Been there, done that, and although the daughter we made will always be the best part of my life, I’m not willing to go down that path again.
SIX
Opal
I try to stay pissed at his high-handedness earlier on the phone, but the man found my Achilles’ heel without even trying.
Indian food.
Thus, when I notice headlights of a car pulling up to my motel room, I’m on my feet and have the door open before he can even exit his vehicle.
The plan had been to heat up a can of soup in the small microwave the motel supplied, so the prospect of a decent meal was a welcome one, even though the offer left a lot to be desired. It doesn’t stop me from almost ripping the brown paper bag from his hand when he walks up to the door.
What can I say? I’m starving.
I quickly clear the papers I’ve been staring at from the small table so I can spread out the containers.
The fragrant aromas fill the room. It smells delicious, although I’m not so sure I’ll still feel that way tomorrow or the days after when the potent scent of spices lingers.
Mitch closes the door behind him, an amused expression on his face.
“I did bring cutlery,” he comments when I toss the paper bag aside.
“I’ve got real.”
I turn and open the top drawer in the dresser where I store a couple of mugs, plates, and silverware. I can’t stand using paper or plastic. It’s bad enough I don’t have a proper kitchen to cook in but am dependent on takeout or canned food. At least I have the mini fridge to store some fresh fruit and dairy, and some bottles of water.
Mitch pulls up an eyebrow when I slide a plate and cutlery in front of him.
“I don’t like plastic,” I explain, before asking, “Anything to drink? I’m afraid all I can offer is water, tea, or coffee.”
“Water is fine, thanks.”
While I grab a couple of bottles, he peels the covers off the containers. My mouth was already watering at the smell of food, but now I’m virtually drooling. Sitting down across from him, I take in the spread covering the small table. Aloo gobhi, spinach paneer, beef korma, vegetable biryani, butter chicken, a container of raita, and a tinfoil packet I’m sure contains naan.
“This looks so good,” I mutter as he urges me to serve myself. “Not often I get the chance to eat Indian food.”
“How come?” he asks casually.
“Dry Ridge isn’t exactly a hotbed of world cuisine. Until a Chinese restaurant opened a few years ago, Taco Bell was the closest thing we had.”
His deep chuckle startles me. He’d been in such an obvious foul mood on the phone, I wasn’t expecting the warm, pleasant sound.
Sparkling hazel eyes meet my own drab gray ones.
“Dry Ridge? That where you live?”
Shit.
Rookie mistake, with food and casual conversation I let him lull me into revealing information connected to my real identity. Information I’m normally so careful to guard.
I narrow my eyes on him.
“Underhanded.”
It was intended as an insult, but Agent Kenny appears unaffected and shrugs off my comment.
“Seems fair to me. If our collaboration is going to work, there has to be mutual trust. Hard to do when one side keeps their identity a secret. Can’t blame me for wanting to know.”
“Why not?” I fire back. “I don’t see you volunteering your life history.”
“My life is not a secret. In fact, you can probably easily find out anything you’d like about me online.”
I press my lips together so I don’t inadvertently let slip I already did this past week. The information I found gave me a little insight into the man and a better understanding of what drove him.
Mitchel James Kenny, forty-four, only remaining child to James and Phyllis Kenny formerly of Huntington, West Virginia, now residing in Mesa, Arizona. His only sister, Valerie, fell victim to a sexual predator, whose arrest and trial were widely covered by the media. A lot of information available there. However, the simple and concise obituary I found dated only eighteen months after she was violently assaulted, didn’t reveal a whole lot.
Not that I needed it spelled out, I can pretty much guess what happened to her.
I also found out Mitch had been married and was now divorced, and has a teenage daughter.
All of this only made the man more difficult to dislike, something that would’ve made life a hell of a lot easier. Instead, I find myself more drawn to him.
Dangerous.
His point is valid though. Trust goes both ways, but I’m not ready to lay myself bare. I’ve never told anyone. The girls know, because they lived the same history I did, and Jacob Branch does, but not from me.
Our boss is no more than a name with a voice. None of us have ever laid eyes on him so it’s a mystery how he came by the information, but I have my suspicions.
“My name is Kate,” I finally decide to share, figuring the name is common enough it’s not telling him a whole lot, but it at least shows some goodwill on my part.
“Thank you, Kate,” he says, sounding sincere. “I’m not going to betray your trust.”
“Appreciate it,” I mumble, a bit stunned by his promise.
For the next few minutes, we eat in silence and I struggle not to groan with every bite. It’s so damn good, I have to resist the urge to stuff myself.
“What did you want me to look at?” he asks after we pack the leftover food in my mini fridge.
I grab the four files I copied and spread them out on the table in front of him.
Then I tap a finger on Chantel Staffman’s records.
“Yesterday, Kendrick was out of the office and I was able to make copies of the missing girls’ records. This afternoon he asked for a bunch of files, including Chantel’s, mentioning they were old files and slotted to be destroyed.”
Mitch looks up with an eyebrow raised.
“Old?”
“Bogus, I know.”
“Why now? The girl’s been missing for eight months.”
“Maybe your visit last week got him nervous,” I suggest.
“We didn’t even have Chantel Staffman on our radar then.”
“Still, it may have spooked him and he decided to cover his tracks.”
He seems to contemplate that before asking, “By chance do you remember the names on any of the other files he asked for?”
“Jesper Olson, Jamie Lyons, and Bryonne Taylor,” I rattle off.
“Good memory,” he observes.
“Not really.” I hold up my phone and show him the list of notes I’ve been keeping, recording details of any and all interactions I’ve had at the center.
“I’m supposed to help out with breakfast tomorrow morning, starting at five thirty. It’ll just be me and Brian Tapper, the cook. I can see if I can get into–”
“Absolutely not,” Mitch barks. “Not only is it too risky, but anything you might find will effectively be unusable as evidence. Besides, what if you blow your cover? We’d lose any advantage we have.”
It irks me that he’s got a point. Still, he’s concerned about proper legal procedure when my singular objective is to stop predators by any means available to me.
The only reason I’m not going to fight him on this is I don’t want to risk any more harm coming to those girls.