A Profiler's Case for Seduction - By Carla Cassidy Page 0,18
would be nice if all of us could be out of here by then. The whole place is going to be crowded with alumni and parades and all kinds of extra people and events. It’s just going to make our job even more difficult.”
“Then we need to get this all solved before homecoming weekend,” Mark replied. He raked a hand through his hair, his brain racing as usual.
Richard grinned ruefully. “From your lips to God’s ears. We sure as hell haven’t managed to get a break yet.”
“It will happen,” Mark replied with a confidence he didn’t feel. “We’re the FBI...we always get our man.”
“Uh, I think that’s the Royal Canadian Mounties’ motto,” Richard said.
“It is, but in this case it’s going to be ours, too,” Mark said firmly. “We’re going to figure this out. Somebody belongs in prison in this town and we’re going to find him or her or whoever is responsible for those murders.”
“On that note, I’m heading out,” Richard said. “Pounding the pavement, that’s what solves most crimes.”
“I think I’ll do a little more video watching,” Mark replied. It surprised him to realize that what he’d really like to do was find Dora, spend a little time talking to her, just losing himself in the peaceful calm of her gray eyes.
A tool, he reminded himself. She was just a tool to use to further his investigation. Still, he was eager for Friday night to arrive, but in the meantime he had images to watch, images of Professor Melinda Grayson with her captors.
* * *
Melinda stood at her living room window and watched the sun slowly sinking in the west. Another day done and it was definitely time for a glass of wine and perhaps a phone call.
She poured herself a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, admiring the expensive red wine as it splashed into the bottom of the crystal goblet. Thank goodness the cast was on her left arm so she could foist the goblet high in the air to toast her success...her very survival.
Carrying the wine to the sofa, she sank down, placed the glass on the coffee table and then picked up her cell phone. She considered calling her brother Samuel, but with him being in jail at the moment it was sometimes difficult to get through to him and she knew his calls might be monitored. She decided to check in with Micah instead. Although she rarely thought about him and he had no place in her life, she occasionally called him to keep up the pretense of some sort of family normalcy. If she checked in with him, then she figured he’d have no reason to get nosy about her life and that was just fine with her.
A couple of years ago it had been quite a shock to discover that she had not one but two brothers, twins. Micah and Samuel Grayson were the antithesis of each other. Micah was the good twin, an FBI agent who at this moment was on an undercover assignment pretending to be his twin, Samuel, in the small town of Perfect, Wyoming.
Samuel had built the town into his own personal cult with his charismatic power, wielding complete control. Unfortunately, Samuel had been stupid and arrogant and was now sitting in prison charged with a multitude of crimes ranging from illegal adoptions to murder. Because the corruption in the town had run so deep, the FBI had placed Micah in undercover as Samuel to ferret out the guilty who had avoided capture when Samuel had gone down.
She took a long drink of her wine and then punched in the numbers that would connect her to Micah. He answered immediately, identifying himself as his twin brother.
“Samuel Grayson,” he said.
“It’s me, Melinda. Can you talk?”
“Yes, Olivia and I are just sitting here alone. The kids are in bed and we’re relaxing. I’ve wanted to call you since I heard about your ordeal. I wish I could have been there for you, but there was no way for me to get away from this assignment. How are you doing?”
“They beat me, Micah. They beat me and they broke my arm.” She made her voice sound small and weak. “I’m jumping at shadows and having terrible nightmares and panic attacks where I feel like my heart is going to beat out of my chest.”
“Sounds like a case of post-traumatic stress syndrome. Are you seeing anyone? A therapist?” His sympathy was evident in his soft tone.