She nodded and continued to scan the rented office space that looked like hundreds of others in Livingston and nearby counties. Her gaze paused on the bulletin boards covered with photographs from current cases and a poster of the “FBI Ten Most Wanted Fugitives” list. Then she turned back to him.
“This is it?”
“Yeah, not much to speak of, is it?” Eric said as he stepped closer. “I’m Deputy Eric Westerfield of the Livingston County Sheriff’s Department.”
This time the two law enforcement officers shook hands, and Tony was almost sorry he hadn’t done the same. Almost.
“The FBI field office in Detroit rents this office space for us,” Eric continued. “But no one is supposed to know this is a task force office, and no one without specific business with us is even allowed inside.”
“Business with Arch Computer Consultants?”
“One of many fake names the FBI gives for its task force offices,” Eric explained.
“Are there just going to be four of us? I thought the task force was supposed to be—”
Tony shook his head to interrupt her. “Ten in all.” He pointed to the same number of cubicles. “Two FBI special agents and representatives from area law enforcement, Homeland Security and then administrative staff like Deidre.”
He hated having to explain information she already would have known if she’d just read the file.
“Where are they?”
“Some are catching a few hours of sleep since we’re working around-the-clock on this case.”
“Oh.” Her gaze flicked to Eric and then back to Tony. “Well, good. We need to stop this guy before he strikes again.”
“Are you saying we’re tracking a serial killer? Because we have no evidence to confirm that yet. We don’t jump to conclusions here. Our work is meticulous. Precise. We follow the evidence, and we don’t make stupid mistakes.”
Her jaw tightened. “I’ll keep that in mind. Anyway, I’m not saying I know anything. But we can’t just sit on our hands and wait in case he strikes again, can we?”
Touché. Her heavily lashed eyelids lifted, and she glared up at him.
Deidre chuckled as she headed to her own desk, closest to the door. “It’s good that we’re all getting to know each other better.”
Eric gestured toward Tony with his thumb. “Don’t worry about him. He’s all grumble with no fangs. He’s always tough on the new guy, and lucky for me, you’re it.”
“Yeah, lucky me.”
“All of us bring something new to the task force,” Eric said. “The special agent here also happens to be a veritable computer genius.”
“It’s my job.”
Eric brushed away Tony’s comment with a wave. “And I might look mild, but I’m seasoned in pursuing human traffickers. So, what’s your superpower?”
Tony was careful not to look interested, but he wanted to know the answer, too. The details they’d been given about her were sparse.
“Besides being first on the scene when the victims’ bodies were discovered along the Brighton Mountain Bike Trail, I guess it’s my voice.”
Tony’s back teeth clenched before he could stop them, but at least the others weren’t looking his way.
“Oh, that’s right,” Eric said. “That was Special Agent Dawson’s idea. Something to sweeten the deal while we’re trolling for online predators. Special Agent Lazzaro wasn’t a fan of the plan.”
Her gaze shifted to Tony, and she seemed to dare him to look away first.
“Most suspects prefer the anonymity of text-only chats.”
“You do kind of sound like a kid, though,” Eric said.
“Thanks, I think. I’ve never been hired for my voice before.”
She laughed then, a sound like the smoothest whiskey pouring on ice, and the sensation that sluiced over Tony and headed south couldn’t have been more different from the jab he’d felt earlier. With a laugh like that she could have worked as a phone-sex operator. He was tempted to tell her so, but the door opening again cut them off. Good thing for that.
Special Agent Dawson entered the way he always did, coffee in one hand, a plate with a Danish in the other and a collapsible umbrella handle strap looped over his wrist.
“I see you’ve already met,” he said as he introduced himself.
“We’re old friends now,” Eric answered for all of them.
“Well, let’s get this done.” Dawson dropped his Danish off in his own cubicle and continued toward them. “The sooner we close this case, the sooner my wife and girls can sleep again. The trail’s already going cold.”
“You’re sure we’re headed in the right direction?” Tony asked.
“I’m not sure of anything. But we already know that one of the young women was computer savvy and was hanging out in chat rooms. I don’t think this was the adventure she was looking for.”
Two other team members had followed him into the office, and Dawson asked them to introduce themselves.
“Robert Golden, Homeland Security,” the graying one with the paunch told her.
The guy with a crew cut and a gym body lifted his hand in a wave. “Don Strickland, Detroit Police.”
“Trooper, tell the team a little bit about yourself,” Dawson said.
Kelly shifted her feet. “I’ve worked with the state police for three years, assigned to the Brighton Post. I’m usually alone in my own patrol car, so you’ll need to give me a few days to get used to working in an office.”
She might have said something else after that, but Tony couldn’t get past the thought that she’d been a police officer that long. She wasn’t a rookie, though nothing could prepare someone to work on this task force.
“One more thing. I’ll do whatever it takes to get this guy. It’s personal for me. I mean, I live in Brighton.”
Dawson’s gaze narrowed. “Are you sure you’re not too close to this?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Tony wasn’t certain of many things. He definitely wasn’t sure this officer’s voice would help them locate the suspect who’d murdered these victims or even if they’d met online before the attack. But he was convinced of two things at that moment. The first was that he wanted to get this guy—and in statistical likelihood the suspect was male—as much as the trooper did.
His second certainty concerned him more, though. With that gut sense law-enforcement officers hone over time, he knew that the state trooper who’d just marched in there to mess up the task force’s equilibrium had also just lied to the team. What he didn’t know was why.
Kelly slid her chair closer to the edge of her cubicle, so she could see the office door. She could shoot out and be back on Interstate 96 on her way to the Spencer Road exit and the Brighton Post in ten minutes flat.
At least she was wanted there.
A report lay open on her desk, but the words and the grisly crime scene photographs swam on the pages in front of her. This was a mistake. She shouldn’t be there, and it went