Christie’s mother shuddered and managed a weak “Yes, anything.” Then, “Is it true, officer? You found the man who took her?”
Dalrymple smiled. “Yes, ma’am. An anonymous informant tipped us off. We have the kidnapper in custody.”
An anonymous informant with an angelic mask and electronically altered voice. This was good. I sighed as the frightened images I saw in LaReau’s mind dissolved. Being a Psi Fighter was definitely worth the headache.
Mrs. Jasmine hugged her daughter tightly. Christie picked her head off her mother’s shoulder as Dalrymple led them out of the room. The eyes that had prayed for help in the SSA’s mirrored countertop now looked content and tired. She smiled at me.
Definitely worth it.
“Make sure she gets home safely,” Dalrymple said, pointing to me.
“I’ll handle it personally,” Captious promised.
Dalrymple closed the door.
“Now it’s time to take care of you, young lady.” Captious held up a finger. “But first, I have to make a phone call. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
I wondered what he meant by taking care of me…was it only because I was tired that it sounded like something the mob does to people who get in their way? Before the door had completely closed, I bounded to the battered green cabinet and jerked open the second drawer. It screeched like a zombie rising from the grave. I froze, expecting the whole police force to come running, but the only thing I heard was the murmur of crabby voices down the hall. Slowly, carefully, I opened the drawer the rest of the way, cringing as the frozen steel wheels grated against the track. Did these people not understand the concept of oil?
The drawer was packed tighter than the little room. I tugged at a folder, but it was wedged. Delirious from lack of sleep and determined not to be outmuscled by an inanimate object, I pulled hard. The contemptible thing shot out like a Pop-Tart, spraying papers everywhere. I fired a quick glance at the door, then back to the papers strewn across the tile.
A picture of a woman in a dark blue business suit. The same woman in a bright orange jump suit. The words grand larceny, embezzlement, fraud.
I had evidently stumbled onto criminal records or something. I jammed the papers back in the folder, and forced it into the drawer in frustration. I would need hours to go through those files. I didn’t have hours. I didn’t even know what I was looking for. I pushed through the remaining folders. They were packed in so tightly they barely budged.
“This can’t be right,” I whispered, and closed the drawer. I opened the top drawer. It was packed even tighter. I opened every drawer in the cabinet, but each was crammed. A spider scurried down the wall and disappeared behind the cabinets. Wonderful.
I concentrated on my vision of Munificent again. His image flashed and disappeared. Then he was back, about to close the file cabinet drawer. He held something in his hand, then forced it into the drawer, slamming it shut.
Suddenly, I heard Captious’s voice in the hall. “Yeah, what do you need? I’m in the middle of life and death here.”
I was out of time, so I reopened the second drawer in frustration and tore out a handful of folders, hoping against hope that nothing would crawl on me. If I could transport the folders from the building, Andy would have some sort of thingamabob to scan them in the comfort of his spider-free tech lab, instead of this arachnophobe’s nightmare of an office. The remaining folders expanded and pushed themselves neatly together to fill the open space. As the gap closed, I noticed something lying on the bottom of the drawer, hiding. I reached in and plucked out a yellowing envelope.
As soon as I touched it, fear gripped my heart. An image of Scallion danced in front of my eyes, searching, sniffing like a wolf, hunting for— Suddenly I heard the click of a doorknob and I pushed the vision out of my head. Just as the file room door opened, I shoved the envelope inside my secret agent pocket and forced the folders back into the drawer.
Leaning against the cabinet, I smiled at Captious.
“Stay out of there,” he snapped. “Those are police records, not fashion magazines.”
The jerk. “Is Christie okay?”
“She will be,” Captious said. “Now, let’s get you home.”
Yeah, right. “I know the way.”
“This isn’t the friendliest part of town. Come on. I called your father. He knows I’m walking you home.”
Lovely. Not tonight, Bucko. I was about to throw a carefully calculated hissy fit and escape through the back door, when I noticed how awful Captious looked. His eyes were sunken as though he hadn’t slept for days. His comb-over had flopped to the side like a gigantic earmuff. Must have been a rough phone call. If I hadn’t been so tired myself, it would have been hilarious. I suddenly felt sorry for the little round man, so I followed.