Wyatt
It’s not a busy day at the office.
It rarely is anymore.
The excitement that accompanies kidnapping cases has died off, and now I’m left with a pile of clues that don’t make sense and a crew of guys who are begging me to close the case and move on.
Some cases don’t get solved, I’ve been told, and it’s true. There’s something weird about this one, though, something that’s just not right. It’s something that makes me feel uncomfortable, and I can’t quite calculate why.
I’m not from Bradshaw.
I didn’t grow up around here, didn’t go to college here, and I certainly didn’t start my work in the police force here. Maybe that’s why I can’t let this one go. Maybe I need to prove myself. Maybe I need to make this case, my first big case in Bradshaw, be a memorable one.
Even if it never gets solved, it’s memorable, all right.
Logan Smith is a professor at Bradshaw Community College. It’s a cute little place, the school. It’s likeable, and it looks safe. The people seem friendly and nice and there are always lots of sponsored events at the college, but there’s more to this place than meets the eye.
Shortly after I moved to Bradshaw to head up the shifter division of the local police force, a young college student named Charlene Hill went missing. Her friends called her Charlie, but her mother insisted that Charlene hated to be called that. I know because I interviewed the woman twelve times to try to get a lead.
And nothing.
Charlene just seemed to vanish into thin air, and the last one who saw her alive was none other than Logan Smith. Logan and Charlene were talking after the night class she was taking from him. Class let out at nine, and they were talking, as seen on camera in the commons, until nine-thirty. Then they both went their separate ways, and Charlene vanished.
It’s been four weeks and five days since she went missing.
It’s been a lifetime, and there’s no way that girl is still alive.
There’s literally no way.
Right now, we’re no longer searching for an abducted woman. We’re searching for a body. We’re searching for motive. We’re searching for clues. We’re searching for anything that could help us figure out who took Charlene Hill and why.
And it’s been one dead end after another.
And I’m tired.
My team is tired.
My contacts are tired.
The truth is that I’m going to have to set this aside pretty soon and focus on other, more active cases. As the leader of the shifter squad, I have some leeway when it comes to the way most police stations function. Shifters have their own code of conduct, and it’s my job to enforce that.
Logan Smith?
He’s definitely a shifter.
His ex-girlfriend, Joyce Lawson, confirmed it when I called her a few weeks ago. They only went out for a short time, maybe a few months, and then he left her for Charlene. He left Joyce, which typically would mean that she’d be considered a suspect, but she has a rock-solid alibi for the disappearance, and she’s been backed up by not one, not two, but three of Bradshaw’s best attorneys.
Yeah, I’m not messing with her.
Still, not being able to figure out what happened to the girl bothers me. I should have been able to get somewhere – anywhere – after all of this time.
“Dixon!” A shrill voice calls my name and I groan inwardly before pasting on a smile and swiveling my seat around to see Marie Martin, Bradshaw’s most obnoxious reporter, striding toward me.
“Miss Martin.” I smile politely, but that’s all I’m offering right now. I don’t have anything else to give her, and even if I did, I wouldn’t share. All of my energy right now is going toward finding out what happened to Charlene Hill and Marie Martin is nothing but a distraction.
“Sergeant Dixon,” she repeats my name as she gets closer. Within seconds, she’s managed to scurry across the office floor in her five-inch stilettos. How the woman manages to walk in those things, I’ll never understand.
“What can I do for you?” I say.
“I was wondering if I could get a statement from you on the Charlene Hill case.”
“I believe I gave you a statement just last week, Miss Martin.” I meet her gaze, but now my smile is gone. I can’t fake that anymore. I’m much too tired, and it’s not because I didn’t have any coffee this morning or the fact that I didn’t sleep well.
No, this fatigue is something much deeper, something much worse.
This is the fatigue of a man who has been searching for a killer and coming up short.
This is the fatigue of someone who just can’t seem to get ahead.
“Surely there’s been a development since last week,” Marie says. She smiles, but I notice that it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I’m not sure if she’s pushing me to make a statement or trying to needle me because we haven’t made much progress on the case. Either way, I don’t have time for her crap.
Not today.
“Miss Martin, you know I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of an ongoing case,” I say, standing up. I might be a bumbly, quiet bear in my personal life, but at work?
Here I’m in charge.
I cross my arms over my broad chest and stare at her. I give her my best badass glare. There’s no way Martin is a shifter and if I’m correct, she doesn’t realize I am, either, or why this case is so important to me.
Logan Smith stole a girl.
I’m sure of it.
He kidnapped her, probably hurt her, and I want to save her. He didn’t have the right to do what he did, and shifter or not, I plan to see him punished to the full extent of the law. I just wish this asshole didn’t seem to be one step ahead of me at all times.
“I…Sergeant,” Marie Martin shakes her head. She seems a little bit intimidated, but I can see her inwardly chiding herself for that emotion. I know why. As a reporter, she can’t be scared by anyone or anything. She can’t back down when someone yells at her or when someone sounds scary.
But this isn’t like the other fluff pieces she’s worked on before.
This is different, and Logan Smith is dangerous.
I don’t want Marie Martin poking around because I don’t like her. She’s conniving and she’s sneaky and she’s shrill. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s shrill. That’s not why her poking around is a problem, though. My personal opinions aside, she needs to back down because Logan has an agenda and I don’t know what it is.
He’s gone about his normal life without any changes to his routine. He hasn’t varied his days. He hasn’t done anything unusual or strange. We’ve had to pull surveillance off of him to pursue other cases, and I hate knowing he could be doing something right under our noses.
Every search of his home has turned up clean, though.
His office?
Clean.
His car?
Clean.
If Logan is the one who took Charlene – and I’m sure he is – then he’s doing an incredible job covering his tracks. I don’t like the idea that another shifter is getting the better of me, but that’s what this is. He took her.
I know he took her.
“Sergeant Dixon,” Marie tries again. “I know you’re telling me you can’t say anything about an ongoing case.”
“That’s correct.”
“But I know that you regularly discuss this case with other people who are not reporters, nor are they law enforcement.”
“Is that right?”
The accusation is bullshit, but I’ll listen to what she has to say. I’ve got a few minutes before I go insane from this conversation.
“I have it on authority that you discuss this case with other people related to this investigation.”
“You’re going to have to give me something more than that,” I growl. “Because I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Really? You aren’t even going to admit to it?”
“Admit to what?” This time, my voice turns to a growl, and I know we’ve reached the end of our conversation. I have to stay calm, cool, and collected at all times. I have to stay in control of the situation. It’s my job as a cop and my job as a shifter. I am in control.
“Joyce Lawson.”
“Yes, the ex-girlfriend. We’ve spoken with her several times.”
“I think you’ve done a little more than talk to her,” Marie pushes, and I shake my head. I haven’t. I actually haven’t even met Lawson in person. We spoke on the phone several times, but that interview was handled by another shifter cop. I was originally scheduled to speak with her, but something else came up in the investigation and I was needed elsewhere. My deputy recorded the interview and I listened to it several times, but I haven’t met her in person. Even the follow-up interview questions were handled by another cop. Miss Lawson and I have had no physical contact.
So why does Marie think I’m feeding this woman information?
“I think you’ve done a little more than speak with her,” Marie says, and she suddenly looks very smug.
“You would be incorrect,” I tell her. “And I think our time here is done.”
“I went to the Red Oak,” Marie says.
“Look,” I growl. “I don’t know what the hell you’re getting at, darling, but I haven’t been to the Red Oak in weeks and I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”
I should know what she’s getting at because I’m a cop, she’s a reporter, and I’m smarter than her, but I don’t, and that grates on me.
She looks at me like she’s got some sort of dirt on me, and I wonder if she’s going to try to blackmail me about something. The truth is that she can’t because I have followed this investigation to the letter. I’ve been nothing but completely professional when it comes to dealing with people and interacting with them. I’ve taken this case more seriously than I’ve taken anything else in my life, but then Marie Martin holds up the picture from a security camera at the Red Oak, and everything goes to hell.