“Same thing I didn’t need to be concerned about last spring?”
Aidan had previously learned about the first sniper attack. He didn’t, however, know about the other threats Vaughn had leveled.
Setting the washed bowl aside, Nic turned and leaned back against the counter, fingers curled around the lip. “I’m handling it.”
“I can help.”
“I’m trying to minimize collateral damage, Talley.”
“The cat I get. I, however, can take care of myself.”
“I can’t ask?—”
“You’re not asking, I’m offering.” Aidan took two whiskey glasses down from the cabinet and poured two shots each from the bottle of Jameson Cam had left out on the counter. “You and Cam have helped me on how many cases? Now with Cam gone, I’m down a partner and you’re down a team member in whatever off-book op you’re running.” He handed a glass to Nic. “As your friend, your family, and an SAC who can pull some strings, let me help you. Please.”
Nic considered the gold liquid he swirled inside the glass. Considered that Cam might not be here much longer to drink it with him. Considered that what Aidan offered was family, friendship, and the sort of juice Nic would need to build his case against Vaughn.
He glanced back up, lifting his glass. “Meet me at mobile command tomorrow night at nine.”
Aidan smirked, clinking his glass against Nic’s. “Does she know you call it that?”
Nic tossed back his double shot and slammed the empty glass down on the counter. “No, and if you tell her, I’ll kill you myself.”
Eight
Cam pushed open the hotel room door with his hip, careful to keep the box of doughnuts balanced on his one hand and not lose his grip on the hand truck he was hauling with the other.
Jamie hustled over, relieving him of the doughnuts and opening the door wider so Cam could roll in the stack of boxes. “What are those?”
“My case files.”
“On Erin’s disappearance?”
He nodded. “Had them in a storage unit here.”
Cam dropped the boxes in front of the long, narrow desk that stretched the length of the suite’s living area. His mom’s books were stacked underneath it and taped to the walls above were giant poster-sized sheets of paper.
Jamie handed him a mug of coffee, then dropped into the chair in front of his laptop. “Give me two minutes to finish setting up.”
“You know . . .” Cam shoved half a doughnut in his mouth, chewed, and washed it down with the coffee. “I’m surprised this isn’t like the movies where you throw around a computer screen projection with your hands.”
Jamie waved the hand not working a mouse. “Work with what we got.”
Scarfing down the rest of the doughnut, Cam stood next to him and read the title of each sheet taped to the wall.
Timeline. Victim. Suspects. Evidence. Additional Notes.
Faced with it all again, the doughnut settled like a brick in Cam’s stomach. His discomfort must have shown.
“Last time I’ll ask,” Jamie said, leaning back in his chair. “Are you sure about this?”
Looking at those sheets again, Cam had a moment of doubt. Did he really want to dive back into this mess? Into his worst failure? He glanced again at the books beneath the desk. He didn’t have a choice. “It’s what Mom needs.”
“Okay.” Jamie grabbed a doughnut and a marker. “Let’s see how far we get before you’re due back at the hospital.”
As they worked their way through the timeline first, Cam couldn’t help remembering each wrong decision he’d made the day Erin disappeared. His dad’s boat had been stuck out on the water with mechanical issues, and his mom had had to leave twelve-year-old Erin at the library. Cam was supposed to pick her up, but Bobby had told him about a chance to score some real cash. He’d been saving up for a car, embarrassed to pick up his dates in the family junker. It was only dusk, so he’d figured Erin would be safe walking home. He’d told her as much when he’d called the library. He’d also told her to tell Mom that Cam had picked her up and dropped her off, just like he was supposed to do. Erin had been hesitant, but Cam had bribed her with the promise of a cream horn pastry. Erin had left the library, forgetting her library card at the checkout desk, and old man Wilkinson had seen her two streets from the house, cutting down the alley they always took to sneak in the back door. She’d never made it home, and Cam hadn’t eaten a cream horn in the twenty years since.
A black hole in the timeline and no clues at the scene to help fill it. No sign of a struggle—no blood or pulled hair or ripped clothing. She’d either known her attacker, been forced to cooperate, or been drugged. There had also been no security cameras to catch it on tape and no witnesses to say what they might’ve seen other than Mr. Wilkinson, who was now deceased.
