Текст книги "Jack and Kill"

Автор книги: Diane Capri

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JACK AND KILL

 

By

DIANE CAPRI

 

 

 

Presented By:

AugustBooks

Praise for

Bestselling Author

 

Diane Capri

"Full of thrills and tension, but smart and human, too. Kim Otto is a great, great character. I love her."

Lee Child, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author of Jack Reacher Thrillers

"[A] welcome surprise....[W]orks from the first page to 'The End'."

Larry King

"Swift pacing and ongoing suspense are always present...[L]ikable protagonist who uses her political connections for a good cause...Readers should eagerly anticipate the next [book]."

Top Pick, Romantic Times

"...offers tense legal drama with courtroom overtones, twisty plot, and loads of Florida atmosphere. Recommended."

Library Journal

"[A] fast-paced legal thriller...energetic prose...an appealing heroine...clever and capable supporting cast...[that will] keep readers waiting for the next [book]."

Publishers Weekly

“Expertise shines on every page.”

Margaret Maron, Edgar, Anthony, Agatha and Macavity Award Winning MWA Past President

 

Also by DIANE CAPRI

(Click each title to buy or download a sample)

Hunt for Reacher Series:

Don't Know Jack

Jack in a Box (short story)

Jack and Kill (short story)

Judge Wilhelmina Carson Cases:

Carly’s Conspiracy

George’s Game

Harper’s Hell

Kate’s Killing

Attorney Jennifer Lane Cases:

Annabelle’s Attack

Darla's Deceit (short story)

Jack and Kill is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

© Copyright 2012 Diane Capri, LLC

All Rights Reserved

Published by: AugustBooks

Visit the author website:

DianeCapri.com

License Notes:

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Publisher’s Note:

The publisher and author do not have any control over and do not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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Published by: AugustBooks

http://www.AugustBooks.com

Visit the author website:

http://www.DianeCapri.com

eISBN:

978-0-9837298-7-7

Original cover design by: jeroentenberge.com

DEDICATION

 

For Evelyn

CONTENTS

Reviews

Additional Works

Copyright

Dedication

Author's Note

About the Author

Lee Child: The Reacher Report

 

JACK AND KILL

 

By

DIANE CAPRI

 

 

 

Presented By:

AugustBooks

Jack and Kill

By Diane Capri

1.

Otto’s mood matched the bleak November landscape. They’d traveled the county road for eighteen miles under smothering gray skies, which allowed plenty of time for brooding. Thin snow covered the empty fields like a dirty blanket. Perhaps a riot of color had dressed the hardwoods before Halloween, but now only a few dead leaves dangled from dried stems beneath spindly branches. Even the vehicle in which they traveled was dull inside and out.

She felt captured in a monochrome movie. Yet, she welcomed the dreary weather because while the low, dense cloud ceiling interfered with the Unmanned Aerial Vehicle surveillance drones, she enjoyed a thin slice of breathing room.

Not the atmospheric gloom, then, but her quarry was responsible for her personal brain cloud. He was toying with her, which was okay. But he was winning the game, which wasn’t.

“Tell me again why you think we’ll find Reacher in New Hope,” she said.

FBI Special Agent Kim Louisa Otto didn’t mind matching wits with Jack (none) Reacher at the right time and place. Actually, she hoped this assignment grew in that direction.

Meanwhile, a better profile of Reacher slowly developed in her mind the way an old fashioned photographic image revealed itself when blank paper was submerged in the proper fluids. She was better at strategic games than he was; Reacher’s military file confirmed. But preparation was key. She needed to gather sufficient data to devise and implement a decent strategic plan before their joust. In short, she needed more time.

Meaning today was most definitely not the right day. Nor was New Hope, Virginia, the right place. Which was why, despite the perfect weather for a confrontation that might escape sophisticated surveillance, she wasn’t all that happy right at the moment. She didn’t expect to get any happier as the day wore on, either. She expected the opposite.

Behind the wheel of the full-sized sedan he’d selected at the rental counter in DC, Gaspar sprawled deliberately. His right leg was fully extended to reduce the pain that often hobbled him. Otto had stopped counting how many Tylenols he’d swallowed already, although she worried about his liver. One of many tacit agreements they’d fallen into during their brief but intense partnership. As if not asking meant not knowing, and not knowing meant not happening.

He glanced toward her and frowned, but his tone was quiet, perhaps annoyed.  “I didn’t say we’d find him, Sunshine. We’re building a file, not conducting a manhunt. I said he was there yesterday. Big difference.”

She could tell Gaspar wanted to find Reacher today, though. “Do I want to know how you acquired that intel?”

In response, he flashed a quick stare before returning his attention to driving. Which probably meant he'd ignored their operating protocols. Again. Working a different case with different rules, he might have offered more or she might have asked. As it was, they’d agreed plausible deniability might save them if either was eventually forced to testify. Which they’d also agreed was more than likely where the whole Reacher mess was headed.

“How much farther?” she asked instead.

He glanced at the odometer. “Maybe fifteen more miles. Give or take.”

The rental was equipped with GPS and they had their own equipment, too. She could find the precise distance easily enough. But GPS acted like a tracking beacon for UAVs that crosshatched the country and she’d had enough of being watched. Instead, they did most things the old-fashioned way, making every effort to remain skinny straws in the very large haystack of surveillance data. The boss and too many others had unlimited access to their movements.

Maybe Reacher did everything the old-fashioned way, too. Maybe that was how he stayed far off the grid. It seemed if anyone saw Reacher it was not because they found him but because Reacher found them. Otto had begun to envy Reacher’s expertise in privacy protection. He was exceedingly adept at secrets, too. Otto’s experience said a guy that good at secrets had way too much to hide.

This county road would take them directly into town and no amount of reviewing their route would make the drive less desolate.

Kim murmured her thoughts aloud. “Why would Reacher come to New Hope, anyway? We’ve seen nothing but empty fields and this is the main road from the interstate into town. Not even a barn for the past fifteen miles. No diner with a good cup of hot coffee anywhere to be found. What the hell would he be doing here?”

Gaspar shrugged. “The guy’s a psycho. Nothing he’s done makes any sense so far. Why should today be different?”

Kim wagged her head slowly, as if clearing the cobwebs in an enclosed space to make room for better answers, but none appeared. “What's your plan if we find him?”

Gaspar grinned, stretched, flexed his shoulders and his neck. “You worry too much. There’s no designated worrier achievement medal, you know.”

She’d have punched his shoulder, but her arms were too short to box across the Crown Vic’s wide bench while snugged into her safety restraint.  “Just because I'm the one worrying about it doesn't mean the question isn’t worrisome, Chico.”

He seemed briefly startled by the vibration of his personal cell phone. Gaspar patted his pockets, arched one eyebrow to accentuate his words, and asked in a playful tone, “You really think we’re gonna need a plan today, Susie Wong?”

Kim’s concern jerked several notches higher when he retrieved the phone, glanced at the caller ID, tapped the answer button, and simply said, “Hello.”

Gaspar’s wife was very pregnant and dealing with four kids already. Although Gaspar kept the phone close at all times, Maria had never called before. Cops’ wives rarely did because receiving the wrong call at the wrong time could cause disastrous consequences. No cop's wife ever rang up out of the blue with good news; no cop receiving the call ever displayed his fear when the call came.

Kim turned aside to allow what privacy she could within the vehicle’s cabin. His side of phone conversations were mostly monosyllabic anyway. Kim easily tuned him out while she considered his point.

Even if Reacher had been in New Hope yesterday, experience told her to expect another dead end today. Perhaps she had missed something relevant. But what? She ran known facts through her head quickly.

Ten days ago, Otto and Gaspar were tasked with a routine assignment: build a file on a former military cop, applying standard background investigation techniques. The file would be used to vet him for an undisclosed classified project. Otto and Gaspar worked similar investigations as members of the FBI’s Special Personnel Task Force.

The job had seemed feasibly straightforward at first. Some snafu somewhere needed ironing out.

Reacher’s life was etched in bedrock government records like any other American from birth to age thirty-six, when he was honorably discharged from the Army. Up to that moment fifteen years ago, everything contained in Reacher’s file was as expected. Records for birth, school, health, military, passport, driver’s license, insurance, banking, and every other standard bit and byte of data existed precisely where it should have been.

The problem was that records simply stopped for Reacher at age thirty-six.

Otto and Gaspar were told to close the gap in his paper trail and bring Reacher up to date with the rest of the world. Something as simple as Reacher’s death certificate would have settled the matter. Maybe it would have taken a couple of days.

Instead, everything got incredibly complicated very quickly.

Nothing about his file was normal now. Reacher’s missing data traveled far beyond odd into unthinkable realms. Even when Americans were reported abducted by aliens, some secret government file somewhere existed to debunk the claim. But nothing for Reacher? Kim felt her head shaking, almost of its own volition. There was only one way such a thing could have happened in the real world whether Kim believed it or not; resistance was futile.

In addition, every normal resource had been declared off-limits from the outset. They were denied access to FBI resources, including personnel, computers, equipment, and databases. They had been specifically ordered not to attempt any normal channels because doing so would alert the wrong watchers. The boss delivered some line of bull to justify the straitjacket but his reasons didn't matter. Orders were orders. Rules were rules. The job was what it was.

Until someone tried to blow Gaspar into subatomic particles. After that, they ignored the boss’s rules and began creating their own.

Which was when they tried digging through back channels. Otto and Gaspar unearthed every file that might have held something, anything, connected to Reacher. Each time they came up empty—and pissed off somebody high up the food chain—they believed they were making progress. A confrontational warning delivered by Houston DEA Susan Duffy cemented their conclusions.

Whatever items remained so highly classified in Reacher’s background were merely intriguing. Otto and Gaspar were comfortable with the concept of security clearances and lacking the requisite “need to know.” That wasn’t the problem. The total absence of those records was what worried Kim the most. Only a few highly-placed public servants had the ability to make so many routine reports disappear. And no matter how cavalierly he denied it, the gaping hole where the records should be worried Gaspar, too.

They now knew two things irrefutably and resisting the obvious was not only futile but foolhardy. First, someone inside government at the very highest levels had removed every piece of documentary evidence that should have or could have existed on Reacher for the past fifteen years. Second, Otto and Gaspar were being used to further someone’s hidden agenda.

No amount of revisiting or rearranging known facts invalidated these conclusions. Whatever she’d missed in her earlier analysis remained buried.

She returned her attention to the situation inside the grey sedan. A few moments later, Gaspar signed off his phone conversation.

Kim asked, “Everything okay at home?”

He shook his head and punched a speed-dial number on his personal cell. Holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, he ran splayed fingers through his hair and expelled a long, audible breath. “Let’s not go into now, okay? We need to focus on what’s ahead.”

Kim heard the robotic signals on the other end of Gaspar’s phone line. Four rings later, a man’s voice answered.

Gaspar grabbed the phone and held it close to his ear, allowing Kim to hear only one side of the conversation again. “Alexandre? . . . Yeah, still on the road. . . . Look, I need you to do me a favor. . . . Check on Maria this afternoon. Maybe get Denise to stay with her a few hours and help sort things out for me. . . . Yeah, she’ll tell you about it. . . . Right. Turned himself in. . . . Yeah, it’s not great. . . . Thanks, man. I owe you. . . . Call me when you know more, okay? Thanks.”

Gaspar ended the call and squeezed his eyes shut a few moments. For the first time since she’d met him, Gaspar looked old and tired and in pain. He raked his hair again, swiped his face with his open palm, and readjusted himself on the seat. He sucked in a deep breath followed by a long, audible exhale. Another. A third. When his breathing settled, he said nothing while he navigated the Crown Vic through the too-early winter gloom.

After a while, Kim asked, “Do you need to head back to Miami?”

He cleared his throat. Voice barely audible, he said, “Let’s do what we came for while my friends get Maria settled. Then we’ll see where things are.”

“Why not go now? I mean, what’s your confidence level we’ll find anything when we get there anyway?”

Gaspar sighed, stretched, tried to get more comfortable in the seat and with his family situation, whatever it was. Kim’s gut said his efforts there were futile, too.

Wearily, he lifted the edge of his mouth in a near grin before he replied, “Just following the first rule of detecting, Suzy Wong.”

She liked his weak humor. Maybe that meant everything was going to be okay back at home. She hoped. “Get a better sidekick?”

He cocked his eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t want to know why we’re headed to New Hope.”

“I don’t.” Trouble was, she already knew.

Early on, they figured the easiest solution to Reacher’s missing records was his undocumented death. Reacher was a dangerous man who seemed to attract trouble of the fatal kind wherever he surfaced. The most likely scenario was that someone, somewhere had been bigger, faster, and more lethal than he was.

That fantasy lasted almost eight days before Kim was forced to accept that Reacher was the farthest thing from dead.

In fact, she was almost certain she'd seen him twice in the past ten days.

A giant shadow in the distance. Watching. But definitely there was a guy, and certainly matching Reacher's description.

Gaspar hadn’t seen him, but he believed Kim anyway. They’d agreed. Reacher was there. He was alive and watching. For sure. At this point, he probably knew more about Otto and Gaspar than they knew about him.

Their plan had been to find people he knew before he’d vanished and move relentlessly forward to uncover the rest of his story. Maybe spotting Reacher watching them spurred this detour to New Hope; Gaspar probably figured to level the playing field by excavating more recent data. They had a chance to find Reacher now and they might never have that chance again or at least, not for a good long while.

Which explained Gaspar’s quip about the first rule of detecting: Follow the money. Money is an essential life force like air and water. Reacher’s money had become relevant. Somehow, Gaspar had traced Reacher’s money to New Hope. Kim knew several ways Gaspar might have exploited a weak link in the banking security system and she could imagine several more troubling sources of this intel. At some point, maybe she’d ask him. But she didn’t need to do it yet.

Now they were uncomfortably close to Reacher's last known whereabouts. She wasn't exactly sure how she felt about that, but it churned her stomach like a thrashing snake. Not that her anxiety mattered. There was only one viable option. When there’s only one choice, it’s the right choice. Kim lived by that philosophy and followed where it led.

But they needed a plan. Just in case.

If they actually found Reacher today, Gaspar would need to do his job and as the lead agent on the assignment, so she wanted his head back on track. Knowing what little they’d already learned about Reacher, their very lives depended on being as alert as possible.

“Is there an airport in this town?” Kim asked. She noticed Gaspar’s self-satisfied smirk, which meant maybe he’d begun to compartmentalize his personal issues if he was able to tease her. She hoped.

He said, “No.”

“Train station?”

“Nada.”

“Bus stop?”

“Nope.”

“Car rental?”

“Doubtful.”

“Taxi stand?”

“Unlikely.”

“So you figure he’s registered at a local hotel?”

“No hotels, either.”

“He hitched a ride out of town then,” she said.

“A reasonable conclusion.” Gaspar waited a couple of beats before he replied matter-of-factly, “Or maybe a woman invited him to stay a while.”

“So your plan is what? Knock on doors looking for women of a certain age, collect Reacher and invite him out for a beer?”

She was glad to see Gaspar grin, even if he was only seeking to lighten his mood more than anything. Light hearted was better than glum.

He said, “Not every woman of a certain age.”

“What’s your criteria?” she asked, as if his plan might be worthwhile when she was fairly sure he was making things up as the conversation progressed.

“Only the good-looking ones.”

“Models?”

“Who are single.”

“Nuns?”

“And smart.”

“Coeds?”

“And strong.”

“Athletes?”

He waited a couple of beats for her to catch on. When she said nothing, he flashed her the look again. “And also cops.”

The suggestion snatched her breath away. She felt her heart slam hard in her chest and her nostrils gulped air. She steadied her voice as well as possible. “Because?”

“Because he’s a smart psycho. With good taste in women.”

Gaspar reasoning was sound, but she resisted. “Two women. That’s hardly a reliable pattern. And you're just guessing about Duffy.”

He replied, “I know why I’m here. I'm a charity case.” He slapped his right thigh with his open palm. “They screwed up. Now they owe me and they're stuck with me and I can’t do the job. Don't waste your time trying to make me feel better. I’m grateful for the work, but I’m expendable. I know it, they know it and you know it, too.”

The possibility slamming Kim's brain felt like a caroming racquetball. She’d given no thought to why she’d been chosen. She’d been too pleased with her luck. She’d developed a detailed career plan that included achieving FBI Director status one day. She needed opportunities to prove herself and this was one such chance. Nothing more she needed to know.

When she failed to reply, Gaspar said, “Take off your rose-colored glasses, Sunshine. You think the boss picked you because you shoot straighter than the rest of us? Not to be a jerk, but get a grip.”

Kim didn’t argue because his facts were solid and his conclusion flawless. She had no particular qualifications except that she was more expendable than he was because she had no spouse and no children. Albeit for different reasons, like Gaspar, her life belonged to the FBI and that was precisely the way she liked it. She’d tried and failed at love; she had no desire to travel that road again. She was alone by choice and she intended to remain so.

Could the boss have thought she’d be Reacher bait? The idea seemed preposterous initially, but had quickly assumed potential, almost inevitability. Questions popped into her head. How could she entice Reacher to approach her? What could she offer him? What was she expected to extract in return? Why wasn’t she outraged that the boss simply assumed she would sacrifice herself when the moment came?

The answer to the last question was simple. She’d sacrificed herself for the FBI before and she would do it again. The boss knew that, she knew that, and apparently Gaspar had worked it out, too.

Kim was surprised to find herself so angry. “That's your plan? We find Reacher and lure him into some compromising position and then, what? Fall on our swords?”

Gaspar shrugged. Maybe he considered anew his problem in Miami. Or maybe he was giving Kim a chance to work out a better plan now that she’d faced facts. If she dared.

2.

They drove westward in silence along the two-lane blacktop over hilly terrain another four miles before Kim saw the first group of modest homes lining the road on both sides. They were widely spaced and well kept, but only a few windows were illuminated from their interiors despite the dreary weather. Pole buildings, Barns, and other indications of rural civilization seemed randomly placed according to no particular zoning plan for a mile or so until the Crown Vic passed a road sign proclaiming New Hope, Virginia’s city limits. It also claimed to have been named an All-American city a decade ago, which seemed more than a bit ambitious for the collection of dwellings they’d seen so far.

The county road became Valley View, widened to four lanes, and the speed limit dropped to twenty-five miles an hour as they approached the town. Kim felt Gaspar tap his brake to disengage the cruise control. The big vehicle’s progress gradually slowed along the tarmac.

Nothing obstructed her line of sight. Valley View ended ahead at a T-intersection with a landscaped ribbon of boulevard a bit farther west. A hundred feet before the intersection with Grand Parkway, Valley View sprouted a center left turn lane and a right turn lane and Kim observed traffic signals at each turning point. The signals for turning traffic from Valley View onto Grand Parkway cycled from red to green and back, but vehicles attempting to turn north were barely moving. Traffic turning southbound and eastbound was flowing slightly better, but without regard to the cycling signals, meaning cops she couldn’t see from her vantage point were most likely directing traffic.

“Can you see what's going on up there?” Kim asked, glad for the excuse to resume normal conversation.

Gaspar stretched his neck and shoulders as he slowed closer to the bottleneck. “Looks like an old crash in the right northbound lane on the boulevard, doesn't it?”

“Hard to tell from here, but I’d say an hour ago, or more.” Through gaps in the traffic, Kim saw a white Ford F-150 truck with a cap on the bed stopped on Grand Parkway about thirty feet north of the intersection.

The Crown Vic progressed haltingly along Valley View with no discernible rhythm to its forward movement.  After a bit, Gaspar said, “There’s a blue Toyota Prius’s font end wedged under the truck's back bumper. That Prius is crunched up like it hit a brick wall at twenty-five miles an hour, but the truck looks undamaged.”

“I’m counting maybe seven sets of flashing lights. No sirens, so yeah, they’ve probably been there a while. Blue, red, and white, but no yellow,” Kim said.

Gaspar groused, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “One day they’re going to standardize emergency vehicle lighting in this country.”

“Maybe. But right now, I’d say an ambulance is standing by, injuries were already dealt with, and locals are directing traffic and documenting the scene. But they’ve got no tow trucks to move the damaged vehicles out of the way, so they’ve got a snarl.” Kim’s mind appreciated the exercise of figuring out a simple, solvable puzzle for a change. Even though the solution was far from ideal. A tie up at an intersection like this could take hours to resolve and she wasn’t excited about spending the night in New Hope, Virginia.

“Seems like a lot of responders for a routine rear-end collision,” Gaspar said without looking. “So you’re probably right about the injuries.”

Traffic continued to move slowly around the crash site. From time to time, Gaspar lifted his foot off the brake and allowed the Crown Vic to inch ahead. When they were close enough, Kim saw two uniformed police officers standing in the biting wind directing traffic, which was surprisingly heavy. They hadn't seen a single vehicle on the road in the hour before they reached the city limits. She guessed the bulk of New Hope’s population must lie along Grand Boulevard. Or maybe this was rush hour.

There wasn't much to look at until they were allowed to make their own right turn and travel slowly past the crash site, craning their necks to watch the show along with the other gawkers.

Kim saw a woman, clothes bloody, shivering under a too-small blanket, perhaps awaiting an ambulance. A towheaded boy, maybe about four years old and wearing a sweater and corduroy jeans stood a short distance away. Oddly for a crash victim, if he was one, the boy seemed to be chatting amiably with a uniformed policewoman. But it was the oversized mound Kim saw on the pavement covered by another dark blanket that caught her attention as Gaspar threaded the needle to move them beyond the scene.

“Pull over on the right,” Kim said.

“Are you sure you want to do that? Even if Reacher’s lying dead under there, we're supposed to be keeping a low profile, don't forget.”

She didn't argue. Fifty feet from the official vehicles, Gaspar pulled off and parked on the wide gravel shoulder. They stepped out of the Crown Vic and into the stinging wind. The air smelled heavy with loam and exhaust. Humidity soaked her skin like a cold cloud bath.

“Aren’t you Latin lovers supposed to be chivalrous? Why don't you ever have a coat to offer me?” Kim teased, shivering from nerves as well as cold as they trudged through damp earth toward the body.

“November’s always great beach weather in Miami and I don’t own a coat.” Gaspar had stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets after turning up his Banana Republic suit collar. “You're a liberated female from Detroit. What's your excuse?”

Kim wondered that herself. She made a mental note to stop at the first affordable department store. Surely somewhere in this town she might be able to find a coat to fit her, even if she had to shop in the girls’ department.

Gaspar didn’t dawdle even though his leg had to be cramped after all the driving. Kim struggled to keep up with his long strides. She didn’t know the full extent of his injuries and he’d made it clear she wasn’t going to find out more from him. Snooping into his background seemed disloyal; she’d wait until he trusted her enough to explain. He limped a little, but as they continued along he seemed to walk it out somehow.

First responders handled the chaotic scene appropriately, Kim noticed. Maybe this was a small town in the middle of nowhere, but officials performed as if they’d been well trained. Emergent needs had been attended to. Now they were processing the crime scene and handling traffic. No one seemed interested in the blanket or the body that lay beneath.

When Otto and Gaspar approached, a plain-clothes official standing off to the side noticed. He was a slim man, maybe forty-five or fifty, graying chestnut hair and thick black brows. He didn’t ask if they knew the parties involved in the crash, but his tone was friendly when he said, “I'm afraid you folks are going to have to return to your car.”

Gaspar waited for Otto to take the lead. Partly because stopping was her idea, but leading was also her job. She pulled out her badge wallet and held it in her left hand as she extended her right to shake, counting on the local guy to return her gesture automatically, which he did.

“Looks like you have your hands full here,” Kim said, friendly too, slipping her badge back into her pocket. Now he’d have to request it if he wanted a closer look. Most times, they didn’t. All cops knew an FBI shield at a glance. Gaspar didn’t offer a glimpse of his. All cops knew FBI agents traveled in pairs.

“Chief Paul Brady, New Hope PD,” he said, a voice that might sing tenor in the church choir. “You must have been diverted here, huh? Sorry to interrupt your work, but thanks for coming so quickly. Rest of your team on the way?”

Brady's words jolted her spine like a taser strike. Why would a local chief call the FBI on a traffic fatality? Sure, headquarters was only a couple of hours away, but the FBI’s jurisdiction didn’t include traffic crashes under normal circumstances.

Kim injected her tone with cooperative officiousness. “Why’d you call us?”

Chief Brady said, “I didn’t initially. Witnesses said carjacking. Never been common around here and I hadn’t heard the term for at least a decade.”

Carjacking wasn’t FBI jurisdiction, either, but Kim didn’t say so. She figured Brady for a guy who had to tell a story in his own way and his own time. “Uh, huh.”