apologize.”
“I can’t believe you let him in here.”
“I didn’t. He still has a key.”
Fiona’s cell phone started ringing, and she pulled it out of her purse, which was on the floor. She didn’t recognize the number—not a good sign.
She flipped it open. “Fiona Glass.”
“Fiona, it’s Garrett.”
She paused, trying to place the name.
“Garrett Sullivan? FBI?”
“Of course! Sorry, I just—” She watched Courtney rummage through the junk drawer in the kitchen. “What?”
“I need a nail file,” Courtney whispered.
“Top of my dresser.”
“Excuse me?” Sullivan asked.
“Not you. Sorry.” She took a deep breath and tried to collect her thoughts. Special Agent Sullivan. This would be bad news. “Did you find her?” Her chest tightened as she asked the question.
“No. But we have a suspect now, thanks to you.”
Fiona let out a breath. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious. And he’s a dead ringer for your drawing, too. Have you seen the news this morning?”
Fiona flipped on her only television, a thirteen-inch Sony that sat on her kitchen counter, and switched it to CNN. It was a weather report, but she watched the scrolling headlines on the bottom of the screen, knowing it would come on sooner or later.
“Our man’s name is Keith Janovic, aka Ron Jones. His employer recognized him from your drawing and called it in.”
Sure enough, the headline started crawling across the bottom of the screen: “Authorities are seeking Birmingham resident Keith Janovic for questioning in the Shelby Sherwood abduction case. While not officially calling him a suspect, an FBI spokesman said he is a ‘person of interest’…”
“He’s not a suspect?”
“It just became official,” Sullivan said. “The media hasn’t caught up yet. But we’ve matched prints at his workplace to a partial found on the Sherwoods’ doorbell. He’s the man. Now we just have to locate him.”
Courtney sashayed toward the door and grabbed her black trench coat off a hook in the foyer. She blew a kiss at Fiona as she made her escape.
Fiona shifted her attention back to the television. “And what’s his story?”
“Twenty-five. Loner. Busted a few years ago for some rubber checks, but no history of violence.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Lives in a rat hole. Collects child pornography. Hasn’t been seen in ten days.”
Fiona sighed and sank onto a bar stool. She hated these cases. “How’s Colter?”
“A little better, from what I hear. He’s talking to our shrink some, at least. Mom says he’s having nightmares, though.”
Fiona fidgeted with the woven bracelet at her wrist. Colter had given it to her Monday, and Annie had insisted she keep it, saying her daughter would want her to have it. Shelby loved making them for friends, apparently.
“Anyway, I called to say thank you,” Sullivan said. “This is a major breakthrough, and it wouldn’t have been possible without your work.”
Her stomach fluttered, and she knew what was coming. She waited a few beats.
“Is there something else you need me to do?” she prompted.
“Do?”
“Yeah, I mean…you just called to thank me?” If so, it would be a first. Investigators rarely bothered to thank her. Or if they did, it usually happened right before they hit her up for help on another case. She didn’t take it personally, really. She knew how overworked they were.
The silence stretched out.
“Fiona?”
“Yes?”
“You really have no idea how talented you are, do you?”
She didn’t know what to say. Guilt tugged at her.
“I hope you’ll reconsider your career plans,” Sullivan said. “We really need you out here in the field.”
Fiona watched the TV screen, where coverage had shifted to a podium crammed with microphones. The Atlanta police chief stood behind them, looking haggard but hopeful as he answered reporters’ questions.
She was reminded of one of the reasons she did this work. She liked putting that
“I can’t believe you let him in here.”
“I didn’t. He still has a key.”
Fiona’s cell phone started ringing, and she pulled it out of her purse, which was on the floor. She didn’t recognize the number—not a good sign.
She flipped it open. “Fiona Glass.”
“Fiona, it’s Garrett.”
She paused, trying to place the name.
“Garrett Sullivan? FBI?”
“Of course! Sorry, I just—” She watched Courtney rummage through the junk drawer in the kitchen. “What?”
“I need a nail file,” Courtney whispered.
“Top of my dresser.”
“Excuse me?” Sullivan asked.
“Not you. Sorry.” She took a deep breath and tried to collect her thoughts. Special Agent Sullivan. This would be bad news. “Did you find her?” Her chest tightened as she asked the question.
“No. But we have a suspect now, thanks to you.”
Fiona let out a breath. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious. And he’s a dead ringer for your drawing, too. Have you seen the news this morning?”
Fiona flipped on her only television, a thirteen-inch Sony that sat on her kitchen counter, and switched it to CNN. It was a weather report, but she watched the scrolling headlines on the bottom of the screen, knowing it would come on sooner or later.
“Our man’s name is Keith Janovic, aka Ron Jones. His employer recognized him from your drawing and called it in.”
Sure enough, the headline started crawling across the bottom of the screen: “Authorities are seeking Birmingham resident Keith Janovic for questioning in the Shelby Sherwood abduction case. While not officially calling him a suspect, an FBI spokesman said he is a ‘person of interest’…”
“He’s not a suspect?”
“It just became official,” Sullivan said. “The media hasn’t caught up yet. But we’ve matched prints at his workplace to a partial found on the Sherwoods’ doorbell. He’s the man. Now we just have to locate him.”
Courtney sashayed toward the door and grabbed her black trench coat off a hook in the foyer. She blew a kiss at Fiona as she made her escape.
Fiona shifted her attention back to the television. “And what’s his story?”
“Twenty-five. Loner. Busted a few years ago for some rubber checks, but no history of violence.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Lives in a rat hole. Collects child pornography. Hasn’t been seen in ten days.”
Fiona sighed and sank onto a bar stool. She hated these cases. “How’s Colter?”
“A little better, from what I hear. He’s talking to our shrink some, at least. Mom says he’s having nightmares, though.”
Fiona fidgeted with the woven bracelet at her wrist. Colter had given it to her Monday, and Annie had insisted she keep it, saying her daughter would want her to have it. Shelby loved making them for friends, apparently.
“Anyway, I called to say thank you,” Sullivan said. “This is a major breakthrough, and it wouldn’t have been possible without your work.”
Her stomach fluttered, and she knew what was coming. She waited a few beats.
“Is there something else you need me to do?” she prompted.
“Do?”
“Yeah, I mean…you just called to thank me?” If so, it would be a first. Investigators rarely bothered to thank her. Or if they did, it usually happened right before they hit her up for help on another case. She didn’t take it personally, really. She knew how overworked they were.
The silence stretched out.
“Fiona?”
“Yes?”
“You really have no idea how talented you are, do you?”
She didn’t know what to say. Guilt tugged at her.
“I hope you’ll reconsider your career plans,” Sullivan said. “We really need you out here in the field.”
Fiona watched the TV screen, where coverage had shifted to a podium crammed with microphones. The Atlanta police chief stood behind them, looking haggard but hopeful as he answered reporters’ questions.
She was reminded of one of the reasons she did this work. She liked putting that
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