“How old was she?”
When nothing but silence resonates out of my earpiece for the next several seconds, my panic shifts to fury. “How fucking old was she!” I scream like my lungs don’t need air to function. I thought the knot in my stomach centered around Roxanne. I had no fucking clue my focus should have been on Fien.
It should have always been on Fien.
If I had protected her mother as I’m endeavoring to protect Roxanne, I wouldn’t be here, fiddling my thumbs while maniacs run my town to the ground.
Perhaps I am as bad as my father.
Maybe this is my penance for the wrongs I’ve done.
My self-reflection is held back for another time when Smith discloses, “The corpse was mummified. She had been in the wall for a while.”
His tone is both sorrowed and angry, but it does little to ease my agitation. “That wasn’t what I asked. You know you can alter the age of a corpse. You’re aware you can manipulate it to fool forensic scientists. She could be Fien. She could be my daughter.”
The pain clawing my chest gets a moment of reprieve when Rocco says, “She isn’t Fien, Dimi.” He swivels in his seat to face me before handing me a printout of the report Ellie just forwarded. The Tank isn’t just a muscle car. She’s a command station on wheels. “Not only do the dates on the newspaper clippings surrounding the little girl’s corpse disclose this, so does your gut. You’d know if Fien was gone, D, because you live for her. You’ve not done a single thing the past two years that wouldn’t benefit her in some way.” His grin gets smug along with his comment. “Except Roxie, but she doesn’t count because she improved your chances of getting your daughter back instead of reducing it.”
Before I have the chance to reply to any part of his statement, the back entrance of Ravenshoe PD pops open, and a showdown between Ravenshoe PD’s finest and the Bureau’s golden boy gets underway.
It’s clear Ryan and Brandon have had words before. The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife, although it has nothing on the unease in the cabin of The Tank.
After slicing his hand across the front of his body, wordlessly sending Brandon off, Ryan locks his eyes with the back passenger window of The Tank. I store the report of the mass grave site at Shroud Family Ranch into the slot in my door before popping open the one opposite from me, more than happy for Ryan to know who I’m schmoozing. Perhaps if he knows my pull extends all the way to the Bureau, he might accept one of the many offers I’ve made him the past six years.
“Game face, Dimi,” Smith mutters in my ear when Brandon’s gawk at my open door sees him jogging down the stairs separating us. “He’s smarter than his baby face implies.”
I doubt Smith’s assumption when confusion congeals Brandon’s face a mere second after he slides into the back seat of The Tank. He walked into an ambush, smiling. A smart man doesn’t do that.
He also doesn’t test the durability of the locks the jaws of life couldn’t budge.
“You’d have a better chance of shooting out the bulletproof windows than getting its lock mechanisms to budge. I paid out the eye to make this thing a tank, but the quality of the product was worth its exorbitant price tag.”
I hear his jaw go through a stern workover before he shifts his eyes to me. “What do you want, Dimi—”
“Information,” I cut him off, eager to get things moving. My head is spinning. I don’t have time for idle chit-chat.
Like a fool unaware of what happens to men who waste my time, Brandon’s lips etch into a condescending smirk. “That isn’t how things work. We ask you for information. If we find it beneficial, we help you. That’s what being an informant entails.”
“Informant?” Ignoring Smith’s advice for me to take a chill pill, I spit out, “I’mnotan informant for the FBI. They work for me, not the other way around.”
It takes everything I have not to reach for my gun when Brandon replies, “That may have been how things worked with you and Tobias, but that won’t fly with me.”
“Reveal your hand, Dimitri,” Ellie suggests, overtaking the reins from Smith. “I’ve never worked with Agent James, but if he’s anything like the rumors I’ve heard, outsmarting him will work better than threatening him. He’s all about brains over brawn.”
After an inconspicuous nod, I shove the report Rocco gave to me into Brandon’s chest. “Is this report accurate?”
The brutal bob of his Adam’s apple reveals Ellie was on the money. He isn’t stunned by the information he’s reading on the reports, he is shocked I have them. I just wish suspicion wasn’t also on his face. He doesn’t realize I’m a victim of the trade he’s investigating. He thinks I’m a part of it. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. My family name has been embroiled in controversy for longer than I’ve been born.
“Where did you get this? This hasn’t even been logged with the Bureau yet.”
I lower the angst in my tone before replying, “Where I got this information isn’t important. I just need to know if it’s true?”
He peers at me as if I have a second head before he mutters, “Yes, it’s true.”
“Are all the victims female?” I ball my hands together so tightly, my nails dig into my palm when I ask, “What’s the average age of the women found?”
Brandon wets his dry lips before he sings like a canary. “Preliminary findings state the victims are between the ages of thirteen to late twenties.”
The fact he doesn’t mention the toddler found in the wall exposes he knows more than he’s letting on. The knowledge he’s holding back frustrates me to no end, but I do my best to maintain a rational head. “Had any of the victims recently given birth before their death?”
