The band on stage announces they’re taking a break but will be back in a bit. As they depart, music begins to play from the speakers mounted to the walls overhead, and the buzz of conversation grows louder. There’s a strange current in the air that surrounds us that I can’t quite place. The tightness around Senator Barlow’s eyes and his grim expression tell me he’s upset—that he’s got a problem. And the fact that Church tracked me down and brought him here to see me tells me for some reason they think I’m the one who can solve it. My skin prickles, and my stomach churns as the realization settles down over me.
“So, not to be too blunt, but back to my original question,” I say. “May I ask again why we’re all here?”
Barlow looks around as if making sure nobody is eavesdropping on our conversation. He doesn’t have to worry though. There is literally nobody in the entire lounge that’s turning our way or looking remotely interested in us. Nobody is listening. He leans forward and speaks in little more than a whisper anyway. Paranoia apparently runs deep in DC.
“Chief Wilder, my daughter was abducted,” he says.
I look at him blankly for a moment, then turn to Church. “Why are you coming to me? Why hasn’t the Bureau—”
“Because I don’t want the Bureau as a whole involved,” Barlow cuts me off. “I don’t want this in the media. I want this kept quiet, and Lauren assures me we can trust your discretion.”
“Have you received a ransom demand? A threat if you involve authorities?” I ask.
Barlow shakes his head. “We’ve had no communication from her abductor.”
“I don’t mean this to sound insensitive, but how do you know she was taken, Senator?”
“Because she never showed up for her piano lesson,” he says.
“She’s a teenager, sir. Teenagers—”
He cuts me off with a shake of his head. “You don’t know Ashley. She’s not like other teenagers. She’s not irresponsible, and she never just disappears like that. She always calls to tell me what she’s doing or if her plans have changed. Always. And one thing she would never do is blow off a piano lesson. Never in a million years.”
Parents always want to believe the best in their children and believe that they tell them everything. None actually do. Kids always keep secrets and have their own lives their parents know nothing about. It’s just a universal truth. But I know I need to balance that knowledge with the idea that parents know when something isn’t right. Parents tend to have an intuition when it comes to their children that defies logic but is somehow usually right. And Barlow speaks with such an intense conviction in his voice, I feel like I have to give him some credence rather than dismissing his fears out of hand. And if Church is convinced that something is wrong here, then I should probably hear the man out.
“Okay, let’s have a conversation,” I tell him. “But this isn’t the place for it. Let’s talk someplace more private.”
We quickly down our drinks, then make our way out of the lounge. As we step into the evening air and Barlow leads us to a waiting SUV, the secrecy of this all leaves me with a lingering sense of unease for reasons that elude me at the moment. Perhaps it’s because my experience tells me the vast majority of child abduction cases don’t have a happy ending. And maybe—it’s horribly selfish, bordering on monstrous—there’s a small sliver in the back of my mind that wonders what will happen to me and my career if we fail to bring Barlow’s daughter home safely.
My God, I hate Bureau politics.
Residence of Senator Elliot Barlow, Georgetown District; Washington DC
Barlow’s residence—when he stays in the district—is a red brick, three-story brownstone on a narrow, quiet, tree-lined street in one of the tonier parts of the already toney area. The interior of the house is tastefully appointed, predictably looking like something out of a Better Homes & Gardens photo spread. There’s no clutter, nothing out of place, and everything seems just so. Honestly, it’s stiff and stuffy, reminding me of a movie set and everything within the walls a prop meant to convey a specific image. Because, God forbid, we can’t have anybody who stops by see that Elliot Barlow is a real human being who occasionally might leave something lying around or anything like that.
The wood flooring cracks and pops as Barlow leads us through the house and into a dimly lit office at the back of the house. The furnishings all look to be handcrafted from some exotic hardwood that’s rich and dark. There's an American flag folded into a triangle in a glass-fronted box slits on a corner of his desk. I assume it’s the flag he was given when his father, a former Marine and US Senator himself, passed away. The wall to my right is dominated by an ornate bookcase filled with law texts and pictures, mostly of Barlow and a younger girl who, judging by her warm hazel eyes and similar smile, has to be his daughter.
I walk over and pick up the frame, studying the young girl closely. In it, she’s in a black dress and is standing with the Senator beside a piano. It looks like it was taken at a recital. She’s almost a foot shorter than her father and has delicate, pixie-like features. Her hair is the same shade as Barlow’s and is tied back with a red ribbon. In the photo, her eyes sparkle, and a wide smile stretches her heart-shaped lips. She’s cute, if a little gangly and awkward in that typical teenage way. I can tell, though, that she’s inherited her father’s features.
“Please, have a seat,” Barlow says.
I set the picture down, then walk over and perch on the edge of one of the plush leather wingbacks that sit in front of a large, ornately carved desk that has a vintage, antique look to it. DD Church sits in the other chair while Barlow walks to a sideboard and picks up a square-shaped crystal decanter of what I presume is scotch. He pours out three glasses, then hands each of us one before taking the third and walks around his desk, dropping heavily into the chair behind it. He looks tired. Though just forty years old, as he sips his drink, he looks twenty years older than that.
A small, petite woman in a dark pantsuit with her black hair pulled back into a tight bun that sits at the nape of her neck walks into the office, a stern but worried look on her face.
“This is Gretchen Kaldor, my Chief of Staff,” Barlow says. “Gretchen, you know Lauren. This is Unit Chief Blake Wilder. They’re here to help us find Ashley.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Nice to meet you as well,” she replies crisply, then turns to Barlow. “Still no contact from whomever took her. And I’m still not able to get through to Ashley on her cell either.”
The worry on Gretchen’s face is as plain to see as it is to hear in her voice. I can tell she cares about Ashley. The vibe I’m getting from her is almost maternal. I’m guessing Gretchen has been with the Senator for a long time and has probably watched his daughter grow up. I know the Senator’s wife—Ashley’s mother—passed away when Ashley was young, so seeing the emotion on the woman’s face makes me think maybe Gretchen has been something of a surrogate mother to the girl.
“Thank you, Gretchen,” Barlow says. “Give me a little time with Lauren and Chief Wilder.”
“Yes, sir.”
She leaves the office, softly closing the door behind her, and we sit in silence for a couple of minutes as Barlow stares into his drink, trying to gather himself. He’s a lot calmer than I would have expected somebody in his position to be, but I can see the strain around his eyes. He’s somehow managing to keep himself together. His self-control and apparent ability to compartmentalize his emotions is impressive. If I were in his situation, I honestly don’t know that I’d be able to hold it together half as well as he is.
Taking a quick swallow of my scotch, I try to quiet the voices of cynicism and suspicion that live in the back of my mind. Both are whispering in my ear, filling my head with questions about whether Barlow is too calm or not. Questions about whether he could be involved with his daughter’s disappearance and is simply trying to deflect any suspicion by pulling DD Church and me into this. My head can be a crowded—noisy—and I admit, a completely jaded place at times. I sometimes hate that I think this way and that suspicion is my default setting, but seeing all the angles, asking the hard questions, and taking nothing for granted is why I’m good at my job.
Barlow drains his glass, then stands up and walks over to the sideboard. He picks up a bottle with a trembling hand, some of the scotch sloshing over the side of his glass as he refills it. The Senator hesitates for a moment, then turns and carries his glass as well as the decanter back to the desk with him.
“Chief Wilder—”
“Please, just call me Blake,” I reply and look pointedly at the decanter. “And if we’re going to get through this, I need you to have your wits about you.”
He nods and cups the glass between his hands, staring into the depths of the amber liquid for a moment in silence. He gathers himself, then raises his head and looks at me, his expression tight and determined.
“Blake, my daughter is all I have left,” he says. “My wife, Samantha—Sam—passed away some years ago, and Ashley, she’s all I have now. Maybe I can be a little overprotective at times, but I know when something is wrong. And I’m telling you, something is wrong. This isn’t like Ashley.”
“So, she’s never done anything like this before?” I ask.
He shakes his head, a wan smile touching his lips. “I know what you’re thinking. No kid ever tells their parents everything, and they all keep secrets. I’m not naïve; I know Ash has her secrets—and I let her keep them. She’s a growing girl and I don’t need to be in every single corner of her life. But we made a deal after her mother died that we would share the big things and that we would never lie to each other.
