you ever want a real job, come see me.”
Streeter noticed a rare smile on Special Agent Phil Kelleher’s face.
Gates’s phone buzzed. He looked at the text. “They’re here. BlueSky. They’ll be bringing Benson up to us.”
“When?” Streeter asked.
“A minute, maybe two. They’re headed up the escalator to the mezzanine as we speak.”
“While we’re waiting, tell me something, Kelleher,” Streeter said. “What’s up with the parents?”
“Maximillian Bennett Williams II is a developer in Manhattan. Amulti-millionaire. Melissa Williams is a supermodel. Famous. They’re separated, waiting for the divorce to be finalized, and the child—Maximillian III or little Max—is the product of their brief marriage,” Kelleher explained.
“Ransom?”
“Possibly,” Kelleher answered. “It’s all speculation at this point.”
“No calls to the parents reported yet?”
Kelleher answered, “Not that I’ve heard. I left that up to you to decide.”
“Get the New York Bureau up to speed and have them contact the father, same with the LA Bureau and the mother. We’ll need our people involved if there’s a ransom call.”
“That won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“They’re on their way here.”
“Who’s on their way? Where?”
Kelleher cleared his throat. “The mother and father. They’re both flying here to Denver in private jets as we speak.”
“Who told you that?”
Kelleher nodded over Streeter’s shoulder at the incoming entourage.
Gates and Streeter turned in time to see two men come through the door. Streeter only recognized the older, heavier man in the suit and mumbled, “Toby Freytag.”
Gates asked, “Freytag told you the parents were incoming?”
Kelleher nodded.
“Nice to know.”
Streeter leaned in closer to Gates and grumbled, “Especially after we just spent a half hour grilling him and he never mentioned it to us.”
“Chief Gates? This is Kevin Benson,” Toby Freytag announced as the door bumped closed.
The man beside Freytag was morose looking. He was young, tall, and lean with a long face and horsey teeth. His bangs were too long and his shirttails were loose. He looked drunk or stoned, if Streeter had to guess.
“So you’re the flight attendant who escorted the missing boy?” Gates asked.
The lanky man nodded, his glance bouncing between Gates and Streeter.
Benson looked at Freytag. “You said I shouldn’t say anything until the lawyers get here.”
“I did, but—”
“Mr. Benson?” Streeter asked, cutting off Freytag and noticing that Kelleher had expertly faded into the background to help observe.
Kevin Benson fixed his blurry eyes on Streeter and said, “Call me Kevin. My dad’s Mr. Benson.”
“Okay, Kevin,” Gates sniped. Streeter detected a note of agitation in his friend’s tone. “I’m Police Chief Tony Gates and this is Special Agent Streeter Pierce. Have a seat.”
Streeter extended his hand and Benson gave him a limp handshake. Streeter wondered if this was his normal greeting or if his hands were sore from a recent activity, like restraining the boy or digging a shallow grave in the frozen ground.
As Benson slumped into the chair, Streeter noticed Liv slip into the room, wearing an apologetic expression under her Rockies baseball cap. She looked beautiful and frightful; angry red scratches marked her cheeks and neck. Streeter offered her a flickering glance that he hoped she’d notice and no one else would. He made a mental note to ask her about the injuries later, as well as to remind her of the Bureau’s expectation that agents dress more professionally when on assignment or working a case. He tried to ignore how the tight blue jeans and white T-shirt she wore beneath her unzipped hoodie made her look like a college coed and made him feel ancient in comparison. At least the standard Bureau dark suit she should have worn would have made their ten-year age difference feel a bit less cavernous than her apparel did at
Streeter noticed a rare smile on Special Agent Phil Kelleher’s face.
Gates’s phone buzzed. He looked at the text. “They’re here. BlueSky. They’ll be bringing Benson up to us.”
“When?” Streeter asked.
“A minute, maybe two. They’re headed up the escalator to the mezzanine as we speak.”
“While we’re waiting, tell me something, Kelleher,” Streeter said. “What’s up with the parents?”
“Maximillian Bennett Williams II is a developer in Manhattan. Amulti-millionaire. Melissa Williams is a supermodel. Famous. They’re separated, waiting for the divorce to be finalized, and the child—Maximillian III or little Max—is the product of their brief marriage,” Kelleher explained.
“Ransom?”
“Possibly,” Kelleher answered. “It’s all speculation at this point.”
“No calls to the parents reported yet?”
Kelleher answered, “Not that I’ve heard. I left that up to you to decide.”
“Get the New York Bureau up to speed and have them contact the father, same with the LA Bureau and the mother. We’ll need our people involved if there’s a ransom call.”
“That won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“They’re on their way here.”
“Who’s on their way? Where?”
Kelleher cleared his throat. “The mother and father. They’re both flying here to Denver in private jets as we speak.”
“Who told you that?”
Kelleher nodded over Streeter’s shoulder at the incoming entourage.
Gates and Streeter turned in time to see two men come through the door. Streeter only recognized the older, heavier man in the suit and mumbled, “Toby Freytag.”
Gates asked, “Freytag told you the parents were incoming?”
Kelleher nodded.
“Nice to know.”
Streeter leaned in closer to Gates and grumbled, “Especially after we just spent a half hour grilling him and he never mentioned it to us.”
“Chief Gates? This is Kevin Benson,” Toby Freytag announced as the door bumped closed.
The man beside Freytag was morose looking. He was young, tall, and lean with a long face and horsey teeth. His bangs were too long and his shirttails were loose. He looked drunk or stoned, if Streeter had to guess.
“So you’re the flight attendant who escorted the missing boy?” Gates asked.
The lanky man nodded, his glance bouncing between Gates and Streeter.
Benson looked at Freytag. “You said I shouldn’t say anything until the lawyers get here.”
“I did, but—”
“Mr. Benson?” Streeter asked, cutting off Freytag and noticing that Kelleher had expertly faded into the background to help observe.
Kevin Benson fixed his blurry eyes on Streeter and said, “Call me Kevin. My dad’s Mr. Benson.”
“Okay, Kevin,” Gates sniped. Streeter detected a note of agitation in his friend’s tone. “I’m Police Chief Tony Gates and this is Special Agent Streeter Pierce. Have a seat.”
Streeter extended his hand and Benson gave him a limp handshake. Streeter wondered if this was his normal greeting or if his hands were sore from a recent activity, like restraining the boy or digging a shallow grave in the frozen ground.
As Benson slumped into the chair, Streeter noticed Liv slip into the room, wearing an apologetic expression under her Rockies baseball cap. She looked beautiful and frightful; angry red scratches marked her cheeks and neck. Streeter offered her a flickering glance that he hoped she’d notice and no one else would. He made a mental note to ask her about the injuries later, as well as to remind her of the Bureau’s expectation that agents dress more professionally when on assignment or working a case. He tried to ignore how the tight blue jeans and white T-shirt she wore beneath her unzipped hoodie made her look like a college coed and made him feel ancient in comparison. At least the standard Bureau dark suit she should have worn would have made their ten-year age difference feel a bit less cavernous than her apparel did at
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