*******
8:28 P.M.
Their bellies on Virginia time, Devlin and Randall had not eaten anything in several hours. Periodically rubbing their foreheads, the two agents had spent an hour squinting at the same stretch of video and scowling at a still image of the mystery man in black.
Noticing their struggle to focus, Harker had inquired about the last time they had had anything to eat or drink. When Devlin and Randall had exchanged puzzled glances, the detective then placed a takeout order with a nearby restaurant specializing in authentic Mexican cuisine.
Twenty minutes later, two soft drinks, two burritos, four tacos, and a container of chips and salsa had been delivered to the apartment building. Fifteen minutes after that, the burritos had been eaten, and Randall was on the last of his tacos.
Randall spied Devlin while shaking a cardboard vessel; the few broken chips that remained inside slid around. “You want these?”
She glimpsed the remnants and shook her head.
He went to work on them.
“There’s something familiar about this guy, but,” she flipped the photo of the man from the surveillance video onto the table, “I just can’t put my finger on what it is.” Sitting in the apartment lobby, in a straight-back chair with a padded seat, she hung her head over the back of the chair and covered her eyes and forehead with both hands before dragging them down her face and sighing.
Randall popped the last chip into his mouth and picked up the picture. “I know what you mean. Something about him is gnawing at me, too.” After gathering the empty containers, wrappers, and paper bags, he stuffed everything into a nearby trash receptacle and sat in the cushioned chair across from her.
Slouching, arms folded over her stomach, Devlin gawked at the floor.
For the next minute, he regarded his lost-in-thought partner. Thirty feet behind him, he heard Harker talking on the phone with someone from his precinct.
Devlin stroked her chin, made a face, and massaged her temple.
“From what you’ve told me about her, she’s a fighter, Jessica. She’ll hang in there until we get to her. You have to hang in there, too.”
Devlin stared at him for a couple moments and nodded. “I know she is. I was just thinking about the last time we saw each other.” She chuckled. “Faith was playing with Cassie...some made-up game with foam dart guns that she had bought for Cassie.” Devlin grinned. “Cassie was having a ball shooting Faith in the butt. Faith would squeal each time a dart hit her, and Cassie would giggle her head off.”
Imagining the scene playing out in his mind, Randall smiled.
“I wasn’t too pleased she had gotten my little girl dart guns in the first place, but...what can you do? Pick your battles, right?”
Randall frowned. “What’s wrong with dart guns?”
“I don’t know.” A few seconds passed. “My father got Faith and me into real guns when we were young and,” Devlin shrugged, “I guess I just didn’t want to start Cassie on that this early in her life. I mean her father was a cop. Her mother’s a deputy mar—a marshal.”
Randall grinned at the slip-up.
“Her aunt is a detective. And her stepfather is FBI.”
“Worried she’s headed in the same direction?”
“It’s like,” Devlin hunched her shoulders, “it’s like she’s destined for law enforcement.” Devlin shook her head. “I guess I saw something different for her.”
“Something different? Or something safer?”
She half squinted at him. “Are you using your CIA tradecraft to psychoanalyze me again?”
Harker: “Okay. Keep me posted.”
Randall crossed his legs at the knee and snickered. “No. Everyone knows it’s human nature for parents to want to keep their kids close, safe. And I know,” he poked a finger at her, “you’re a damn good mother, Jessica.”
Harker ended his call and strolled up to the out-of-town agents.
“Thanks.” Devlin leaned forward, picked up the image of the man in the black suit, and exhaled through flared nostrils. “Let’s just hope I’m a damn good sister, too...and can save Faith.”
Harker stowed his phone. “I have my people working on trying to identify,” he gestured at the photo Devlin held, “our man there. Unsure on how long that will take, though.” He gave each person a quick look. “Did we come up with anything new while I was away?”
“Only that,” Randall picked up his beverage, “someone here has a vendetta against dart guns.” He sucked on the straw while curling up one corner of his mouth.
She rolled her eyes at her partner.
Harker snapped his fingers. “That reminds me. I don’t think I told you, but...I have Faith’s gun.”
Devlin gaped at him. “I guess I just assumed the people who took her would’ve taken that as well.”
“Nope. We found it in that small table just inside the front door. We also found two full mags in pouches...still attached to her pants. I had to log everything as evidence, but,” he wagged his finger at the marshal, “I know how much that pistol meant to your sister. And I didn’t want to see it banged up in storage—or worse. So I’ve taken personal custody of it. It’s in my gun safe at home.”
“Thank you, Detective.” Devlin envisioned Faith’s Colt 1911, a 45 ACP identical to Devlin’s forty-five with one distinction. After the girls’ mother had died, Devlin’s father had bought three guns. He then had the eventual owner’s name engraved on the slide of each weapon before storing the guns for when his daughters turned twenty-one. The third matching Colt was used on family trips to the shooting range. “You’re right. That gun means a lot to her. I appreciate you looking after it.”
“I’m happy to do it.” He paused. “Until I hear back from my people, we’re out of leads, so how about I set you two up with hotel rooms?”
“How did you find my sister’s Colt...in what condition I mean?”
“It was still in its holster and unfired.”
“And her phone was on the floor two feet
