Racing Against Time by Marie Ferrarella

he waited, the longer he could pretend it was going to be all right.
    Callie started talking the second she got within Brent’s hearing range, ignoring the fact that Adams was standing on the sidelines, supposedly looking at the back bulletin board. The large one that accommodated some of their major data and the time line that had yet to be filled in. Right now what dominated the board was the photograph of Rachel that had been distributed to every single set of eyes within a five-mile radius.
    And what dominated Callie’s attention was the expression on Brent’s face. He looked hopeful. She wished she had more to tell him.

Chapter 7
    “T he medical examiner found a partial grill impression on Miss Culhane’s body,” Callie said as she approached him. “The CSI team thinks it belongs to a Mercedes. They’re trying to narrow that down for us.”
    “A Mercedes?” Brent echoed incredulously. “He must have stolen it.”
    “Probably.” Callie stopped at her desk. There were twenty of them on the task force so far, with more promised manpower on the way. Right now the room looked like the center of LAX. People were coming and going, and the din steadily grew. “We’ll look into any reports of a Mercedes being stolen around the time of the kidnapping.”
    He still couldn’t come to terms with the word. He dealt with crime every day, was surrounded by criminals accused of all sorts of heinous acts. Through it all, he’d managed to maintain an inner sanctum, a haven for himself and his daughter. And now that was gone.
    “But what good will that do?” he wanted to know. “That still doesn’t get us to the kidnapper. Anyone could have stolen the Mercedes.”
    She knew how frustrating it had to be for him. Which was why she had always tried to keep herself divorced from what was happening. Emotions only caused a person to make mistakes. But in this case, it was hard not to get involved.
    Callie glanced over and saw that Adams had given up the pretense of looking at a file and was watching them. She turned her back on the man. “We keep gathering facts and trying to piece them together. It’s a little like one of those thousand-piece puzzles. When you start out, there’re only all these pieces that don’t look as if they’ll ever come together. But in the end, you’ve got a whole picture.”
    “The difference there,” Brent pointed out, “is that you start out knowing what the puzzle is supposed to look like. We still have no idea who took Rachel and killed Delia.”
    “But we will,” she assured him with as much conviction as she could infuse into her tone. “The challenge might be greater, but my team’s up to it.” She shifted, holding out the files she’d taken home with her. “I went over these files again last night, and I have a few questions that might help us narrow down the scope somewhat. Are you game?”
    He wanted to leap, to fly, but all that could be done was to take tiny baby steps. From where he stood, it felt impossible to reach journey’s end. Resigned, he nodded. “Lead the way.”
    Callie looked over to the glass-enclosed office at the far end of the room. Captain D’Angelo, a tall, thin man with silver-gray hair and an aptitude for keeping peace among the ranks, was standing there, talking to one of the detectives. She couldn’t use his office again.
    “The captain’s in today. We’re going to have to use one of the interrogation rooms.” There were six on the floor. Windowless rooms meant to make you feel as if you were sealed off from the immediate world. She wasn’t sure how Brent would react to being in one. “You okay with that?”
    “I’m okay with anything that gets us closer to finding Rachel.” Because time was precious, he glanced at his watch.
    Callie began to lead the way out of the task force room. She looked at him over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll have you downstairs in time for the press conference.”
    He’d only talked to Captain