Her eyes are fast and probing, and she seems able to see through all the smokescreens we’re throwing up to get to the truth behind our words.
“Mrs. Olange, what I’m saying is there is still a lot we don’t know just yet, least of all the identity of the man who took your son. But I promise you that we won’t stop until we’re able to get you some answers,” I reply diplomatically. “Thank you for your time, and I promise that we’ll be in touch just as soon as we have something.”
Dutton pulls his wife toward him, and she lays her head on his shoulder, her body quaking as she quietly sobs. The man’s face clouds over, and his eyes shimmer with tears of his own, but he’s doing his best to be strong for her. Astra and I get up from the table and say a quiet goodbye to the shell-shocked couple before heading out of the house. Before we get to the SUV, though, we’re intercepted by a large man with broad shoulders and the sort of frame that would give most bodybuilders a run for their money.
The man in the state police uniform steps in front of us, blocking our way. His dark eyes glitter beneath the brim of his felt Stetson, and he’s working the toothpick in the corner of his mouth furiously. He’s got a warm, umber complexion and a thick, dark mustache on his upper lip. The gold oak leaf clusters on his lapels as well as the medals on his dark brown uniform jacket tell me he’s a man of some station within the state police.
“Major George Yerkis,” he says around his toothpick, his voice a rich baritone. “Commander of the Criminal Investigation Bureau.”
“Unit Chief Blake Wilder, SSA Astra Russo,” I reply. “FBI.”
“Uh-huh. And what is the Bureau doing here for what is a local matter? Little outside your jurisdiction, ain’t it?”
“It’s actually not,” I say.
“How’s that?”
“I can’t get into specifics with you, but the offender has crossed state lines. That puts it squarely within our jurisdiction,” I reply. “Now, we’re not going to prevent you from doing your thing here. In fact, I was going to suggest you post somebody up here just in case there’s a ransom call. But that’s your choice. We won’t get in your way so long as you don’t get in ours.”
“Uh-huh,” he says and keeps working his toothpick.
“We’ll provide you with information as is appropriate. We’ll keep you in the loop as much as we can, Major Yerkis,” I tell him. “I hope that will go both ways.”
“Sure,” he says.
I can tell by the look on his face and the slightly condescending tone in his voice that he has no intention of sharing any intel they may gather with us. He’s obviously upset that we’re here playing in his sandbox. That’s fine though. He’s not the first local cop who doesn’t like working with the Feds, and he’s certainly not going to be the last. I’m not one to waste time or energy stressing about it.
“Nice to meet you, Major,” I say.
His gaze lingers on us, his lips slightly curled down. I’m not really sure what he’s doing, but if the silent act is meant to be intimidating, it’s not working. He finally pulls the toothpick out of his mouth and drops it into one of the pockets of his jacket.
“Uh-huh. You too,” he replies. “Drive carefully now.”
Astra and I climb into the SUV and close the doors behind us. She turns to me and shrugs.
“He seems nice,” she says dryly.
“Right?”
We pull away from the curb, and I point the vehicle toward our war room and hit the gas. There’s something bigger going on here than we first thought. We need to figure out what it is—and we need to figure it out fast. The clock is ticking on the lives of two kids. And we certainly don’t want our perp to strike again.
FBI Operational Black Site, Foggy Bottom District; Washington DC
“How did you know he was taken?” I ask Nina.
“Just in case Ashley’s abduction wasn’t a one-off, I’ve been keeping an ear to the ground for abductions that involve black panel vans and/or men in smiley-face masks,” she replies.
“Wow. Great work, Nina. Really, outstanding work,” I say.
Her cheeks redden, and she looks away. “Thanks, Boss.”
“Okay, what can you tell us about the victim?” I ask.
“Peter Olange, eighteen years old, a senior at Basil Hill Prep,” Nina says. “He carries a 3.8 GPA, is heavily involved in extracurriculars, is the star first baseman on the school’s baseball team, and has plans to attend Georgetown after graduation. By all accounts, he’s a good kid, doesn’t cause trouble, and keeps his nose clean.”
“No record, sealed or otherwise?” I ask.
“None,” Rick replies. “He’s squeaky clean.”
I frown. “Anything questionable on his socials? Has he aligned himself with any groups that might raise some red flags?”
“Not a thing,” Nina says. “From everything I can see, he’s a pretty normal kid.”
“Well, he caught the eye of a bad guy. I’d like to know how,” I muse.
“Could just be dumb luck. Maybe our smiley-face guy ran across him by chance,” Astra offers.
“Yeah. Maybe,” I reply. “But do Peter and Ashley Barlow have anything in common?”
“On the surface, nothing we can find,” Nina says.
“They go to different schools in different states,” Rick tells me.
On our way back from the Olange house, I called ahead and told Rick and Mo to set up an electronic tap on the Senator’s phones to record any calls that might come in, then decamp from Barlow’s place and hoof it back to the war room in Foggy Bottom. With Peter’s abduction, it makes it increasingly unlikely that a ransom call is going to come in, and I can use the both of them as we delve into this mess that’s growing more tangled.
