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“They haven’t even finished today’s search,” Jason said.
“All right.” Gervase sighed, a long weary sound of exasperation. “All right then. You’re the expert. Maybe we will find her today. Although we’re running out of daylight.”
“In the meantime, we’ve got plenty to hold McEnroe on,” Kennedy said. His gaze flicked toward Jason, and Jason knew he was thinking about the fact McEnroe had managed to get the drop on him. His face warmed.
“Okay. I’m heading back to the search site,” Gervase said. “If you want to start reading over statements, I’ll instruct Officer Courtney to make sure you have whatever you need.”
Officer Courtney set them up in an unused office and brought them coffee and a stack of papers.
As usual there was no instruction or information from Kennedy. Not that Jason didn’t know how to read a witness statement, but he was used to being able to bounce ideas and theories off one of the fifteen other members of the Art Crime Team. His current situation had all the disadvantages of working alone and none of the advantages, because every time he looked up, there was Kennedy frowning over his own reading or directing one of those penetrating stares at Jason.
Let Kennedy think what he wanted. He couldn’t prove it. And it wouldn’t happen again. Today had been…a fluke. The very natural surprise of coming face-to-face with a loaded weapon. That would give anybody pause.
Getting shot, even in the shoulder, wasn’t like on TV. A .22 round tearing through muscles and nerves and ligaments was one very special episode indeed, and as challenging as the physical recovery was, that was nothing compared to the psychological recovery. Having been shot once, the normal human reaction was to wish passionately never to repeat the experience. To do anything to avoid repeating the experience.
Which unfortunately did not necessarily square with the duties and responsibilities of an FBI special agent. Even an agent on the FBI’s Art Crime Team. It wasn’t all lecturing museums and galleries on how to protect their priceless collections. Sometimes it came down to bad guys with guns, bad guys who were ready and willing to blow a hole in your chest to stop you from interfering with their multimillion-dollar business.
No shame in a healthy fear of being shot. It didn’t mean Jason couldn’t still do his job. The shrinks at the Bureau believed Jason could still do his job. And they should know.
His shoulder twinged, and he rubbed it. He was okay. He was fine. Next time he would not be caught off guard. Next time he would not hesitate.
He reached for another file, flipped it open, and began to read.
Patricia Douglas’s statement was as unhelpful as all the previous statements.
According to Patricia, there had been no argument. She and Rebecca had been joking the whole time. She loved Rebecca like a sister. Everyone liked Rebecca. No, she knew no one who would wish Rebecca harm, knew of no one Rebecca had any kind of serious falling out with, knew no reason Rebecca would leave her own party, knew of no one else who had left the party around the same time as Rebecca.
And if she did know, she wouldn’t be telling Officer Boxner. That came through loud and clear even in Boxner’s nearly illegible handwriting.
The problem with adolescents was they believed they were honor bound to tell adults as little as possible regardless of the situation.
The other problem was they thought they knew everything.
Reading between the lines, yeah, there was a good chance Rebecca had left the party of her own free will. Or at least that was the most likely scenario in the opinion of her friends. And if that was the case, the last thing they were going to do was anything that might mess things up for Rebecca.
It was pretty much the same story as all the others. Everyone had had way too much to drink. No one had seen anything out of the ordinary.
“There has to be something here.”
He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Kennedy said, “There always is. Sometimes you know it’s there by its very absence.”
Very Yoda-esque. Wise in the ways of aberrant psychology are you, Senior Special Agent Kennedy.
Then again Kennedy was wise in the ways of aberrant psychology. That’s why he was so very good at his job. Reportedly he could read over a profile and tell you whether the suspect had a speech impediment or visited the graves of his victims or had financial problems.
What the hell must his dreams be like?
Not that Jason’s dreams were so wonderful. He dreamed about getting shot. A lot.
The next time Jason surfaced it was to the sight of the police chief ushering Rebecca’s parents into his office. It was obvious who they were. A strained and affluent- looking forty-something male with his arm around an attractive blonde woman with red and swollen eyes. They both wore resort wear and looked like they had come straight from the airport.
You didn’t typically have to deal with grieving parents in ACT. Granted, the way some people carried on about a stolen Picasso, you might think they were grieving the loss of a child, but no. The Madigans were terrified. Desperate for any shred of hope.
“She’s still alive?” Mrs. Madigan was asking as the door to Gervase’s office swung shut. “You do think she’s still alive?”
Jason glanced over, but Kennedy didn’t look up from the report he was reading. Maybe he didn’t hear it. Maybe after this many years of hunting monsters he had learned to tune it out. Turn off the receptors to other people’s pain.
Maybe you had to in order to do the job.
