A smirk steals over his face as he stops in front of me. It’s only then I realize I could’ve worded that differently.
“Not a chance in hell I’d walk out on you, naked.”
An involuntary shiver ripples over my skin at his grumbled voice. Before I can embarrass myself more, I surge to my feet and—as fast as my aching body will allow—dart past him to the bathroom.
Yikes.
I only have myself to blame, I left that door wide open.
TWELVE
Mitch
“What do you mean, he’s gone?”
I feel rather than see Kate’s attention snap to me.
We didn’t pick the best time to drive through Louisville to Glenview. It’s morning rush hour, so gridlock, and people are fucking idiots on the road.
I’m having a hard time navigating this traffic while my mind is trying to process what Matt just dropped on me.
“Gone, as in his car is still parked in the same spot at the club, but he’s not inside. Dresden was at the bar with eyes on the door to the private room when the place closed at five. One of the waitresses explained it wasn’t unusual for private parties to continue past closing time. At least until the cleaning crew showed up at eight in the morning. Phil went out and waited, eyes on front and back exits. When the stragglers came out, Kendrick wasn’t among them.”
Shit. He slipped out on us.
I’m pissed, not sure where to direct my anger, but it’s no use blaming the team.
“How did he get by us?” I ask instead.
“Dresden swears he wasn’t among the departing crowd at closing time, and Byron had his eye on the rear the entire night. The only activity at the back most of the night was an occasional employee dropping a trash bag in the container, but there was a brewery delivery at four this morning and he said the truck blocked part of his view of the exit for a few moments until he found a better vantage point. No more than a few minutes.”
“Enough time to slip out.”
“Yeah,” Matt confirms.
“You think he made us?” I ask.
“I don’t think so—the guys were careful—but he may suspect someone is paying attention to his movements. We think he may have tagged Opal, but I doubt he can link her to GEM or knows she was working with us.”
“I’ll agree on the first, but have my doubts on the second part of that. If he had eyes on her, he may have caught us together. I was with her outside the library in full view.”
I glance over at her and note she’s paying close attention to my conversation, her lips tight.
“Are you saying he has help?” Matt inquires.
From the corner of my eye, I see Kate nodding.
“I think it’s likely. Maybe it’s time we start rattling some cages.”
“What about the kids?” Kate speaks up for the first time.
I’m sure she’s referring to the risk rattling anyone’s cage might pose to the missing teenagers.
“Unfortunately, with Kendrick in the wind, I don’t think we can afford not to,” Matt soberly informs her.
My instinct is to turn around and join in the search for our suspect, but we’ve already come this far. My time is better spent following up on this lead.
Following the GPS instructions, I pull into a gated community in the affluent neighborhood of Glenview. A security gate looms up ahead.
“Gotta let you go. We’re almost there,” I tell Matt. “I’ll give you a call after.”
I pull my credentials from my breast pocket and roll down the window as I ease up on the security guard already stepping out of the small gatehouse.
The FBI badge does its job, and we’re granted entry without a hassle.
Cassandra Hogan lives in a glass, wood, and steel mansion backing onto the Ohio River. The entire look is contemporary and reeks of big bucks.
“Yowza,” Kate mumbles as we roll up to the three-car garage.
A mother-of-pearl Range Rover is parked in front and I pull in beside it.
Something tells me Cassandra did pretty well for herself in the divorce. The rumors of a substantial payoff may hold some merit. This place is worth millions. Hell, the SUV alone would cost a couple of hundred grand.
When we walk up to the house, the front door opens. Either someone saw us pulling up or they have some sort of security system alerting them. The woman in the doorway is tall, slim to the point of skinny, and is wearing some kind of pink yoga outfit, plastered to her skin. Her platinum-blond hair is piled on her head in a messy bun and her face is flushed.
“Can I help you?”
Her voice isn’t exactly inviting, but more curious than challenging.
Once again, I pull out my badge, but it’s Kate who makes the introductions.
“This is FBI Agent Mitch Kenny, and my name is Opal.”
Cassandra Hogan barely pays Kate a glance until she adds, “I’m a volunteer at The Youth Center.”
That gets her attention as her eyes suddenly zoom in on Kate and her face registers shock.
“You’re kidding, right? The Youth Center? Listen, whatever that bastard is up to now, I want nothing to do with it. Our divorce was final years ago.”
“Yet you seem to connect The Youth Center with your ex-husband instantly,” I point out.
“I had no idea until a couple of days ago when that reporter cornered me outside my hairdresser.”
“Reporter?”
That’s the first I’ve heard about any reporter asking questions. Of course, we weren’t able to keep Georgia Braxton’s murder a secret from the media, but there’d been no word of other missing kids in any of the reporting, so I’m intrigued.
She looks behind me to the street and seems to come to a decision as she steps to the side.
“You may as well come in,” she says with a sigh.
We follow her inside, down a hallway with gleaming, wooden floors. The stark white walls sport black-and-white photos of who I presume are her children. At the back of the house, we walk into a large open space spanning the entire rear of the house. Sparse, modern furniture in leather and steel is clustered in small groupings, keeping the focus on the floor-to-ceiling windows boasting a spectacular view of the river valley.
The design is not exactly my style, but I have to admit, it works against the vivid colors of the fall foliage.
“Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?” she asks, gesturing toward a large kitchen island with four barstools.
“Not for me, thanks,” Kate answers, hopping onto one of the stools.
I grab the one next to her and shake my head at Cassandra, who then ducks into the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water for herself.
“He asked me how I felt about Paul’s involvement with a youth facility in Lanark, given his history with teenage girls. I figured he was another one of those tabloid sharks, trying to blow some life into those old rumors. I brushed him off and got in my car.” She takes a sip of her water before continuing, “I’m guessing there’s more to the story when the FBI shows up asking questions about the same thing.”
“There is,” I volunteer. Then I ask her as an afterthought, “By the way, did you get the name of the reporter?”
May be good to know who is snooping around.