I leaned in close to Mac. “He called the media?”
She shook her head. “Maybe a few. But the police would have made the first calls. The media is the best way to get people looking for Lucy and generating leads.”
Hiram continued. “I stand before you, and through you the world, to offer a heartfelt plea for the return of my granddaughter.”
Now the only sound was the rain.
“We have excellent police in Denver,” he said. “Our men and women in blue are the very finest. And I know they’re doing everything they can to find Lucy and bring her safely home. But—” His voice broke on the last word and moisture filmed his eyes. He blinked. A flash popped. “My little Lucy is only eight. She’s small for her age. To look at her, you might think she’s fragile. But . . . Lucy is tough. She’s brave. She’s just—she’s just like her grandfather. She loves horses and books and she loves”—another blink—“loved playing with her brothers. Now my son, Ben, lies in a hospital bed close to death. The only thing that can save him is the return of his daughter. The only thing that can save me is Lucy’s return.”
He lifted his chin, picked a video camera, and spoke directly into it. “Please. Whoever has my granddaughter, please bring her home to me.”
Lieutenant Engel laid a hand on Hiram’s arm. He ignored it.
“I’m confident Denver won’t let me down. I’ve given my entire life to this city, as some of you know. Now, I will give again. I’m offering a reward of ten million dollars for Lucy’s safe return.”
The crowd erupted. Clyde surged to his feet, unsure where to direct his focus. The uniforms closed in around Hiram as the reporters pushed forward, their mics lifted. Engel once again took point, shoving his way through the throng.
The media coordinator lifted her hands, waving to get attention. “Denver PD and the FBI will offer a joint press conference here in one hour. We ask that you please stand by for that so that we can get information out to the public.”
Mac touched my elbow. “Let’s get out of here.”
We moved toward the elevators, passing Hiram’s group. As we approached, my eyes met his, then his gaze dropped to my uniform.
“You,” he said.
Everyone stopped. The uniforms jostled in place. The journalists close by looked at me.
“You’re one of mine,” Hiram said. His arctic eyes glittered. “You’re the one who went after her this morning. After my Lucy.”
Engel touched his elbow, but Hiram shrugged him off.
“Yes, sir,” I said. The picture of the unknown woman and the article about the crossings seemed to burn in my duffel bag. I wanted to ask him about them. Wanted to ask him about his relationship with the Tates and how much Ben knew about MoMA and the land. But not here. Not in front of the journalists.
Hiram read the name tape on my uniform. “Special Agent Parnell.” He cocked his head. “You saw my lawyers earlier today, I believe.”
I lifted my chin. Here it came. “Yes, sir.”
The reporters closed in around us, lifting microphones. The lieutenant and Mac waved them back.
A wild light shone suddenly in Hiram’s eyes, like a match touched to a wick, a flame burning behind glass.
“Come see me,” he said. “In two hours. We need to talk.”
“You stepped in some shit,” Mac observed as the two of us and Clyde rode up on the elevator.
I shrugged.
“Word is,” she said, “the railroad wouldn’t give the police permission to search Ben’s office.”
“That’s right.”
“But I’m guessing you went anyway.”
“Fools rush in,” I said casually. But inside I was wondering how I’d pay the bills if Hiram fired me. People talked about hiring vets. But outside of security and law enforcement, a lot of times it didn’t go beyond the talking stage.
Mac nodded as if she knew what I was thinking. The composure was back in place, her body still except for her right foot, which tapped the floor with a life of its own.
“At least you’ve got a set of balls,” she said.
“Standard Marine issue.”
She laughed. “Look, if he wants to fire your ass for doing your job, we’ll find a place for you.”
I finally met her gaze. “For this investigation, you mean?”
“Sure. And more, if you’re interested. As I said earlier, I read about that case you handled last February. It was great work. You should be looking at your options.”
“And here I was thinking I didn’t have a mom anymore.”
“One reason they call me Mama Mac when they think I’m not listening. They also call me Mad Mac. I have the finesse of a bull in a china shop.”
“Well, thanks, but I’d prefer it if you stayed away from my china.”
Mac’s voice turned soft. “You remind me of my daughter. Spine like a piece of rebar. And a sense of honor welded so strongly in place it will break you before you realize you’re using it as a shield instead of for support.”
“Maybe you should be having this conversation with your daughter instead of me.”
The elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open.
“Wish I could,” Mac said as she held the elevator door for a pair of uniforms getting on. “But it’d be at her gravesite. Honor makes a crappy shield.”
Way to step in it, Parnell. “I’m so sorry,” I murmured.
“So am I.”
We stepped out into pandemonium. The main hallway was crammed with detectives, uniforms, FBI agents, and TSA officials, all hurrying somewhere or conferring in clumps or talking on the phone, a finger stuffed in one ear as they struggled to hear over the din. A hand-lettered sign taped to the wall with an arrow pointing toward the end of the hallway said simply, LUCY ROOM 2A. That would be the command center, where all the key players from every law enforcement agency involved would converge.
Mac and I walked in silence to the incident room, where I handed over Mauer’s data. While she stayed in the room to check in with her team, Clyde and I went back out into the hall. I stopped one of the detectives hurrying past.
“Detective Cohen?”
“At his desk, I think. In the squad room.” He sped past.
I threaded my way through a maze of offices and headed into the homicide warren. This place—with its disorder of desks, stacks of binders and old coffee cups, the smells of wet carpet, spilled sodas, sweat, ink, and overloaded wiring, with the television set rumbling a steady stream of news behind the hum of conversation and trilling phones—was the heartbeat of Cohen’s life. When he came home at night, he still vibrated with its energy. Cohen’s devotion to his job, when he could have been riding on family money, was part of what had persuaded me to allow him into my life.