And if not, he thought dryly, they could rely on everything they’d learned through their years as investigators to fathom who had committed the crime of kidnapping and hopefully stop them before it became something far worse.
And one never knew. Both Skye and Zachary had additional “gifts.”
Or curses—depending on how one wanted to look at it. But for the two of their newer recruits, using the strange abilities they’d been given to help others took precedence and both were grateful to be where they were—among people with whom they didn’t need to hide their extraordinary talents.
Murphy’s car drew to a stop on the sidewalk near them; and the two of them hopped in, Jackson nodding to Angela, letting her know to take the front seat.
They’d spoken on the phone, but introductions went around again. Murphy seemed a decent fellow, early or mid-thirties with steady blue eyes and well sculpted face, and a solid no-nonsense manner combined with an ability to be polite and to listen as well as talk.
“Apparently, because of the bigwigs involved in this, the thing has gone all the way to the top; you guys are now lead,” Murphy told them.
“You’re still the point man,” Jackson assured him. “We do our best never—”
“To step on toes. Appreciated,” Murphy said. “And yeah, my great grandparents hailed from the old country, but I’m having a serious problem believing the girl was kidnapped by a leprechaun. Still, the way they were behaving . . . well, they called you in. I understand that you deal with ghosts and vampires, too,” he said lightly.
“Would-be vampires,” Angela told him, casting her head to the side and smiling.
And real ghosts, Jackson thought.
But of course, he kept that thought to himself. Nothing like having local law enforcement think you were a fruitcake when you needed to work with them.
“Here’s the thing,” Murphy told them, “Most of the world loves Sean Donegal. The man is known to give to multiple charities and just help out where and when he can. But he is bigger than life, and that can draw out the crazies. Still, I was wondering, especially at first, if someone wasn’t just scamming him for a lot of that money. But nothing—nothing other than the message left. Of course, everything was thoroughly checked and rechecked. Whoever took her was wearing gloves.” He paused, tightening his lips before speaking again. “And here’s the truly sad part—Sean Donegal was on his way home to meet with the folk from a security company. The house would have been tighter than a drum after today.”
“But if I read all my notes right, they believe the back door was jimmied open,” Angela told him.
Murphy nodded. “Yep. There was a bottom lock. A screwdriver or something was used to break it.”
Angela twisted around to look at Jackson in the back. “I’m thinking that someone watched the place first and knew the condition of the house—and Sean Donegal’s schedule.”
“Sounds quite possible. Detective Murphy, if you could have your people do some recon on the neighborhood, check with the neighbors regarding anything going on—not just when she was kidnapped but, in the days before it happened, too.”
“Will do. We tried for witnesses that morning, but I’ll send my people back out again. When the house was built, it was a bit from the city. But the city has grown out to the house. Still, the lots where we’re heading are about an acre, but still . . . well, someone might have been outside, seen a car that didn’t belong in the neighborhood or someone!”
“Absolutely. St. Patrick’s Day is almost upon us. We need to move quickly,” Jackson said.
“But you want to see the house and where—” Murphy began.
“Yes, it’s important in our way of working that we get to the scene right away, even if you and forensic folk have been over it,” Angela told him.
“Well, we’re almost there—despite Chicago traffic!” Murphy told them.
They arrived quickly, as the detective had said. They pulled up right in front; and he and Angela both paused, just staring at the house for a moment. Like the other homes in the area, the land was on a bit of a rise, giving one the impression of heading up to a grand dwelling indeed.
“I asked Sean Donegal to give us a bit of time, but he wanted to be here when you got here. Apparently, he knows the founder of your unit, a fellow named Adam Harrison. They met at a charity event years ago from what I understand. Naturally, the house is a crime scene now, but there’s an officer at the back; and you’ll note, one of my men there, at the front.”
“Right,” Jackson said, nodding to the officer.
“Let me tell you, I’m so glad that Donegal and your man Harrison met one another. This is . . . well, let me say that while we are a damned good force, on this case, all help is appreciated. Thank your Adam for me!”
“Will do. Adam is also very generous, and on top of that, a very nice man who has had his own share of struggles in life,” Angela said, smiling and nodded. “All right then, the house—and Mr. Donegal.”
They spoke briefly to the young officer outside the house and went through the double doors and onward through the “mud room,” or little entry where wet umbrellas and coats and the like might be left.
Entering the house, Jackson quickly suppressed a smile. The situation was too serious.
But someone had gone St. Patrick’s Day crazy. The handsome old parlor was decked with green ribbons, balloons, and tiny green hats. They were all artfully displayed against the warm backdrop of the Victorian parlor.
The gentleman waiting for them, Sean Donegal, stood in the midst of it, a tall, lean, gray-haired man in a handsome suit, dignified other than the look of pain that twisted his face and dampened his eyes.
