The Stolen Girl Read online

  There was little they could do about that now.

  “They told me it would be okay,” Miranda heard Olivia say.

  The teller smiled at her and then went to the back. Had something gone wrong?

  She felt her phone buzz and pulled it out.

  “Message?” Parker murmured quietly.

  “From Holloway.” She read it.

  Subject left on Harley forty minutes ago. Followed him to movie studio. He entered at the gate with a pass.

  “He works at the movie studio?”

  “Apparently.”

  She glanced over at the counter. The smiling teller had returned. Olivia was finishing up and putting the cash into her purse. Miranda started to thumb a reply to Holloway.

  Almost done here. Join us at the—

  Suddenly there was a pop and a loud boom.

  The dancing dollar sign on the wall next to the teller desk exploded and burst into flames. Shrapnel and powder flew through the air and the whole place began to reek of smoke.

  “Get down!” cried the man in the suit. “Get down!”

  Everyone started screaming. The tellers ducked behind their counter. Some people got onto the floor. Others ran for the entrance.

  Miranda watched Olivia turn around and freeze, a stunned look of horror on her face.

  Flames climbed up the wall near her.

  No time to wait. Miranda raced across the floor and grabbed Olivia’s arm. A second later, Wesson was at her sister’s other side while Parker cleared a path and held the door open for them. More people rushed out.

  As they went out the door, Miranda saw someone grab a fire extinguisher and start dousing the blaze.

  They hurried to the Navigator and climbed inside.

  So much for the plan to look like they weren’t together.

  Wesson put an arm around her sister. “Are you all right, Livvy? Are you hurt?”

  Olivia sat staring out the window at the chaos. “I’m okay. I think I am.”

  Miranda looked her over. She didn’t look like she’d been cut.

  “What happened?” Olivia murmured.

  “Someone set off an explosion on that wall near you,” Parker said darkly.

  “The kidnapper?” Miranda said.

  “Why would he do that?” Wesson wanted to know.

  Exasperated, Miranda raised her hands. “I have no idea.”

  A siren went off in the distance.

  Parker started the car. “If we don’t want to explain what we were doing here to the police, we’d better leave before they arrive.”

  “Good idea,” Miranda said.

  He pulled out of the parking space and drove to the end of the lot. He turned onto the street and was several feet away when the first police car arrived.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dazed and confused, they returned to Olivia’s apartment and sat in the living room trying to put the pieces together.

  On the couch, Wesson hugged her sister, once again trying to comfort her. “You did get the money, right?”

  She nodded and pointed at her bag on the coffee table. “It’s in my purse.”

  Wesson opened it to check that the cash was still there. She caught Miranda’s eye. “Why would anyone want to blow up a bank in the middle of the day? It doesn’t make any sense if they weren’t robbing it.”

  Olivia leaned over and buried her face in her hands. “All I know is I want my baby back.”

  Wesson’s question burning inside her, Miranda marched back and forth across the carpet. She was still feeling the aftershock of the explosion. It reminded her too much of Paris.

  She caught Parker staring out the apartment’s glass doors. His dark look told her he was thinking the same thoughts.

  “The plan stays the same,” she said. “We have the money. Now we wait for the kidnapper to call back and tell us where to deliver it.” She looked toward Parker. “Right?”

  Turning around, he nodded.

  She put her hands in the air. “This had to be a coincidence. The kidnapper wouldn’t have set off that explosion. Right?”

  “It seems unlikely,” Parker said.

  Before she could reply, there was a knock on the door. It was Holloway.

  On the way back to the apartment, Miranda had finished her text and told him to come here. She opened the door and let him in.

  He entered the room with his long strides. “What’s going on?”

  “There was an explosion at the bank,” she told him.

  “A what?” The alarm on his face had Miranda flashing back to the bank in Atlanta and what had happened to his ex-wife.

  She tried to explain the details, but Holloway seemed just as confused by the incident as everyone else.

  Wesson reached for the remote. “Let’s turn on the TV. There’s got to be something about the bank on the news.”

  She flipped through channels until the Pacific Bank building appeared on the screen. A female reporter stood outside in the parking lot with a microphone in hand, looking very serious.

  “Here it is. We’re on the news,” Wesson said, sounding annoyed.

  “Not us,” Miranda told her. “Just the bank.”

  Wesson turned up the sound and the reporter’s voice filled the room. “Authorities have no clue as to who set off a small explosion at Pacific Bank in Culver City this morning. Speculation is that the incident was some kind of sick prank, possibly executed by a disgruntled customer.”

  “Sick is right,” Holloway muttered.

  The reporter continued. “What we do know is the FBI has been called in. Here’s the agent in charge now. Sir, what can you tell us?”

  The reporter stuck her microphone into the face of a good looking man in a dark suit. In a deep voice sounding made for television, he explained that the attack on the bank was a federal offense. Then he went on to do some fancy double talk that told Miranda they knew nothing yet.

  But that voice was familiar. And so was the face.

  As she studied the screen, she heard Wesson gasp.

  Her colleague jumped to her feet. “Oh, my God. It’s him.”

  It was him. Miranda knew that face. The dark hair. The lean muscular body. The movie star looks. The cocky attitude.

  Simon Sloan.

  The agent they’d worked with four months ago on the Dylan Ward Hughes case. As the recognition processed in her head, her stomach sank to the floor.

  They’d worked with Sloan on a kidnapping case where criminals sold children as sex slaves.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” Miranda whispered.

  The reporter continued. “Agent, we’re hearing reports from some of the witnesses on scene saying one of the teller’s keyboards set off the blast.”

  Sloan’s good-looking face was like rock. “We’re confiscating the evidence for our investigation now,” he said, without answering her question.

  “Do you know anything so far?” the reporter probed.

  Sloan yielded a millimeter. “We’re considering the possibility the explosion was rigged to go off by one of the tellers’ computers, but we have no verification right now.”

  “Do you know who might be responsible for doing that?”

  “Not at this time. But we’re glad to report no one was seriously injured. We’ll be making a statement to the press as soon as we have more information. In the meantime, please let us get back to work.” Before she could say any more, he spun around and marched toward the building with his brisk gait.

  The reporter turned back to the camera. “And there you have it. Authorities are asking anyone who might know something about this case to call crime stoppers at the following number.”

  Wesson switch off the TV. “Why is Sloan involved?”

  “Who is he?” Olivia asked.

  “An acquaintance.” Miranda shot Wesson a warning look. “We don’t know anything yet.”

  Wesson nodded back. The last thing Olivia needed was to hear about the case they’d worked in Atlanta with Sloan.
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  “What are we going to do, Steele?”

  What were they going to do? Only thing they could do. “Stick to the plan. We can’t assume the explosion had anything to do with Olivia. All we know is—”

  Just then Olivia’s phone rang and the room went dead silent as the word Unavailable appeared on her screen.

  Olivia stared at the cell as if it were a dead rat.

  “Answer it, Livvy,” Wesson whispered to her.

  Nodding, Olivia reached for the phone as if on autopilot. But she had the presence of mind to put it on speaker.

  The unnerving mechanical voice rang out. “Did you get my present at the bank?”

  Olivia gasped. “What?”

  “That bomb was for you. Just in case you’re getting any ideas.”

  She looked lost for a moment, then turned angry. “Where’s my daughter? I have your money. Give her back to me, and I’ll let you have all of it.”

  “We’ll get back to you on that.”

  The caller hung up and the phone went dead.

  “Oh, my God.” Olivia buried her face in Wesson’s shoulder and sobbed.

  Her heart breaking, Miranda’s head spun. It was the kidnapper who’d set off that explosion? Why?

  Her own eyes were tearing up now. Nothing made sense anymore. Who could set off an explosion at a bank and not worry about repercussions? The kidnapper hadn’t wanted the police involved and now they had the FBI. Who could be so sure of themselves?

  Somebody with a lot of power. Criminal power.

  They had to get to Sloan. They had to examine that bomb themselves.

  Holloway looked like he following her thinking.

  But as she moved over to the corner where he stood observing the scene in the living room, he murmured, “Becker.”

  “What? No.” In addition to the bank in Atlanta, this case was starting to remind her of Paris again. She thought of Becker’s missing fingertip. “Becker’s already been through too much.”

  Holloway scowled, but he knew what she meant. “Becker’s been studying explosives ever since Paris, Steele. He’ll know what this is.”

  “Curt has a point,” Parker said.

  She glared at Parker. “You agree?”

  “The configuration of the explosive device could give us clues about the kidnapper.”

  She let out a huff of frustration. “Couldn’t you look at the equipment?”

  “I can and I will, but it would be prudent to have a second pair of eyes.”

  Miranda ran a hand through her hair. She didn’t like feeling responsible for people like this. But Holloway had a point. The more knowledgeable the investigator, the more likely to get some solid information from the evidence. They wouldn’t need Becker for more than a day or so.

  Miranda waved a hand at the TV. “How are we even going to contact Sloan?” They could try going through Parker’s sister, but they probably wouldn’t get very far.

  “I have an idea about that,” Parker said.

  “Okay, I’ll call Becker.” She didn’t know what else to do.

  Pulling out her cell phone, she slipped through the sliding glass doors behind the kitchen table and stepped out onto the apartment’s balcony.

  The sun warming her skin, she stared out at the hazy blue sky and the vista of rooftops and hills stretched out below. This was a vacation spot. The place of dreams and movie stars. How could such a thing happen here?

  But the sober part of her knew there was plenty of crime in this town, like in all big cities.

  She dialed Becker’s number. It rang five times and went to voice mail.

  She looked down at the phone, feeling even more on edge. He was probably asleep. She’d had him working all night. She was about to try again when Becker called back.

  “Sorry, Steele. Had my hands in dishwater.”

  He’d been helping out Fanuzzi. Swallowing down her guilt, Miranda felt herself start to change her mind about bringing him out here. “That’s okay. How are—things?”

  “Busy. Joanie’s got that party tonight, Callie and Tommy will be home from school in a little bit, and Charlie has basketball practice.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full. Guess Fanuzzi really needs you.”

  “She’s running me ragged,” he chuckled. “I could use a break.”

  “Oh? Uh, you wouldn’t want to come out here, would you?” she didn’t sound very boss like, but she’d always had a soft spot for Becker, and Fanuzzi was her best friend.

  His answer surprised her. “You mean it, Steele?”

  She stared at the phone. “I don’t want to take you away from your family. Fanuzzi needs you. She’s having a baby.”

  “Not yet, she isn’t.”

  “But you have so much going on.”

  “Coco will be there tonight to help Joanie. Our neighbor can watch Callie and Tommy. She loves to babysit. And I can ask Antonio to pick up Charlie after his game.”

  “Are you sure?”

  There was a long sheepish pause. “Actually, to be honest, Joanie and I are kind of getting on each other’s nerves.”

  “Oh?” Miranda said again.

  “I was thinking of going into the office today. She told me I should. Right after she told me I couldn’t make a decent ganache if my life depended on it.”

  Fanuzzi had been testy since she’d gotten pregnant.

  “Plus she told me to go out there last night after you called.”

  “She did?”

  “She said, ‘Why don’t you get on a plane and go find that little girl?’”

  Fanuzzi never did mince words.

  “Are you sure?” Miranda repeated.

  “Joanie wants to help. I want to help. It’s my job. If you need me, I’m there. I’ll pack a bag and take the next available flight.”

  Now she got it. Becker was a good guy, but there was only so much cooking drama a guy could take.

  Miranda breathed a sigh of relief. “Turns out we do need you. We had an incident today.”

  “What kind of an incident?”

  She explained what had happened at the bank and who they’d seen on TV. Then she told him about the kidnapper’s last phone call.

  “Oh, my God. The guy who took Imogen set off that bomb?”

  “That’s what he claimed.”

  “That’s really weird. And Simon Sloan is in LA?”

  “Yep.”

  “Does that mean what I think it does?”

  He was thinking about the Dylan Ward Hughes case, too.

  “We don’t know,” Miranda said. “We don’t know much of anything yet. But if we can get our hands on the computer that triggered the explosion today, we might be able to figure something out.”

  “And that’s what you need me for.”

  “Right.”

  “Has Sloan contacted you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “How are we going to access the equipment?”

  At that moment, the glass door slid open and Parker stepped through. “May I speak to him?”

  “Sure.” Miranda handed him the phone. “He’ll be on the next flight out.”

  With a nod Parker took her phone and pressed the Speaker button. “Glad to hear you’ll be joining us, Dave.”

  “Glad to help, sir.”

  “Don’t worry about traveling expenses. The Agency will cover them.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Parker.”

  “On your way to the airport, I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “Stop at the Agency. Go to my office. Inside the top right drawer of the credenza you’ll find a key. The key opens a box in the lower left hand drawer.”

  “Okay.”

  “Inside the box you’ll find a cell phone.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bring it with you.”

  Miranda knew what that was. The secure cell Sloan had given Parker during the Dylan Ward Hughes case. That was how they were going to contact the g-man. Go
od thinking.

  “Will do,” Becker said. “Oh, I almost forgot. I haven’t been able to get anything on that sketch of Curt’s. The program keeps hanging and giving me errors.”

  Parker shook his head. “I didn’t expect it to work. The software isn’t trained for drawings.”

  Bummer, Miranda thought.

  “But the voice recording was a different story.”

  Miranda snatched the phone away from Parker. “Did you get a human voice from it?”

  “I did. I can play if for you now.”

  “Wait a sec.” She took the phone back into the apartment to where Olivia sat on the couch.

  Alarmed, Olivia looked up at her. “What is it?”

  “Becker got a voice from your recording last night,” Miranda told her. Then she said to Becker, “Go ahead, play it.”

  With the phone still on speaker, she set it down on the coffee table.

  “Here it is,” Becker said.

  The words rang out, almost as frightening as they had sounded last night.

  “Go to Pacific Bank on Washington at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Withdraw fifteen thousand dollars.”

  The voice was male. Harsh and raspy. A smoker’s voice. A voice devoid of feeling for anyone but himself.

  Was it Axel?

  As the room went silent again, Olivia raised her head, a look of sheer helplessness in her big blue eyes.

  “I’ve never heard that voice before in my life.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Too rattled to go to work, Olivia called Tennille and said she was taking the day. The team sat around the apartment waiting for Becker and hoping the kidnapper would call back and tell them where to drop the ransom money.

  They napped, taking turns on the couch and the chairs. Olivia offered her bed, and Miranda gave it to Holloway since he’d been up all night.

  In the mid afternoon, Olivia made sandwiches and coffee for everyone. Nutty whole grain bread, lean turkey, imported Swiss. They were good, but Miranda couldn’t eat much. She was too busy reliving the years of hopeless searching for her daughter.

  Was that how this case would turn out?

  Would the kidnapper sell Olivia’s little daughter to some abuser? Would Olivia be left to wonder what happened to her for the rest of her life? Miranda could almost see Leon’s ghost in the corner, laughing at her.