Special Agent Frank Delgado hated working in an office. He had turned down several promotions in his career because they all led to sitting behind a desk. But there were times when it was unavoidable, and this was one of them. He had to put in chair time as a member of the task force. He tried to cheer himself up by reminding himself that he had managed to steer the task force into searching for Riley Wolfe, but even that did not do a lot to relieve his claustrophobic distaste for being cooped up here, with a group of team members he didn’t really know. And so far, he hadn’t discovered any compelling reasons to know them better.
Right now he was combing through nursing home records from across the country, trying to match up the list of medications he knew Riley Wolfe’s mother needed to actual patients taking those meds. It was the only clue he had to finding Riley’s mother and thus Riley himself. But there were dozens—hundreds—of matches, and he had no hint about what name she might be registered under. He’d been going through this list for over a week now, and he’d barely made a dent. Since that had also meant over a week of sitting here in the office, Delgado felt like his head was about to explode.
At 2:30 in the afternoon he finally decided he’d had enough. He got up from his desk, stretched, and tucked the list into his jacket pocket. Then he headed out.
“Going for lunch?” a voice called. Delgado paused, then turned. The speaker was Special Agent Helen Rosemond. Delgado had spoken to her twice. She had a voice that grated on his nerves. But they were, after all, on the same task force. So he nodded and said, “Bring you back a sandwich?”
“If they got a wrap?” Rosemond said. “Like, with turkey and a lot of green stuff on it?”
“Sure,” Delgado said, and he headed out the door.
“No mayo!” Rosemond called after him, and Delgado waved.
He had really just planned to walk around for a while, but Rosemond’s request reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and he was suddenly hungry. There were plenty of places nearby where he could get a sandwich, and probably Rosemond’s wrap, too. Delgado decided to walk a little first anyway. It was a clear, bright autumn day, and a walk would chase away the claustrophobic grumpiness that had been creeping over him. Maybe it would clear his head a little, too; the tedium of working the list was making him foggy.
Delgado walked briskly but aimlessly for half an hour. He felt better quickly, but he kept walking. And because he was a very good and conscientious agent, in spite of his obsession with Riley Wolfe, he was thinking about the job at hand, and what it would mean if they were truly able to capture—
“Bailey Stone.”
The woman’s voice spoke softly from behind and to his left. Delgado whipped smoothly sideways and to the right, and before he had turned all the way around his pistol was in his hand.
The woman stood there with a mocking half smile on her face, hands raised only slightly above her hips. “I thought that would get your attention,” she said. When Delgado didn’t move to holster his weapon, she tilted her head at it. “If you shoot me, you won’t get to hear why I said that,” she said. She shrugged. “Also, I’d rather not get handcuffed or anything? Can we just talk for a minute?” Delgado still didn’t move. “People are staring?” she said.
It was a true. A small knot of people had stopped at the sight of a man pointing a pistol at a woman on the sidewalk, in broad daylight. Most of them were edging away, but a few actually moved closer, to better see whatever the excitement might be.
“Seriously,” the wom
an said. “Just talk. It’s worth your while.”
Delgado studied her. She was middle-aged, kind of soft-looking. She had bright orange shoulder-length hair that was almost certainly a wig, and she wore a New Balance logo’d track suit and court shoes. Appearances didn’t mean a whole lot, but she seemed about as dangerous as a corgi on a leash. And the crowd was starting to grow.
“All right,” he said. He holstered his pistol. “Talk.”
The woman nodded and said, “A little more private? Maybe in there?” She pointed across the street to a coffee shop.
“All right,” Delgado said again.
He followed her across the street, staying a step behind, and she led the way as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She went into the coffee shop and chose a booth along the wall, where they could both see the door. “This okay?” she asked him, and he nodded, sliding in on one side. The woman slid in opposite.
“Who are you?” Delgado said when they were settled.
She shook her head. “You gotta call me something, call me Betty,” she said. “Not my name, not anymore.” She raised a hand to cut off the objection he was about to make. “I know, it ain’t much. Look, I’m an information professional. Freelance. And I do not exactly work the same side of the street as you? Plus I have just gone to a great deal of work and expense to change my identity again, which is something you Feds don’t really approve of, right?”
“So why don’t I arrest you?” Delgado said, studying her face. He assumed the way she looked was mostly a disguise, but he was good at reading people, and so far no alarm bells had gone off. Besides, she’d said two magic words, “Bailey Stone,” and he definitely wanted to know where that was coming from—and where it was going.
“Because,” she said, very serious, “I can give you Bailey Stone.”
In spite of himself, Delgado felt his heart jump up to a faster tempo. He pushed it back down with an act of will. He’d heard plenty of promises from people on the “other side of the street,” and very few of them panned out. “What do you want in return?” he said.
She looked at him like he’d said something stupid. “I want you to catch him, Agent Delgado,” she said.
A hassled-looking waitress bumped up against the table. “You all know what you want or you need a minute?” she said in a nearly incoherent jumble of words.
“Two coffees,” Betty said.
“That it?” the waitress asked.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Betty said, and the waitress hurried away.