Alexander sighed, his mind pulled in a thousand different directions. He knew he should stay close in case the sketch of Maleek yielded new information, since he was the only concrete lead they had at this point, but he was itching to have the opportunity to rummage through Mischa’s house.
He had spent the hours leading up to Melanie’s disappearance looking into Mischa’s background. Even with all the tricks Simpson had up his sleeve, there was nothing to tie her to his company’s short-lived shelter in Afghanistan, aside from being Landon’s sister. They never rebuilt after the explosion. They had done everything within their power to find the women they had provided safe harbor to, but it was as if they had disappeared off the face of the earth.
Working with NCIS, Alexander had come to the conclusion the explosion was most likely a distraction. They had found enough evidence to suggest that the women were, in all probability, returned to their families and the antiquated, barbaric traditions of the tribal communities within the country carried out. Years from now, a body may turn up that they may be able to connect to one of the women he failed to help. Until then, all he could do was assume the worst. That was the only option when someone vanished into thin air.
The idea that someone was now targeting Alexander and Mischa for their connection to the shelter seemed outlandish and improbable, especially considering a year had passed. Memories of the last time he saw Landon forced their way to the forefront of Alexander’s brain. He couldn’t help but wonder whether his friend’s odd request was related.
“What do you think’s going on?” Alexander asked Simpson.
“I wish I knew, sir. All I can tell you is what I find, and I find all of this to be too suspicious to simply be a series of isolated, unrelated events.”
“I agree.” He paused. “If you find anything else, let me know.”
“Of course, sir,” Simpson replied, then the line went dead.
Alexander slumped in his chair and rubbed his temples as he tried to collect his thoughts. He looked to the corner of his desk, his eyes falling on a framed photo of Olivia and Melanie. He needed to share this new information with her, but didn’t know how. How could he possibly tell her Mischa was murdered and their daughter taken because of his company’s involvement in Afghanistan?
Alexander snapped out of his thoughts when he heard a knock on the door, followed by the creak of it opening.
“I apologize for interrupting, sir,” Martin said, standing in the doorway. His voice was low, exuding the exhaustion he couldn’t hide on his face. They had gone days with little sleep before, but had never been put through the emotional ringer of losing a family member. And Melanie was family to him. “There’s someone to see you.”
Alexander furrowed his brow, eyeing the early hour on the clock. “Who?”
“O’Malley. He just came from the command center where he’s been answering tip line calls.”
Nodding, Alexander ordered, “Let him in.” His skin prickled with anticipation as Martin retreated from the office. In the cloud of trying to figure out what was going on, Martin had the forethought to have a few of their agents volunteer to answer tip line calls, unbeknownst to the FBI. Crises like these always seemed to bring out the humanity in people, and the command center had been flooded practically all day by neighbors and other people wanting to help. Most of them had been arranged into search parties to comb through the heavily wooded areas that made up this part of the state. However, a few volunteers came with a background in law enforcement or social services, like Alexander’s agents. Fortunately, the FBI decided to put them to work on the overloaded tip line.
Alexander certainly hadn’t expected any of his agents, or anyone else, to actually get any information by answering those calls. Based on his experience, tip lines were simply a way for law enforcement to make it appear like they were doing everything they possibly could to find a missing person. These days, most people barely looked up from their phones long enough to avoid getting hit by a car when crossing the street, let alone identify a rough sketch of someone.
“Mr. Burnham, sir,” O’Malley said quietly as he entered the dim office. “I’m sorry for barging in at such an early hour.”
“It’s quite all right.” Alexander gestured to the seat across from him.
He lowered himself into the chair, glancing at Alexander with a nervous expression. He was a newer agent, but Martin had appeared confident he was perfect for this task, said he could get a monk who had taken a vow of silence to talk.
“Have you found anything?” Alexander asked.
“Yes, sir. I was answering calls when I noticed a bit of commotion. An FBI agent got a call on his cell, spoke for a few minutes, then went to get Agent Moretti.”
“He’s still there?” Alexander raised his eyebrows.
“Yes. There’s a room with a few cots set up so the agents can get a little sleep, but are still close by in case there are any new developments.”
Alexander nodded. “Go on.”
“I tried to make it appear as if I wasn’t eavesdropping on what was going on and kept answering calls. I’m able to read lips, though. Apparently, a man who works at a convenience store in Roxbury called, responding to the photo the FBI released of Maleek. He claimed a man matching the description of the sketch has come in at least once a day for the past several months to buy cigarettes, that he lives in a two-level house across the street from the store. At first, the clerk wasn’t sure whether the sketch was the man or not, then he remembered seeing something suspicious after one in the morning on Saturday.”
Alexander straightened his spine. That was in the same time frame in which Melanie had been taken.
“The clerk saw him drive up to the house and back into the driveway. Then he saw someone get out of the passenger seat.”
“Did he leave a description of his passenger?” Alexander asked.
“No. He said it was dark and couldn’t make out any details. He did mention his passenger was on the shorter side, maybe a few inches over five feet. They both went around the back of the SUV and opened the rear hatch. The clerk watched as they carried what appeared to be a heavy object around the back of the house. They didn’t enter through the front door, so he assumed they used the back door or the storm door leading to the basement.”
Alexander’s heart raced in his chest as he absorbed O’Malley’s report. “And how did Agent Moretti respond to all of this?”
“He put together a team to head over to the address in question right away. One of the other agents asked if they should inform you and he said no. That this may turn out to be just another caller looking for his fifteen minutes of fame. That he didn’t want to get your hopes up until he was certain it was a viable lead.”
Alexander slammed his fists on the desk and opened one of the drawers, withdrawing a pistol and securing it in his holster. “Bullshit. He knows damn well it’s a viable lead.” He bolted from his seat. “Martin.” He turned to him.
“Yes, sir.”