The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(70)

Despite everything, we chuckle at that. “Little A, little B,” I reply. “A lot of it is training.”

“Just think, padawan,” says Yvonne, joining the conversation from Quantico, “this is what you have to look forward to.”

“‘Look forward to’ seems like a poor word choice.”

Watts shakes her head. “Steal more help if you need to, ladies, but as you’re prepping the warrants, try to find out if all his previous residences are still standing. Also, see if anything has been discovered at those addresses over the years that couldn’t be identified.”

We get to Richmond in just over an hour, because Watts is driving nowhere near the speed limit. She slows down once we hit the city, though, and that’s when Mercedes calls the day-shift captain directly to let him know what’s about to happen. He promises to meet us there himself, with just a couple of officers and their dogs in order to keep it discreet.

My heart thumps erratically as we pass the school and pull into the neighborhood. It’s a Wednesday, and despite the panic of the weekend, life doesn’t stop. The kids are back at school, the adults are back at work, with the probable exception of the Mercers and possibly the Coperniks. One of them may be home with Rebecca, as she’s likely still sick. All the frenetic activity of the first few days has faded in the face of bills and schedules.

I hate it, but it’s reality. And we do it too. The first few days are all-out, sleep-is-for-the-weak endeavors, because that’s our best chance of finding a missing kid. But once that period passes, once it turns into an endurance case, as Vic calls them, we have to rest. We have to step away for bits of time, because we’re not going to find anyone or anything if we’re hospitalized after a collapse. Common sense wars with need and leaves you feeling guilty for taking care of yourself.

Agent Burnside parks the second Bureau car a few houses down, across the street from the K-9 unit’s vehicle. The captain’s car is a couple houses down on the other side of Davies’s house. Nothing to cause alarm; nothing to hint at a trap.

Watts parks just in front of the house, leaving the driveway empty. Davies’s Impreza must be in the garage.

I nervously fluff my hair and check my makeup. Soft and pretty and fragile, all the things I worked so hard not to resemble after I joined the Bureau.

“Get us in the door,” Watts instructs. “This will be a lot easier if he lets us in. Stay soft, open, be aware of your body language. Be deferential. Did you ever sell Girl Scout cookies?”

“For years,” I answer, thinking of Shira’s dad taking us around to keep us safe.

“Think that, but dial it back a little. You’re not trying to sell him anything, but you do want that impression of opening the door to unbearable cuteness. Once he opens that door, don’t let him close it. Ramirez will be next to you. I’ll be right around the edge of the garage with Captain Scott.”

“Ramirez gets all the fun,” Kearney sighs.

“He won’t have to look down to see Ramirez,” Watts replies with a smirk.

Kearney huffs but doesn’t retort.

I take a slow, deep breath, then another. And one more for luck. “Let’s go.”





23

Ramirez stands a few feet away as I ring the doorbell, not hiding, precisely, but not in focus for anyone looking through the peephole. After a few minutes, I give four firm knocks to the door, and ring the bell again for good measure. I have my credentials folder in my other hand. Usually I’d be holding it up by my shoulder, ready to flip open and present, but this time I keep it low, near my hip, ready to unfold and offer. It’s amazing how such a small detail shifts the tone of an encounter.

It takes another few minutes for Davies to come to the door. He’s almost seventy now, according to our information, and his middling brown hair is mostly grey. His sad blue eyes look the same as in the pictures from Stanzi’s birthday party. He’s dressed simply in a pair of tan slacks and a tucked-in plaid shirt that’s mostly blue. He’s wearing house slippers rather than shoes.

He startles at the sight of me—again—and I smile back, keeping to the watchwords of the meeting. Soft, sweet, open. “Mark Davies? My name is Eliza Sterling, and I’m with the FBI. We’re helping the police search for Brooklyn Mercer.”

“Yes,” he says, his voice quiet and unassuming. Unprovoking. “I remember you. We spoke while I was passing out fliers. It’s such a terrible thing.”

“Mr. Davies, may we come in? I know you’ve already been interviewed, but we’re following up with everyone based on some new information. I hope you’ll forgive the inconvenience. It’s to help us find that sweet little girl.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not really fit for company at the moment.” He gestures self-consciously at his house shoes.

“That’s all right, Mr. Davies. We’re certainly not going to judge you for what you wear in your own home.”

He stares at me for a moment, and as I shift my weight under the scrutiny, several curls tumble over my shoulder. He watches them bounce, his gaze a million miles—or forty-one years—away. “Of course,” he says finally. “Please, come in. I can hardly keep you out here in this chill. Wherever is your coat? You’ll catch a cold.”

Ramirez manages to slip in just behind me without looking like she’s trying to sneak or force her way in, and leans against the doorframe in such a way that he can’t close the door. “Agent Ramirez, Mr. Davies. We met this weekend.”