Astra and I exchange a glance but say nothing. I don’t want to give out too much just yet. Local news stations are covering the abductions in their areas, but as yet, the stories haven’t been connected and aren’t gaining a lot of traction nationally. That’s going to change. It’s inevitable. As is keeping Ashley Barlow’s name out of the news. But, if possible, I’d like to put it off as long as I can.

“Am I right? You’ve seen this before?” he asks. “Does this have anything to do with the case you mentioned you were working on earlier?”

“We really can’t get into the details of an ongoing—”

“Spare me, Chief Wilder,” he snaps. “This is my daughter. I have a right to know what is going on here.”

“Judge Berenthal, I—”

“If you won’t tell me, I can always give Director Holland a call? Perhaps he can tell me what’s going on,” he spits.

That would be problematic. While the Bureau undoubtedly has people already en route to work Angelica’s case—the Director will no doubt pull out all the stops to find the daughter of a federal judge—it will bring our involvement in Ashley Barlow’s disappearance to light. Because we’re working this off the books, it will expose DD Church as well as my team and undoubtedly put us in line for a brutal smackdown that will make the OPR review that’s still hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles look like child’s play. If Judge Berenthal goes to the Director, a lot of bad things are sure to follow.

“Okay, listen,” I say. “I’m willing to share some of our information with you on the condition that what we tell you does not leave this room, and it does not make its way back to Director Holland or anybody in his orbit.”

“Are you trying to blackmail me, Chief?”

“No, I’m trying to protect the integrity of my investigation,” I reply. “There are a lot of moving parts, and nobody but my team knows about them all. That is by design.”

He hesitates, probing us with his frosty gaze. His frown deepens, but he finally nods.

“Fine,” he says. “You have my word. This is all strictly confidential.”

“Your daughter is the third abduction by the man in the smiley-face mask in the region. He took a girl from Arlington and a boy from Chevy Chase. In all three cases, the abductions were bold and in broad daylight,” I tell him.

“Jesus,” he gasps. “Do you suspect this is a trafficking ring?”

“We’re looking into that angle, certainly. But as of this moment, we haven’t found anything that would indicate that’s what’s going on here,” Astra says.

“Then… why? Why take my girl? Why take these other kids?” Berenthal asks.

I shake my head. “We’re still looking for a motive. In none of the cases to this point has a ransom demand been made, nor has the abductor tried to initiate contact with the families.”

“I don’t understand,” he says, his face twisted with fear. “Is he just… is he taking these kids just to murder them?”

“We haven’t found evidence of that, sir. Don’t go there just yet because we have no reason to believe they aren’t alive right now,” Astra tells him.

He leans back in his chair, a myriad of emotions scrolling across his face. Berenthal sits forward again and drains the last of his drink, then raises his gaze to us.

“Who are these other kids he’s taken?” he asks.

“We’d rather not say just yet out of respect for the families,” I explain. “I’m sure the news will go nationwide at some point, but I’d rather not make it easier for the media to make the connections right now.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “But do you have any idea who this man is?”

“We’re pursuing a number of leads,” Astra says.

“So… no. You don’t have the first clue.”

“As I said, we’re pursuing a number of leads,” she repeats.

“Can we ask you a few questions, Judge Berenthal?” I ask.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Astra and I take turns asking him the usual litany of questions we’ve asked Senator Barlow and the Olanges. Does Angelica have trouble with a boyfriend? Anybody following her around? Making her uncomfortable? And just as with Barlow and the Olanges, Berenthal doesn’t have any answers that help us. Like the others, Angelica is a responsible, focused, and driven girl. She doesn’t get into trouble, doesn’t drink or do drugs, and doesn’t hang out with those who do.

When we’re finished with our questions, we don’t have anything more than when we walked in. It’s the same as with the others. It’s as if our guy is targeting these kids specifically, perhaps for those reasons.

“Judge Berenthal, can I trouble you for a copy of that footage?” I ask.

He nods numbly. “Yeah. I can send it to you. I just ask that you keep me in the loop—that you tell me what you find as you continue your investigation.”

“You have my word,” I say.

I slide one of my cards across the desk, giving him my email address so he can send me the video. Maybe Rick and Nina, when they analyze the footage, can find something we didn’t see the first time we ran through it. Given just how good our guy is, I’m skeptical, but it’s not impossible. It wouldn’t be the first time they found something hidden deep in the details, and all I can hope is that this is one of those instances.

We say our goodbyes to the judge and promise again to keep him apprised of the investigation. And since he could blow up a lot of things for a lot of people with just one phone call, we have no choice but to make good on that promise. I don’t like it. I don’t like giving reports while working a case, especially to a civilian. But I’ve got no choice.

As we climb back into the SUV, Astra turns to me, her face aghast. Her expression perfectly encapsulates the chaotic thoughts and feelings coursing through me right now.

“What in the hell is going on?” she asks.

“I have no idea,” I reply as I start the engine. “No idea whatsoever.”

And that is one of the many things creating a deep pang in my gut about this whole case right now. I hate not knowing.

FBI Operational Black Site, Foggy Bottom District; Washington DC

“You are not going to believe this,” Paige exclaims as we walk through the door.

“I might. But judging by the tone of your voice, I’m already sure I’m not going to like it… whatever it is,” I reply.

“Watch,” Mo says.

The monitor at the foot of the table is showing a live local news station. Behind the reporter on the scene is a hive of activity. Uniformed cops and suited detectives, as well as people in dark blue windbreakers with “FBI” stenciled in yellow, are going in and out of a large house. The chyron at the bottom of the screen reads: “Breaking News: Son of Federal Prosecutor Abducted in Broad Daylight.” I stare at the screen in stunned silence for a long minute, just listening to the reporter going on.

“Seventeen-year-old Justin Moore, a popular student at Holy Rosary High School, and the son of Denise Moore, a federal prosecutor, has been abducted from the parking lot of his school this afternoon…”

A school photo of Justin Moore flashes on the screen. His long, pale face is framed by shaggy hair the color of sand. He’s got dark eyes behind round, silver glasses that sit on an aquiline nose, prominent dimples, and a cleft in his chin. The screen splits with the picture of Justin on one side and the reporter who’s wearing a well-rehearsed expression of concern on the other.

“Once again, the seventeen-year-old son of famed federal prosecutor Denise Moore has been kidnapped from the parking lot of Holy Rosary High School by a man wearing black clothing and a yellow mask…”

The picture of Justin is replaced by a still from the school’s surveillance camera showing the man in black with the yellow smiley-face mask we’re all so familiar with by now. A moment later, the video plays, and we watch the man in the mask jump out of the black panel van, which is parked next to Justin’s car, and follow his well-choreographed routine. Smiley-face man pulls the Taser from his pocket and fires it at Justin, and the kid goes down immediately. He scoops Justin’s limp form off the ground, throws him into the van, quickly zip ties him, then gets in and drives off. And all that happened in less than two minutes.