Page 45 of Fatal Strike
“Has this kind of disappearance occurred before?” Leah’s question was soft, caring.
“No. We’ve always known where she was ... until tonight. Even at college—she’ll be a junior this fall at A&M—she keeps us informed of everything. Texts and phone calls to tell us about her day and what she’s doing. She drives home most weekends. Says she misses us. Has never given us an ounce of trouble.” He gazed around them. “Earlier in the summer she worked as a counselor at our church’s youth camp.”
Since the parents had been unaware of their daughter’s relationship with Dylan, chances were she’d hidden other things from them. Poor decisions always caught up with people.
At the restaurant, several young people crowded around tables, but none were Elena. Richard didn’t recognize any of them to ask about his daughter, and none of the staff had seen her. He phoned his wife and learned she hadn’t heard from their daughter either.
With no other immediate leads to follow, there was no reason to remain in Galveston any longer.
“Richard—” Jon gave him his business card—“Leah and I need to drive back to Houston. Please contact one of us when you hear from your daughter. Never mind the hour. She may return home in the morning as she promised your wife.”
They shook hands again, and Richard thanked them.
It was nearing 1:30 a.m. when Jon drove back to the Houston office, where Leah could pick up her car. Although tired, his mind sped with the day.
After twenty minutes of silence between them, he spoke up. “Can we make our list for tomorrow?”
“Good idea. I’m about to fall asleep while trying to figure out what we’re missing.” She reached for her phone. “First on the agenda?”
“Meet at the office at 8a.m. Work through the mound of information and interviews on the drive to Galveston. What do you think? I’ll bring coffee.”
“Wonderful.” She sounded like he’d given her a puppy.
“Good. Should have reports and backgrounds by then. The only thing I see interrupting our plans is if Dylan or Elena are found.”
30
THURSDAY MORNING LEAH FOUNDJon outside Houston’s FBI offices, leaning against a black Dodge pickup with a supersize coffee in each hand. When had he picked up the truck? Dressed in a gray sports jacket, he looked almost as good as he had in his camo pants and T-shirt, not that she’d tell him.
She grasped the offered cup, and their fingers brushed. Her heart flipped like a middle school girl’s, but she had no time or interest in a relationship.
Get yourself focused on the murders in Galveston and off Jon.
Jon toasted her with the cup in his left hand. “Still your fave agent?”
“Today you outrank all the others.” Why was she flirting?
He grinned, and she allowed a smile to meet his. “Got us a new ride. Picked it up a few minutes ago.”
“What’s wrong with my Camaro?”
“Consider what happened—”
“Never mind.” She loved her car, and picturing it broken like Jon’s truck didn’t sit well, even if that meant he was going to drive. “How long until your truck is fixed?”
He huffed. “A couple of weeks. Are you ready to hit the road?”
She let the hot brew flow through her veins and fire up brain cells. “Ready to end this.”
Within two minutes, they were driving south to Galveston.
“Did you see the ME’s report about the blood on Judge Mendez’s knuckles being his own?” Jon said. “I was hoping for a lead.”
“Neither were there any hits on the trace DNA from the cigarette butts found at the crime scene. Do we have any good news?”
“Your coffee.”
“You’re right. I saw the FBI had cleared those on Rachel Mendez’s list of any involvement in her husband’s death. As well as those who’d completed community service at St. Peter’s. Except Dylan Ortega.”
