“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Have proof for any of this?”
The quiet following my question is charged.
“Witnesses…victims,” he finally clarifies and my gaze finds Opal who is looking back, her face almost impassive. Fucking hell. “We’re committed to gettin those girls back, Agent Kenny,” he continues, “first and foremost, and through whatever means possible.”
“So am I,” I growl.
“I have no doubt, which is why I propose it would be in everyone’s best interest for us to pool our resources.”
“You want me to let her go back in undercover.”
“Got it in one.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” I tell him, my eyes never leaving Opal’s face.
FIVE
Opal
“Can you pull me the files on Jesper Olson, Jamie Lyons, Chantel Staffman, and Bryonne Taylor?”
As it has for the past week, my boss’s voice sends shivers down my spine. It’s an ingrained response I can’t seem to shake, even after over two decades.
I don’t turn around—worried something of my revulsion for the man might show, having been caught off-guard—and instead start rifling through the file drawer of the cabinet I already had open. I can feel his presence behind me though.
The temptation is great to do the world a favor and pull my Glock G42 Slimline from my belly band holster and blow him to kingdom come, but that won’t bring back those missing girls. I can’t chance tipping him off in any way or—provided the girls are still alive—I might as well be signing the girls’ death warrants.
The only chance we have to find them is for me to act like I’ve never acted before. The request for files is not unusual, but for him to ask for Chantel’s file—one of the four girls in total who’ve gone missing in the past year—has every nerve in my body on high alert.
Locating the four file folders, I plaster on a smile and swing around.
“Here you go. I don’t think I’ve seen those names before,” I mention innocently, all but batting my lashes.
Mason Kramer narrows his eyes briefly as he takes the file from my hands.
“Lots of kids coming and going at the center, no way to know them all.”
“Of course,” I quickly respond.
“Besides,” he adds, smacking the stack on the palm of his hand. “These ones are old, and scheduled for disposal.”
Then he turns and walks out of the office I’ve been assigned to.
The Kentucky Board of Social Work requires maintaining files in the case of minors for at least five years after termination of service, or until the client reaches the age of twenty, whichever is longer.
I don’t know about the others, but Chantel was only seventeen when she went missing eight months ago so meets neither of those parameters. Not that there’s anything I can do about that without drawing attention to myself, but at least I had copies. I jumped on the opportunity when Kramer was out of the office for the day yesterday and made sure I took copies of the files for all four girls: Georgia Braxton, Melissa Romero, Bobby-Jean Lark, and Chantel Staffman.
I’m curious to see if he actually destroys the file, which would be an interesting development. I wonder if there is something in the file he’s hiding. Chantel’s the one who has been missing longest according to Sally Kendall—eight months—although no one has filed a missing person report for her since she was listed in the center’s paperwork as homeless.
The girl had landed in the foster system and was apparently known as a frequent runaway. I guess no one but Sally had been too concerned about her lot thus far, which makes Kramer’s interest in her file even more suspect.
Maybe I should finally dial that new number on my phone I’ve been staring at for the past week, ever since I watched FBI Agent Mitch Kenny walk out of my motel room.
I hate to admit it, but the man left an indelible impression, which does not make me happy.
For years, I’ve harbored revenge fantasies should I ever end up face-to-face with the likes of Josh Kendrick. Except, I was convinced it would always remain a fantasy, something that would stay forever unresolved. I thought Kendrick was dead, had perished in the fire along with the others, so my heart nearly stopped when I heard his voice.
Now, an opportunity has dropped in my lap to bring down the man who still haunts some of my nightmares and I can’t afford to lose my focus.
Last thing I need is a hot-as-fuck fed distracting me from my objective.
Still, I should call him.
Jacob negotiated with the agent, assuring him I was well-trained and more capable than I looked, and already had a foot in the door at the center which could save the Bureau valuable time. Time the girls may not have.
When Kenny agreed to leave me to do my part and would keep GEM in the loop, I, in turn, was made to promise I’d pass on whatever valuable information I could dig up.
The sudden request by the center’s program director for Chantel’s file would definitely be of interest to him.
Last week Mitch Kenny had only been interested in Georgia Braxton, until I told him there were more girls missing. He was supposed to look into them as well but I haven’t seen him back here at the center, nor have I heard from him outside of it.
If this is to be a collaboration, maybe it’s time for us to talk.
“Opal,” Brian calls my name when I walk by the kitchen on my way out the door.
I backtrack and stick my head in the door.
“What’s up?”
“Hate to do this, because I know you’re supposed to be off tomorrow, but I just got this sprung on me this afternoon.”
“Had what sprung on you?” I ask, walking inside and joining him by the large stainless-steel counter.
He appears to be kneading dough.
“Fucking Kramer. He’s got a bunch of dignitaries coming in tomorrow to have breakfast with the kids. Is expecting a full goddamn breakfast buffet and I only have two hands.”
“Dignitaries?”
“Yeah, something about raising funds for the center. Wants to make it look like we’re feeding the kids gourmet food, when any other day the measly budget he’s given me won’t allow for much more than a goddamn bowl of oatmeal. I swear, since that man took over, my joy in working here has all but disappeared.”
Brian has hinted at his dislike for Kramer, but this is the first time he’s actually given me some background.
“What time do you need me here?”
The look of relief on his face is instantaneous. “God bless. Five thirty?” He’s wincing as he says it.
He doesn’t know I don’t sleep much on my best days.
“Five thirty is good, but don’t talk to me unless you have a pot of coffee ready.”
“You betcha,” is his immediate response, which is paired with a wide grin. “You’re a lifesaver.”
I give him a little wave as I leave him to his dough and head outside.
Maybe tomorrow morning I can get him to open up a bit more about his beef with Kramer.
Mitch
“What have you got?” I ask a little more abruptly than necessary.