He moved the truck and found a spot up the block and across the street from Wren Greenwood’s home, her stoop and lower level windows visible. He put his seat slightly back, and settled in, watching.
Time wound on and he dozed off a couple of times, startling awake, but he wasn’t worried that she had left. That house, cozy, with an understated luxury, was her nest. He was betting she didn’t leave unless she had good reason—work or friends or love. And he’d left her with food for thought. He’d be willing to bet that she’d spend the rest of the night on her laptop—searching for answers about Mia Thorpe and the man they had in common.
Adam Harper.
Raife Mannes.
Also, possibly Timothy Johnston.
Maybe Cliff Jensen.
A ghost in the machine. Maybe a con, a thief. Maybe a killer. Bailey had never seen him in the flesh; the guy was always one step ahead—which had Bailey wondering about a couple of things. All he was to Bailey was a series of digital images, the one thing that three missing women had in common. The one person. The women had lots of things in common—traumatic pasts, a certain amount of wealth, a willingness to look for love online. They were all fragile in some ways. He thought of Mia as someone who had been broken by grief, glued herself back together, only to be shattered again.
There was a pattern to all of this, something that connected them all, some missing piece that would lead him where he needed to go. But the pieces floated, never quite clicking. It was confounding. The client was desperate. His boss, who he called X, just to be a dork, had checked in earlier that day.
“So where are we with this?” Nora wanted to know. It was her firm, founded by her and her partner Diana. Both of them came to the work from careers in the FBI, moving into the private sector for the money and the freedom it allowed them. They were both badass—killers on the range, technical wizards. Diana knew kung fu; she bested him at the gym time and again. Nora was a relentless interrogator. He didn’t bother trying to bullshit her. Ever. Nora Turner and Diana Ives; he’d worked for them for almost ten years.
She knew where he was with this. Nowhere. He diligently filed his daily reports via their encrypted website.
“I need a few more days,” he told her. “I have a lead. Maybe.”
She was quiet for a moment; she was probably reading his report as they spoke. “This Wren Greenwood? Not her name. But okay. What does she know?”
“I don’t think she knows anything.”
“So.”
“But I think she’ll lead me to him just the same. And when I find him, I find Mia.”
“You’re sure.”
“I am.”
“You don’t think poor Mia is just back on drugs, holed up in a crack house somewhere.”
“I don’t.”
“Or that she took off with him, or someone, or just wanted to get away from her helicopter father.”
There were a hundred reasons why he thought not—some of it to do with her blog, her Facebook posts, the pictures he saw online, in albums in the Thorpe house, posts she left on friends’ pages. Mia was on her way to wholeness, to a full and happy life—until she met Raife Mannes. She had a pattern to her engagements, a rhythm to her life and movements. She wasn’t heading back to drugs.
When Bailey closed his eyes, and dug deep, he knew that wasn’t what happened to her. He didn’t have to explain that to Nora. She knew how it worked, the pursuit of lost people. Ten percent of it was nuts-and-bolts tracking. Ninety percent was energy—when you’d been cut off electronically anyway. When there was no cell phone, no credit card charges, no camera footage from gas stations and tollbooths, from doorbell cameras. When you had to get old school.
“I can give you a couple more days,” she said. “But without a real surge forward, I am going to have to tell Henry Thorpe that her trail is cold and stop taking his money. It’s not right to keep stringing him along, giving him false hope. That’s not what we do here.”
That was true. The first and last word at Turner and Ives was ethics.
“Okay.” He never bothered arguing with either one of them.
“Bailey, you know—” she started.
“I know, X. Sometimes lost stays lost.”
“And people need to grieve that fact.”
“Right.”
A sigh, some tapping, then, “We have other cases that could use your talents. There’s only one Bailey Kirk.”
“Just a couple more days.”
“Okay.”