or Peter specifically. Nothing I’ve found suggests anybody was looking to have either one of them snatched up. And believe it or not, I didn’t find anything suggesting there’s a trafficking ring operating in the Beltway area currently.”

“Wow. I actually don’t believe that,” Astra says.

“I can broaden my search,” Rick offers. “Maybe I overlooked something.”

Rick is meticulous in his work, and I find it unlikely that he missed something. But it never hurts to take a second look, so I nod.

“Please. Yes,” I respond. “I know it’s a shot in the dark, but I don’t suppose there’s any chance we can get a lead on the mask, is there?”

“It seems pretty generic—like something you can buy at any Party City or online,” Nina replies. “But I’ll see if I can track anything down. A long shot is better than no shot.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“What’s our next step?” Astra asks.

I blow out a frustrated breath. It’s not often I’m as stuck and have no sense of direction on a case as I feel right now. We have no clues. No leads. Nothing is adding up. And even worse, nothing is pointing to anything resembling a direction for us to run. This smiley-face guy is so good and so methodical that he’s giving us absolutely nothing to work with. That just doesn’t happen very often, and I feel like I’ve been caught totally flat-footed.

“I don’t know. I’m at a loss right now,” I admit.

“I know you aren’t getting any sort of hinky hit off the guy, but I think we should take another run at Joey Bauer,” Astra offers. “I say we squeeze him hard and see if anything falls out.”

“You still think he’s running a trafficking ring?”

She shrugs. “I have no idea. What I do know is we’re not going to find out just standing here running Google searches on the guy. Better a longshot than no shot, yeah?”

“In our defense, we do a little bit more than Google searches,” Rick interjects.

“No offense. And you know what I mean,” Astra says with a grin.

Rick returns her sly smile. “Do I though?”

I glance at the photos of Peter Olange and Ashley Barlow that are side by side on the computer monitor and frown. They both look so young. So innocent. And they certainly don’t deserve what’s happened to them. All I can hope is we’re able to uncover some motive for their abductions, be it political or otherwise, because the alternative is something I don’t even want to consider. If these kids really were trafficked, the chances of finding them are low… and getting lower with every single second that ticks off the clock.

“Okay, you’re right,” I tell her. “Let’s go take another run at Bauer. I doubt anything’s going to come of it, but we leave no stone unturned.”

Blue Velvet Lounge, Ballston Quarter; Arlington, VA

“Oh man, come on. What now?” Bauer complains as we stride into his establishment.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Bauer,” I say.

“Joey. Just call me Joey. You two have crawled so far up my backside already, I feel like we should be on a first name basis by now,” he gripes.

“Very well, Joey,” I say.

“I wish I could say it was good to see the two of you again. If I did, though, we’d all know it was a lie,” he replies.

“No offense taken… just in case you were wondering,” Astra teases.

“I wasn’t.”

“That’s okay. We understand why you’d feel that way,” she replies.

The club is still a couple hours from opening, and the employees are busy running around, getting everything set up for the evening crowd. It’s a live music night. A four-member band called Tokyo Dreams is on stage tuning their instruments and running their sound check. And judging by what I’m hearing, they’re an emo, dream pop band, so I’m anxious to get this interview done and get out of here before that starts.

“Seriously, though, whatever this is, can we make this quick? I’ve got a big night and a lot of work to do here,” Bauer says.

“We’ll be as brief as we can,” I say. “Mind if we go somewhere a little more private?”

He sighs and rolls his eyes. “Fine. My office.”

We follow him through the club and back to his office. Astra closes the door behind us as he perches on the corner of his desk, not bothering to sit down, likely to convey just how busy he is and how little time he can afford to spend with us. Astra and I plop down in the chairs in front of his desk and look at him—conveying just how much we don’t care how busy he is. Bauer frowns then deflates in front of us, folding his arms over his chest, seemingly resigned to the fact that this is going to take as long as it takes.

“So, what is it this time?” he asks glumly.

I pull out my phone and call up the picture of Peter Olange. “Tell me about him.”

Bauer glances at it. “Don’t know him.”

“Look again,” I order him. “And actually look at the picture this time.”

“I don’t need to look at the picture again. I saw enough already to tell you I don’t know the kid,” he says.