Forsaken: A Fallen Siren Novella Read Free Page B

call came across the police scanners, the circus was inevitable. We’ve done our best to keep the details of the kidnapping and our involvement to a minimum, but as you can see—”
    “It’s going to be damn near impossible with this level of scrutiny,” Zack finishes.
    Torres steers past the reporters and cameramen milling around the building’s entrance then turns into the alley. The blockade is removed allowing her to pull into the parking garage. She pauses long enough at the iron gate to punch in a key code. It lifts and we pull forward. A security guard emerges from a second gate, which appears to be a newly constructed booth.
    “Agent Torres,” he nods.
    She gestures in our general direction as she introduces us. “This is Agent Armstrong and this is Agent Monroe.”
    “I’m going to have to see some identification.” The request is made without a hint of apology.
    After he examines our credentials, the second gate is raised.
    “This one looks new,” I observe.
    “The installation was finished just hours ago,” Torres says as we pull into a nearby space. “Maitlan paid for it himself. Had a crew working all night to get it set up. Case of closing the barn door after the horse has already escaped, if you ask me. But he owns the majority interest in the building and can do as he damn well pleases.” She shoots Zack a pointed look. “And we know what Maitlan wants, Maitlan gets.” The statement is punctuated with a plastic smile.
    Zack’s expression remains neutral and he says nothing, but I see signs that his exasperation with Torres’ attitude is growing. He slams the car door shut a little too sharply upon exiting. He doesn’t wait for her to lead the way to the elevator.
    “We’re heading to the one in the middle,” Torres calls out.
    I quicken my pace to catch up with Zack and take a second to whisper, “Is this going to be a problem?”
    There’s a telltale tick in his jaw, his fist clenches. “We’ll smooth it out somehow.”
    Torres joins us and punches numbers into yet another keypad. The doors slide open. She steps in first, barely waiting for Zack and me to follow. Inside there’s only one button. She presses it and we’re instantly whooshed upwards.
    I lean against the back wall. The space is larger than my dining room. Torres and Zack have managed to take full advantage and stand on opposite sides. Torres stares straight ahead, her features set in stone. Zack’s posture is rigid, feet hip-width apart, hands clasped behind his back in a classic parade rest.
    “I’d like to interview the doorman again, the one they took up to the apartment,” he says.
    “Deke Jackson? We taped the interview. I can show—”
    He doesn’t even let her finish. “Get him in here. I want to talk to him myself.”
    So much for smoothing it out.
    When the doors open, any hope I have to take the tension down a notch is dashed. Crime scene tape still in place to the left of the elevator, where I presume the babysitter was killed, and around the front door, where the second doorman was left unconscious. Dark red bloodstains paint a grisly, Technicolor picture. I recall the photo of the girl, her body splayed out at odd angles, lying face down. A chill washes over me. Not because it’s the worst I’ve seen, but because I know without a doubt that anyone vicious enough to kill one innocent child in cold blood would not hesitate to kill a second.
    I look up at Zack. He’s already taken in the scene. Now he’s watching me. His face reflects the same concern.
    “Zack! Thank God you’re here.”
    It’s Maitlan. I recognize him from the photos in the file Johnson gave us, not to mention the ones plastered all over the press. Maitlan’s polished PR team maintains careful control over his image. The forty-year-old with piercing blue eyes and dark hair graying at the temples is almost always presented in a dark suit, classic white shirt and tie. The photos of the mogul and his family lining the