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Trey shot a glance at Walt Ballard, the thirtyish but already balding agent in charge of Jason’s case. Since returning with the bad news, the man worked his phone in a chair by the door, leaning forward, forearms on his knees, wearing a grim expression. Texting? Checking email? Was he receiving information about Jason from the agents still in the field? Was it bad news?
Trey stopped moving and took a deep breath. Not here. He’d fall apart later, away from the public eye. That was the Wentworth way. Trey heard his father’s clipped voice inside his head and pushed away the sound. The bastard couldn’t be bothered to fly in even though his only grandson had been abducted.
Where was his attorney? Shit. Why hadn’t they heard something?
Trey glanced at his watch. How much longer? Jason had been through so much in the last year. Would he ever see his son again? Would they even find Jason’s body?
Kids disappeared without a trace all the time.
Ballard’s phone rang, the sound startling in the quiet of the room. Everyone turned.
“Ballard,” the agent barked into the phone. A few beats of silence. “What?”
The shock in Ballard’s voice forced Trey into a chair. Oh, God. No. Jason.
“Where?” Ballard demanded. Then, “Got it. We’re on our way.”
Ballard disconnected and looked directly at Trey. “We’ve got him. We’ve got your boy.”
“Alive?” Trey stood on shaky legs, not trusting his hearing. “Is he hurt?”
“He’s fine. He’s in the custody of the City of Miami Police.”
“No mistake this time?” he demanded.
“No mistake,” Ballard said.
Choking back a sob, Trey sagged into the chair again, unable to formulate a response.
“City of Miami arrested the kidnappers?” This question came from another agent, a female. Trey couldn’t remember her name. All he could focus on was the knowledge that Jason was alive and unharmed.
“No,” Ballard said. “Apparently the kidnappers remain at large.”
“What the hell happened?” asked another agent.
Ballard shook his head. “I don’t have all the details yet, and they can wait.” He nodded at Trey and grinned. “Let’s go get your son.”
* * *
INSIDE A FRIGID interview room at the Coconut Grove police substation, Kelly couldn’t remember when she’d ever been so cold. The AC had to be set at about forty degrees, and she might as well be naked since all she had on was flimsy nylon running shorts and a cotton jog bra. Making things worse, her flesh and her clothing were sweaty.
Officer Rodriguez had wrapped a towel around the shivering Jason, and that helped, but Kelly’s legs were freezing. They’d given her a cup of vile lukewarm coffee, but that had cooled and was of no help.
There was a reason for the chill of course. The police didn’t want their suspects or interviewees comfortable. She had a bad feeling they considered her a suspect—of what she wasn’t sure, but something. She’d heard chatter of a statewide BOLO as they’d snapped photos of the kid, so maybe they knew who he was. For his sake, she hoped so. The misunderstanding would all be straightened out eventually, but she was going to be late for her shift.
She’d called her sergeant on the way in to explain, but he hadn’t sounded happy. Shit. She’d been number one in her rookie class and intended to be the highest-performing rookie that had ever entered the Miami-Dade County PD. Missing roll call this soon wouldn’t help with that goal.
So where was a social worker? DCF was notoriously inefficient, but this delay was ridiculous.
She needed to contact her lieutenant, but the kid remained glued to her, his legs hooked around her waist. If she shifted his weight to her other side, she could access her phone in her jog pouch. At least she was getting his body heat. He still insisted on calling her Mommy, which was beyond weird, but the kid was confused. Definitely traumatized.
Maybe Caleb and Adam had drugged him. The kid hadn’t so much as twitched since she’d sat on this hard chair. His breathing sounded ragged, but he was stuffed up from crying. Maybe he’d fallen asleep.
“Jason,” she whispered.
He snuggled deeper into her shoulder and twisted her halter straps tighter. Not asleep.
