“Fine.”
She hands me her phone and I scroll to the top of the article, noticing the title before I see the byline: Lee Remington. I glance up at Kate who now wears a stubborn expression, emphasized by the arms she folds in front of her.
“Why were you looking into Remington? Didn’t Walker say he’d take care of that?”
She juts her chin out before she answers.
“I had a hunch.”
“A hunch,” I echo.
“Yes. It looks like Melissa had someone she thought might be able to help her. She mentioned as much to Kaylie, but never mentioned a name.”
“Not sure how this lands us with Remington, but I’m waiting with bated breath.”
There’s an edge to my tone which is impossible to miss. Too damn bad, I’m annoyed. For no other reason than Kate clearly doesn’t trust me. Hell, she hid in the bathroom to call her team when I’ve made an effort to include her in every aspect of our investigation.
I wish she would’ve given me the same credit.
“I knew you’d be pissed.”
“Damn right I am,” I confirm. “Not a fan of discovering you’re trying to keep me out of the loop. So much for trust.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not it. You guys work according to a set protocol, within distinct parameters. We’re more…flexible in our approach.”
“Flexible,” I find myself echoing again.
“Yes. If I’d waited for Walker, I wouldn’t know Melissa knew Lee Remington.”
That piques my interest. I’ve only read the headline so far but find myself scanning the rest of the article. Four paragraphs down I find it.
One such example is M.R.; a mouthy, street-smart fourteen-year-old, whose mother is more concerned with her next hit than her daughter’s whereabouts, and whose father is unknown. By her own admission, the new center spared her from sliding down that dark path to addiction herself. With other kids like her—from broken and neglectful homes, or in some cases homeless—friendships were easier to forge which, added to the daily meals the center offers and the counseling it provides, went a long way to make life a little more hopeful for M.R.
I lower her phone and look up.
“You think he was the one she turned to.”
“It makes sense. He would’ve had to build some kind of rapport with her to get her to let him interview her. If she was being harmed at the center, who better to turn to than the same reporter whose article questions whether the center is a safe haven or an echo of a darker past. He’s referring to Transition House. He must know something.”
I take a minute to consider what she’s implying. Remington knew what happened at Transition House?
“How would he know?”
“I have no idea. I don’t remember his name from back then, and to be honest, I’m less concerned with that than I am with Melissa’s whereabouts right now. We need to find Lee Remington.”
I fish my cell phone out of my pocket, ready to call Matt, when Kate’s hand shoots out, covering mine. When I look up, her eyes are pleading with me.
“It’s a good lead. One that might help us find Melissa, who in turn might be able to help us find the others. Go in flexing our muscles and she may clam up. Kids like that don’t trust authority, and often with good reason. I don’t want her to clam up on us.”
“So, what are you suggesting?”
She lets go of my hand and walks over to the table where I left my laptop open, and sits down in front of it.
“I’m suggesting we keep this between us for a few hours, try to find Remington and, hopefully, the girl ourselves,” she says, already pounding away at my keyboard. “I want a chance to talk to her before your agency takes over.”
I appreciate her honesty.
“Is that a fact?”
She hums, not even looking at me, she’s too focused on the screen.
“What if you can’t locate Remington? Or if the girl isn’t with him?”
She looks at me over her shoulder.
“In that case: no harm, no foul.”
A chuckle escapes me.
She’s a bit of a ballbuster, and I’m surprised to find I don’t mind it in the least.
SEVENTEEN
Mitch
“Is that him?”
Matt leans over my shoulder to see the photograph on the screen.
Lee Remington is a tall, Black man with short-cropped hair. According to his records he is forty-five, but he doesn’t look it.
It wasn’t easy finding this shot of him. The man is little more than a name, despite netting the byline on articles in a substantial number of big and not so big publications nationwide. He clearly doesn’t like the spotlight for himself.
The picture was taken at an awards ceremony for some kind of social justice journalism award. Remington had been a nominee.
Matt, Joe, and Adam walked in twenty minutes ago to Kate’s annoyance. I’m sure if I hadn’t confronted her, she would’ve gone after the journalist herself. It’s becoming obvious she’s not a fan of red tape. However, what she doesn’t realize is our team’s main objective will always be finding the children. In that, we’re no different than GEM.
Since we’re all impatiently waiting for useful information to come out of the various searches over the past twenty-four hours, the guys were happy to have something to dig their teeth into.
Everyone is either on their laptop or phone. Kate, who took hers into the bedroom a few minutes ago to give Jacob an update, comes walking out.
“I have an address,” she announces, adding, “In Lexington. And a phone number. Courtesy of Jacob.”
“Good,” I answer her. “And I found a picture of the guy.”
Kate rushes over and Matt makes room for her as she leans over my shoulder, her fantastic tits brushing against me.
I haven’t touched her since earlier today, our interactions nothing but professional since we rolled out of bed this morning. Still, my body doesn’t make any distinction at her inadvertent brush against my shoulder. It responds with the same heat and passion as this woman invoked last night.
I shift slightly in my seat, trying to create a little separation before I make a fool of myself in front of the guys. I’ll never live it down.
“Can you send that to my phone?” Kate asks, backing away.
“Sure. I’ll send it to everyone,” I tell my team.
“What’s the next step?” Adam wants to know.
“I think we should—”
“Call the—”
Matt and Kate speak at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” Kate mumbles. “Go ahead.”
“I was going to suggest calling the guy rather than trying to chase him down.” He glances at her. “I see you’re not on board.”
“No,” she says, pulling her shoulders back. “I’d rather catch him off-guard. If we’re working on the assumption he at least knows where the girl is, we don’t want to give him the opportunity to warn her or disappear from sight himself.”
“See, I don’t get that,” Adam interjects. “Working from your assumption, why not go to the authorities? I get the girl may be jumpy, but you’d think this Remington guy would welcome our involvement.”