She hung up and pulled the headset from her head. Her ear itched. Her head itched. Her whole body felt irritated. She wanted to be out doing something, not answering the phone.
Fielding anonymous tips on a hotline was considered too important to be done by civilians. Yet everyone knew 99 percent of it was a waste of time. The lonely, crazy, and vengeful came out of the woodwork for this kind of case. The hotline had had more than a thousand tips. Unfortunately, more than eight hundred had come from psychics or people who had had a dream about Katie. But just in case a real tip did sneak through, the agents all put in time answering calls.
Next to her, Leif Larson took off his own headset and looked at her sympathetically. “Another crazy?”
“She says she’s a psychic.” Nic sighed and tried to stretch the kinks out of her neck. She couldn’t turn her head without wincing. “You should have seen the charlatan the Converses made me talk to. After I left, I did a little online search of her ‘revelations.’ One boy she said was dead turned out to be alive and part of a cult. So of course she now says she saw his ‘spiritual death.’ The closest she’s come to being right is when she told the parents of a three-year-old that their daughter was submerged in water, trapped beneath a metal grate. There had been a lot of rain, and everyone thought the girl had wandered away and fallen into a drainage ditch. It was probably just her best guess.”
“So what really happened?”
“She had been raped and strangled by her neighbor, and then he stuffed her under his waterbed. So now this lady says on her Web site that she was right—it was just the spirits who were a little vague about the whole water and grate business.”
“Well, my last caller had a dream about a man in a house next to trees and a road,” Leif said. “And she’s sure it’s something to do with Katie.”
“Now we’ve finally got something we can act on!” Nic pumped her fist in mock excitement. “Trees and a road! That certainly narrows it down.” She was so frustrated she was getting giddy.
Neither of them saw John Drood, the special agent in charge of Portland’s FBI, standing behind them until it was too late. He was a pale man with graying hair and less than six months to go until he bumped up against the FBI’s rule that forced agents to retire at fifty-seven. It was clear that he was having trouble even contemplating letting go, which had the unfortunate effect of making him more officious.
“I don’t care if the tip comes in on a flaming arrow,” he said, his hands on his narrow hips. “You investigate the tip first and the arrow second. We can’t afford to discard anything. Not when we have nothing else to go on. And it’s always possible that someone who is personally connected to the case may call and claim to be a psychic.”
“That’s true, sir,” Nic said, nodding. “Someone who claims to have seen Katie in a dream may actually be the person who took her.”
“Exactly.” Looking mollified, Drood walked off.
“But not your lady,” Leif added when Drood was out of earshot.
“No,” Nic said. “Probably not.”
So far, professionals and volunteers had canvassed Portland and the outlying suburbs. They tracked down rumors of a body seen in the river, a bundle of clothes in a ditch, a neighbor acting suspiciously. They had checked warehouses, docks, outbuildings, and vacant houses. The search had spread well past Portland. People were looking in woods and farms all over Oregon and Washington.
But they were finding nothing.
Nicole stood up to stretch, her holster catching briefly on the back of the cheap folding chair. After eight years in the FBI, her Glock was part of her. She was required to be armed, available, and fit for duty at all times, whether she was at work or not. She carried her gun on planes. She carried it when she met her friends for dinner. She took it to Makayla’s fourth-grade play. Makayla was now the class celebrity, thanks to some kid sitting on the floor catching a glimpse of Nic’s gun when her jacket fell open. It was underneath her left arm, snug against her side, just below her breast.
The FBI had trained her to shoot in all kinds of weather, during daylight and at night, in any position. She had drawn her weapon and fired her weapon hundreds of time. But she had never fired it at a human being.
At home, the gun went into the gun safe. Makayla knew she could ask to see the gun as often as she liked, but only when they were alone at home. She was never to touch it.