A feminine voice called out, “Rise and shine.”
He wandered into the kitchen, yawning.
“What, no kiss?” She had on the same clothes from the night before, black pants and red silk top, but was missing the jacket, and her bra.
His eyes must have gotten wide, because Jordan started to laugh. “You really need to lighten up, Detective.”
“You’re in a good mood. Are you like the battery on my iPhone, just plug her in and she charges up in an hour?”
“No, I’m younger than you, and don’t need as much sleep.”
“Ouch.” But he smiled and so did she. Jesus, she was flirting with him. And he was flirting right back. Head in the game, Fletch. She was adorable, and smart, and driven in a way he totally respected, and he’d like to get to know her better. But they had a child to find, and he needed to keep that front and center.
He realized something else was becoming front and center, and turned, busying himself in the refrigerator until he was decent again. He laughed at himself. Dirty old man.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Jordan said, setting cutlery and a juice glass on the table.
“To what do I owe the honor?”
“I was starving, and unlike many a bachelor, you actually have food in your fridge. It didn’t seem fair to run out on you after you were kind enough to give up your bed last night. And I might have found something you’ll want to see.”
“What’s that?”
“Eat first. Then we’ll look.”
“Look first, then eat.”
“Oh, you’re no fun.” But she turned the heat off and grabbed a sheaf of papers from the counter next to her.
“We’ve been looking at this all wrong. Matcliff was given a new code name.”
“Saxon to Savage. Right. Why?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Who gave him the new code name?”
“I’m betting it was someone who knew him.”
“Thurber?”
“Explains why he’s been so freaky about all this.”
“So Thurber lied when he said he didn’t know the name Timothy Savage,” Fletcher said.
She went back to the stove, flipped the eggs onto a plate, added the bacon and thrust it at him. “I wouldn’t characterize it as a lie, exactly. A bending of the truth. I think Rob might feel responsible, which is why he’s throwing up roadblocks and being such a jerk about this. It’s out of character. He’s always been a good, levelheaded guy. Of course, I’m newly partnered with him, so I don’t know everything about him. We’re still in the honeymoon phase.”
“He’s an honest sort, though, right?”
“Until an hour ago, I would have said yes. Now I don’t know.”
She scooped eggs and bacon onto her own plate and joined him at the table. “Once the code name shifts, it’s a cat and mouse game. I think they were trying to get him to come in, and he wasn’t willing to take the chance. Before it all shuts down, he gives the location of the cult in 2006, near El Paso, Texas. So we can tie them physically to Emily Harper’s disappearance. It’s enough to get a warrant, assuming we’ve found where they are now.”
“Did he happen to say what they were doing with the girls?”
“No. Nothing new there.”
“Good work, Special Agent.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Fletcher tried to wrap his head around it, knew they were still missing something. Why in the world would the FBI shut down their own channel into the cult? Especially when their agent had presumably gone missing within that same organization—after telling them there were more girls being brought in?
Every time they found an answer, two more questions cropped up.
Fletcher heard a noise, paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. Jordan heard it, too. Her eyes met his. They both jumped to their feet and inched to the back door. Fletcher was still wearing his backup gun. He pulled it from his ankle holster and muttered, “You loaded?”
Her Glock was out, already pointed at the noise. “I’m an FBI agent, Detective, not a Girl Scout. Of course I am.”
He resisted the urge to laugh, signaled the count—one, two, three—then threw open the door to his meager little deck.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!”
He dropped his weapon. Lisa Schumann, The Washington Post reporter he’d blown off a couple of days ago, was hanging over the railing of his deck, preparing to drop down to the alley below.
He grabbed her arm and hauled her back over the edge. She landed in a heap at his feet.
“Ow! Gee, thanks for nothing, Detective. That hurt.”
“Talk. Right now. Or I swear to God I’ll shoot you. What the hell are you doing out here?”
Her chin rose an inch. She had guts; he’d give her that.
“What do you think I’m doing? I’m trying to drum up a lead on the Rachel Stevens case.”
“By spying on me?”
She looked down and didn’t answer.