The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(78)

When the two-hour flight touches down at Tampa International, the book is done, with a bonus collection of hangman games in the margins. I drop it in the first recycle bin we pass.

Bran’s eyebrows lift. “You spent how long on that, and you’re just throwing it away?”

“Is there a benefit to keeping them when they’re already filled in?”

“Bragging rights?”

“Not worth the clutter.”

“Now I wish I’d taken the chance to see your apartment,” Ian notes, adjusting his sunglasses.

An agent from the Tampa Field Office meets us outside at the pick-up area, holding up a piece of paper with my name on it and looking barely weeks out of the academy. I have a sudden memory of meeting Bran and the team in just this way, waiting for them at the Denver airport so I could take them to the hospital where Priya was being treated after she was attacked. From the sudden spasm of his hand around mine, I think Bran’s got the same memory on his mind.

Before we deal with the agent, though, we stop at another car. The slender, elegant woman standing there bends down to hug Ian. Connie Matson is one of those women who, once she hit middle age, seemed to stop growing older, and through no artificial means. She’s also an inch or two taller than Bran, even in flats. She and Ian have probably always made an odd-looking pair, but they’ve also been happily married longer than Bran has been alive.

Connie gives Bran a long hug as well, and kisses my cheek. “Oh, Brandon, I’m so sorry.”

He gives her a tight smile.

Fortunately, she knows him too well to be offended. “I’ll bring Ian by your parents’ house in the morning. Try to get some sleep tonight, dear.”

We stand and watch until their car has safely pulled out of the pick-up lane and joined the flow of traffic, then head over to the baby agent. I have to let go of Bran’s hand, though, or look very silly pulling out my credentials. “I’m Sterling,” I greet him, holding the folder open. “This is SSAIC Eddison, here off-duty.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, ma’am. Um, ma’am-sir.”

“Sterling,” I repeat firmly.

He just nods.

I am thirty years old; I have only been in the Bureau eight years; I am not allowed to feel old. But damn. Is this how Vic feels when I accidentally call him sir?

The baby agent leads us down the row of cars to a pair of black SUVs, because if you can get the fleet discount with the manufacturer, why go for variety? Another agent, probably about midthirties, leans against the hood of the one in front, smoking. The car, I notice, is parked four inches from the NO SMOKING BEYOND THIS POINT sign. When he sees us, he exhales a rush of smoke and rubs out the cigarette on the bottom of his shoe, dropping the butt back into the package.

“Agent Wilson,” he says, offering his hand to shake. “Puppy is Agent Rogers, if he forgot to mention that.”

He did forget, but I wasn’t going to say anything about it. I remember being that new and nervous.

“Your analyst got us the medical records for the morning; the ME’s going over them now. I know you’ve got a tight schedule trying to organize all this mess, so unless it’s an issue, we figured eight o’clock tomorrow, get an early start. We’ll have the ME waiting, and a tech with the ground penetrating radar. Meet right at the house. Just you two?”

“Four of us, in fact,” I answer. “Retired TPD Detective Ian Matson was the lead on Faith Eddison’s disappearance and the reason we were able to link the cases. Also Agent Sachin Karwan out of the Omaha office; Erin Bailey was his sister’s best friend when they were children.”

“Right. The one Rogers is picking up in the morning. Here are the keys,” he continues, dropping them in my hand. “One of us will give you a ride back here tomorrow so you don’t have to worry about handing the car off again. I figure you’ve got things to do tonight.”

“Thanks.”

He hands me a business card with a phone number scrawled in green ink across the bottom. “Call if you need anything. Otherwise, we’ll let you get to it. Puppy, come.”

Bran automatically reaches for the keys, then stops, his hand still outstretched. “I’m not allowed to drive if I’m off-duty, am I?”

“Nope.”

“Damn.” He sighs and takes our bags to the back. I adjust the seat a few inches, and the mirrors, and try not to smile when Bran settles into the passenger seat with a glower. “Do you remember the way?”

“Spruce, Dale Mabry, Ehrlich,” I answer proudly.

He gives me a sideways look.

“I like the name Ehrlich,” I say with a shrug. “It’s fun to say. Ur-lick.”

“Just drive, Jeeves.”

“Want to rephrase that, Wooster?”

“. . . now I do, yes.”

Rush hour in Tampa, as in most larger cities, is somewhat of a misnomer. Rush hours, on the other hand, sums it up quite nicely. Despite it being almost seven, the roads are slammed.

Bran’s parents live in a neighborhood just far enough off a main road to be reasonably quiet. I don’t know what it was like twenty-five years ago when Faith was kidnapped, but now it’s a full mix of families, from college students cramming themselves four and eight into rentals to retirees with craft or memorabilia rooms. The houses show their age, not in the sense of being run-down, but in the way they sag a little. Comfortably settled, my dad would say. We have to drive slowly and carefully once we turn into the neighborhood, because the kids are out in force.