“You don’t have to. He’s right here in the tri-state area—Upper Montclair, New Jersey.”
“Convenient,” Marc replied. “Okay, I’m in.” He closed his eyes. “Can you fill me in on the details when I show up at the brownstone—which will be late?”
“Sure. Go do your encore. We’ll talk in my lair whenever you show up.”
Marc pressed the end button and put down the phone.
“I’m awake now,” Maddy announced, propping herself up on one elbow. “What do you intend to do about it?”
With smoky eyes, Marc rolled her under him. “Get inside you and stay there.”
Chicago, Illinois
Nineteenth Police District
Detective Paula Kline juggled her cup of coffee as she sat down at her desk—a desk so cluttered she couldn’t find a spot for her cup. She’d promised herself a dozen times that she’d organize her file pile. It had never happened. And it wasn’t looking too good for the near future. Not with the caseload she had.
Her computer binged for the dozenth time in the past half hour. Yet another email, hopefully one that wouldn’t require more than ten minutes of the time she didn’t have.
She sat down and took a look.
Interesting. The Google alert she’d set up on Julie Forman had found something: a web page with her name on it. Paula followed the link in the email message, which took her to a newspaper called The Montclair Times. She scrolled down on the page and stopped when she saw the snippet on the opening of a new gym called Excalibur, owned and managed by none other than a Julie Forman. There was a small color photo of her, smiling and holding up a free weight.
“Hey, Frank?” Paula called out to her partner.
Detective Frank Bogart swiveled around in his chair. “If it’s a new case, forget it. I’m drowning as it is.”
“No, it’s actually a low-profile existing case.” Paula proceeded to tell him what she’d found. “We need a photo of Julie Forman to make sure it’s the same person we’re looking for.” She accomplished that the quickest way possible, signing on to Facebook and searching for Julie Forman.
There were several, but only one whose photo came close to what Paula was looking for. She clicked on that entry.
A page, photo, and brief bio came up.
“Yup,” Paula confirmed. “Same woman.”
“Well, what do you know.” Now, even Frank looked intrigued. “How do you want to handle it—the locals?”
“Uh-huh. Now we call the Montclair PD and ask them to pay a visit to Ms. Forman. Maybe she can help us close the Barnes case.”
Jersey City, New Jersey
Ryan exited the Holland Tunnel on the Jersey side of the Hudson River, just ten minutes from FI’s Tribeca office.
“Great, no traffic,” he said cheerfully, steering the Sprinter Van onto the highway.
“Not a surprise. It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday morning.” Marc was talking to Ryan but eyeing the odd-looking contraption in the console cup holder between them. It looked like a combination of a bumblebee and a helicopter—palm-sized, yellow with black stripes, bee’s wings, and helicopter rotor blades. The damn thing even had a face, complete with a shit-eating grin.
“At this rate, we should be in Upper Montclair in less than forty minutes,” Ryan continued.
“Uh-huh.” Marc was trying to figure out the weird little gizmo on his own, so he wouldn’t have to ask Ryan and listen to a long-winded, egocentric speech about his new, brilliant creation.
“I’m glad that Casey was cool with our doing this—although I think she was kind of pissed that I didn’t ask her first.”
“Did you doubt that?” Marc gave Ryan a you’re-kidding-me look. “But not to worry; she’ll get over it. Casey’s got a heart of gold. If we can help Emma, and potentially solve a murder, she’ll forgive you for playing hooky for half a day.”
“Yeah. Besides, this is gonna be a cool and productive trip.” Ryan glanced down at his new drone, after which his gaze shifted to the dashboard, where his gadget’s batteries were charging in a power pack plugged into the 12V outlet.
“Okay, I give up. What the hell is that?” Marc demanded, pointing at the insect contraption.