truth, I’m more impressed with the fact that you served in the navy.”
“Which is how I paid for college.” He hadn’t joined the navy out of a sense of duty or patriotism, but he’d gotten more from his service than he ever expected. His dad had told him that the US Navy would teach him to be a man. In this case, Dad might have been right.
“I never enlisted,” Gimbel said, “but I figure I paid my dues with a twenty-seven-year career in the FBI.”
Sloan rose from his chair and went to the banister, where he watched the hens and avoided making direct eye contact with Gimbel. He didn’t want their meeting to turn into a confrontation between the grizzled old veteran and the smart-ass college boy. Not that he was a kid at thirty-two.
“I’ve only got a couple years’ experience in the field,” he said. “Dealing with six different victims who have each developed their own coping behaviors is complicated to say the least. Your insights would really help.”
“Let’s get to it,” he said.
“From your notes, it’s clear they’re all experiencing a degree of post-traumatic stress.”
“You don’t need a PhD to figure that out.” Gimbel was kind enough not to scoff. Instead, he took a sip of his coffee. “Give me your profile of Franny.”
He didn’t like making a snap diagnosis but didn’t have time to analyze his subject. Unlike therapy, profiling drew broad conclusions. “The clutter in her house and immature behavior points to ADD. She hides her feelings behind a bright, happy exterior—shiny enough to deflect close examination. Inside, she’s a drama queen.”
The older man nodded. “You got that right.”
“Not being able to contact Layla for a few days shouldn’t have been a big deal, but Franny was extremely agitated. The anonymous phone calls triggered her fears.”
“Tell me about the calls.”
“There were references to her time in captivity.” Sloan repeated the words verbatim. “Everything the caller said was public knowledge.”
“Did you check out the number?”
“It traced to a burner phone. Even the dumbest perverts use throwaways.”
“But you investigated. Good.”
Sloan was glad he hadn’t immediately dismissed Franny’s complaint. As Gimbel had pointed out, the law enforcement system hadn’t paid enough attention when these women disappeared the first time. He refused to be the guy who failed them again. “I see two possibilities. The first is that Franny is getting targeted by a prison groupie who idolizes Martin Hardy. He’s a copycat and bears watching but probably won’t go further than crank calls. The other, more disturbing scenario suggests unresolved issues from the original crime. In your reports, you listed other men who knew Hardy and might have assisted in the abductions.”
“There’s no shortage of creeps out there,” Gimbel said. “I hope Franny’s fears are nothing but a feather on the wind, but you can’t take that chance. It’s your job to protect them.”
“That’s what you did.”
“Damn right,” Gimbel said. “I had to be sure they weren’t just dumped back into the foster care system. And I got a lawyer to manage their interests. I’ll give you his name.”
Gimbel was turning out to be a valuable resource. Sloan folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the banister. “Tell me about Brooke.”
* * *
AFTER A LATE LUNCH, Sloan parked his SUV outside Brooke’s gleaming white stucco house with a red tile roof. Hers was one of several Spanish Mission-style homes in this architecturally diverse urban neighborhood. The two-story house was surrounded by a tidy lawn, perfectly trimmed shrubs and colorful flower beds. And the place was well protected. He spotted two security cameras. One was mounted over the front door. Another peered down from the attached garage. Wrought iron latticework—in a decorative pattern—shielded the door and the arched windows on the first floor.
As soon as he exited his vehicle, the August heat hit him like a blast furnace. He straightened his striped necktie, smoothed the wrinkles from his linen suit jacket and tried not to sweat. He was eager to see Brooke again. Her personality—an impossible combination of fire and ice—fascinated him.
Not that their relationship could be anything but professional. She was a witness, possibly a victim, and he had to keep his distance. His reason for being here and talking to her was to determine his starting point in this widely disparate investigation. In addition to the anonymous phone calls to Franny, threats had been made to the other women. He needed Brooke’s sensible approach to sort the real from the unreal, ultimately making sense of the situation. And, first and foremost, he needed to locate Layla.
As soon as he rang the bell, Franny yanked the door open and dived into his arms. After a giant hug—so much for professional distance—she bounced away from him. This young woman was as energetic and enthusiastic as a puppy looking for a pat on the head.
“Hey there,” she said brightly. “You did a pretty great job of contacting everybody. They all called me, except for Layla.”
“You said Brooke would know how to find her.”
Franny grabbed his hand and pulled him into a two-story foyer with a terra-cotta floor and a curved staircase on the right. Compared to the hot weather outside, the house was cool and serene. He felt like he’d walked into a shaded glen in a perfectly organized forest.
“Those two, Brooke and Layla, are birdies of a feather,” Franny said. “Both really smart and focused and, you know, tidy.”
He grinned. Franny’s casual description matched Gimbel’s more technical analysis of OCD tendencies brought on by post-traumatic stress. “They like to keep things orderly.”
“And I make them crazy,” she confided.
An alarm shrieked, and Franny ran to a keypad near the door, where she punched random numbers. “I forgot to turn it off. Oh my God, that’s loud. Can you help me?”
Brooke charged into the foyer. “Step away from the keypad.”
Franny leaped backward as Brooke plugged in the numbers to turn off the alarm. She placed a cell phone in Franny’s hand. “The security people are going to call and ask if we need help. Do you remember what you’re supposed to tell them?”
“The code words,” she said. “Happy trails to you.”
“And then?”
“They’ll tell me to repeat, but this time I’ll say, ‘Hi-ho, Silver, and away.’”
When Franny left to handle the call from the security service, Brooke turned toward him. “Good afternoon, Special Agent Sloan. You didn’t mention that you were coming over when you called earlier.”
“I was afraid you’d bar the door.”
A hint of a smile twitched the corner of her rosebud mouth. If she ever actually laughed, he suspected she’d have dimples. “Given our previous encounter,”
