hair that shagged out at the edges. Her neck was too thin for her head, lending her a certain fragility. Understated chin, full cheeks. The kind of face Tim had seen described as "heart-shaped" on fugitive identifiers; the term had stuck because he'd never before found it to make sense.
Tim's eyes pulled to the much-publicized school photo of Ginny on the mantel. Her second-grade year. And her last.
"I'm so sorry," Tim said. "When was she killed?"
Over on the couch, Emma made a little gasp. Her first peep.
Will took the picture back from Tim abruptly, casting a protective eye over at his wife. "She's not dead. At least we hope not. She's...well, sort of missing. Except she's eighteen --"
"Nineteen," Emma said. "Just turned."
"Right, nineteen. Since she's not a minor, we have no legal recourse. She's gotten herself in with one of these cults. Not like the Jehovah's Witnesses, but one of those creepy, mind-control, self-help deals. Except more dangerous."
Tim said, "Have you tried --"
"The goddamn cops have been useless. Won't even file a missing person's. We've tried every law-enforcement agency -- FBI, CIA, LAPD -- but there are virtually no resources devoted to cults. No one cares unless they turn Waco."
"Her name," Tim said.
"Leah. She's my stepdaughter, from Emma's first marriage. Her real father died of stomach cancer when she was four."
"She was a student at Pepperdine." Emma's voice was brittle and slightly hoarse, as if she had to strain to reach audibility.
Tim's eyes returned to Emma's cross pendant, this time making out Jesus' tiny hanging form.
"Three months ago we got a phone call from her roommate. She said Leah had dropped out. She said she was in a cult, that we'd better find her or we'd never see her again."
"She came home once," Will said. "March thirteenth, out of the blue. My men and I tried to reason with her but she...uh, escaped out the bathroom window, and we haven't seen or heard from her since."
He was the kind of man who had men.
"I'm sorry," Dray said. "I don't mean to be rude, and I understand how painful this is for you, but what does this have to do with Tim?"
Will looked to Tim. "We're familiar with your...work. Marco -- Marshal Tannino -- confirmed that you were a brilliant investigator. He said you used to be a great deputy --" He caught himself. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way."
Tim shrugged. "That's okay. I'm not a deputy marshal anymore." The edge in his voice undercut his casual tone.
"We need our daughter back. We don't care how it's done, and we won't ask any questions. She doesn't have to be happy about it -- she just needs to be home so we can get her the help she needs. We want you to do it. Say, for ten grand a week."
Dray's eyebrows raised, but she gave Tim the slightest head shake, matching, as usual, his own reaction.
Tim said, "I don't have a PI license, and I'm not affiliated with any law-enforcement agency. I got myself into some trouble about a year back, with a vigilante group -- maybe you read about it in the papers?"
Will nodded vigorously. "I like your style. I think it was a great thing you tried to do."
"Well, I don't."
"What would make you say yes?"
Tim laughed, a single note. "If I could follow the trail legally."
"We could arrange that."
Tim opened his mouth, then closed it. His brow furrowed; his head pulled to the side. "I'm sorry, who exactly are you?"
"Will Henning." He waited for recognition to dawn. It did not. "Sound and Fury Pictures."
Tim and Dray exchanged a blank glance, and then Tim shrugged apologetically.
"The Sleeper Cell. Live Wire. The Third Shooter. Little art-house flicks like that."
"I'm sorry..." Dray said. "You wrote those movies?"
"I'm not a writer. I produced them. My films have grossed more than two billion dollars worldwide. If I could get fifteen Blackhawk choppers landing in Getty Plaza on three days' notice, I certainly think I can orchestrate your redeputization." His steel gray eyes stayed fixed on
Tim's eyes pulled to the much-publicized school photo of Ginny on the mantel. Her second-grade year. And her last.
"I'm so sorry," Tim said. "When was she killed?"
Over on the couch, Emma made a little gasp. Her first peep.
Will took the picture back from Tim abruptly, casting a protective eye over at his wife. "She's not dead. At least we hope not. She's...well, sort of missing. Except she's eighteen --"
"Nineteen," Emma said. "Just turned."
"Right, nineteen. Since she's not a minor, we have no legal recourse. She's gotten herself in with one of these cults. Not like the Jehovah's Witnesses, but one of those creepy, mind-control, self-help deals. Except more dangerous."
Tim said, "Have you tried --"
"The goddamn cops have been useless. Won't even file a missing person's. We've tried every law-enforcement agency -- FBI, CIA, LAPD -- but there are virtually no resources devoted to cults. No one cares unless they turn Waco."
"Her name," Tim said.
"Leah. She's my stepdaughter, from Emma's first marriage. Her real father died of stomach cancer when she was four."
"She was a student at Pepperdine." Emma's voice was brittle and slightly hoarse, as if she had to strain to reach audibility.
Tim's eyes returned to Emma's cross pendant, this time making out Jesus' tiny hanging form.
"Three months ago we got a phone call from her roommate. She said Leah had dropped out. She said she was in a cult, that we'd better find her or we'd never see her again."
"She came home once," Will said. "March thirteenth, out of the blue. My men and I tried to reason with her but she...uh, escaped out the bathroom window, and we haven't seen or heard from her since."
He was the kind of man who had men.
"I'm sorry," Dray said. "I don't mean to be rude, and I understand how painful this is for you, but what does this have to do with Tim?"
Will looked to Tim. "We're familiar with your...work. Marco -- Marshal Tannino -- confirmed that you were a brilliant investigator. He said you used to be a great deputy --" He caught himself. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way."
Tim shrugged. "That's okay. I'm not a deputy marshal anymore." The edge in his voice undercut his casual tone.
"We need our daughter back. We don't care how it's done, and we won't ask any questions. She doesn't have to be happy about it -- she just needs to be home so we can get her the help she needs. We want you to do it. Say, for ten grand a week."
Dray's eyebrows raised, but she gave Tim the slightest head shake, matching, as usual, his own reaction.
Tim said, "I don't have a PI license, and I'm not affiliated with any law-enforcement agency. I got myself into some trouble about a year back, with a vigilante group -- maybe you read about it in the papers?"
Will nodded vigorously. "I like your style. I think it was a great thing you tried to do."
"Well, I don't."
"What would make you say yes?"
Tim laughed, a single note. "If I could follow the trail legally."
"We could arrange that."
Tim opened his mouth, then closed it. His brow furrowed; his head pulled to the side. "I'm sorry, who exactly are you?"
"Will Henning." He waited for recognition to dawn. It did not. "Sound and Fury Pictures."
Tim and Dray exchanged a blank glance, and then Tim shrugged apologetically.
"The Sleeper Cell. Live Wire. The Third Shooter. Little art-house flicks like that."
"I'm sorry..." Dray said. "You wrote those movies?"
"I'm not a writer. I produced them. My films have grossed more than two billion dollars worldwide. If I could get fifteen Blackhawk choppers landing in Getty Plaza on three days' notice, I certainly think I can orchestrate your redeputization." His steel gray eyes stayed fixed on
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