“Call Devil.”
He picked up on the second ring. “What did you find?”
Dev never wasted time with chitchat, a trait among many he admired in the man.
“Nothing. The house was clean.”
“You found the safe?”
“Yeah, with nothing to link Marco to the missing girls,” he replied. “He’s dirty, but not in the way we thought.”
“Shit.” Dev’s tersely uttered expletive mirrored his own frustration. “I thought for sure…”
“So did I.”
“And the wife?”
“A vacuous narcissist who couldn’t mastermind a bake sale, let alone a trafficking ring.”
There was a beat of silence before Dev replied, “It sounds as though you’ve had enough of her.”
“Twelve weeks of her yammering about fake nails and whether she should get the Moroccan Mauve or Paris Lights. As if I give a fuck. I’m also done mooning over her Botoxed face and pretending to drool over her surgically augmented tits. This is a dead end, Dev. I say we move on.”
Another pause. “If you’re sure it’s not just frustration talking.”
“It’s not. No evidence. No gut twinge. Marco Benedetti isn’t our guy.”
“You know how much stock I put in gut instinct,” Dev replied, this time without hesitancy. “Call it. Then go home and get some sleep.”
“I’ll try, but I hear her nasally twang when I close my eyes.” Alec couldn’t help but gripe. “First thing in the morning, I’m calling my doctor. I swear my ears are bleeding. I’ve never heard anyone talk so much without breathing.”
Dev’s low chuckle rumbled through the phone. “After your appointment, swing by the office. Ten a.m. We need to take a look at what we have—or rather, what we don’t—and regroup.”
“I’ll be there.”
Dev hesitated. Then, quieter: “You didn’t go straight home. Want to tell me why you looped back to the convention center?”
Alec’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Emily was there.”
“That explains it. You’re as fixated on that girl as I was on Cari.”
“I didn’t screw up. I got what I needed and got out clean.”
“I know. But I also know what it is to letthe oneslip through your fingers. It messes with your head. You need to get resolution. How can I help?”
Alec exhaled. “She was working one of the events. There were a dozen caterers there tonight. I don’t even know where to start.”
“I’ll put Greta on it first thing tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Alec said, the tension in his chest easing just a little. “I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me a thing except a debriefing at 10 a.m. Get some rest.”
Chapter 4
At the tail end of a Saturday-night wedding reception—one week later—Emily moved through another ballroom. They all ran together: same soft lighting, same wilting centerpieces, same aching feet, and a budding headache pulsing at the base of her skull. With the five-tiered cake cut and served, only punch refills and cleanup remained.
Her gaze swept the gathering, confirming everything was under control, then she slipped into the service hallway. Not to the loading dock for a break—she’d learned that lesson—but necessity was called that for a reason, and she’d been putting it off for the last hour.
