Stolen(57)

Caitlin cringed, not because of the cursing but because she anticipated Spense’s response. Nobody likes being told how to do his job, and Spense was no exception. Considering just how good Spense was at what he did, she couldn’t blame him if he lost his cool.

Spense’s hand shot into his pocket, and she released her breath.

He wasn’t going to let Hatcher get his goat after all.

A beat or so passed, then Spense tossed his cube in the air and caught it. “This is a joint task force. Caity and I aren’t under your command—we answer to the BAU. While you were wrapping up the press conference, a tip came in to the hotline. We followed it up, and if you weren’t so busy braying like an ass I would’ve told you we think we know who our Jane Doe is. Her name is Harriet Beckerman. You’re welcome.”

“Harriet Beckerman? Holy shit.”

“You can say that again.” Caitlin offered the detective a conciliatory smile.

“Holy shit.”

Hatcher really didn’t get the whole figure of speech thing, but she wasn’t about to go down that path with him. Caitlin glanced at the door to the interview room. It sounded like a squad of paratroopers was behind it. She could hear shoes clomping, cups clanking, chairs scraping, and voices talking over each other. “Sounds like you’ve had some excitement around here, too. What gives?”

Hatcher stepped closer and lowered his voice. “We’re disbanding the task force.”

She took a step back. How could they even think of such a thing after finding a young woman brutally murdered. “That’s a bad idea.” Understatement. “If Laura’s still alive, she’s in grave danger.”

Hatcher angled his head toward the interview room. “Follow me if you dare—it’s a madhouse in there—you’ll understand everything soon enough.”

Now it was Spense wearing the red ears. “You can’t disband the task force at a time like this.”

“Not my call. This is coming from above.” Hatcher shifted back and forth on his feet. “Disband might not be the correct term. Downsize. Reorganize. Resource reallocation. Whatever you wanna call it, it sucks. I’m still on the case, and Cliff. I’m going to try to make an argument to keep you two around a while longer.”

Ah, so this accounted, at least in part, for his mood. He didn’t want to “downsize” any more than they did.

“But all of this—” Hatcher swept his hand around the room full of burnt orange furniture “—all the extra dough and manpower was in place to find the senator’s daughter. And while Harriet Beckerman might be lying up in that morgue with her face chewed off, Laura Chaucer is very much alive . . . and no longer missing . . . technically speaking.”

Caitlin’s head felt like someone hit the button on the spin cycle. This was a lot to take in in such a short time. Truella Underland’s story rang true. Caitlin felt sure dental records would confirm the body in the morgue was that of Harriet Beckerman, a troubled young woman who would never get the chance to turn her life around. Harriet Beckerman had lived in the same apartment complex and had been friends with Laura Chaucer . . . and now the task force was being downsized because Laura, apparently, was alive. And judging by Hatcher’s reaction, he’d heard the name Harriet Beckerman before. “You found Laura?”

Hatcher opened the door between the war room and the interview room and jerked his head. “Just get inside, please. I could really use some help in there. I feel like I’m being torn apart by a pack of wolves—or mountain lions—or whatever.” He sent Caitlin a feeble smile, and she knew his attempted joke was really an olive branch.

She took it. “We’re all on the same team, Jordan. I’m sorry if it seemed like we left you in the lurch.”

“Same team. Let’s get to it,” Spense said.

Hatcher was clearly beyond pissed about his resources getting pulled and had taken it out on them. But despite his rude behavior he needed Spense and her more than ever. The three entered the interview room en masse, ready to face the wild beasts—who turned out to be a rather tame-looking group, but Caitlin understood that didn’t mean their fangs weren’t sharp.

Whit Chaucer, his wife Tracy, and Grady Webber were all dressed in the same conservative designer garb they’d worn to the press conference. Ron Saas—she recognized him from the press conference, too—wore khaki pants, a white button-down, and a tweed sports coat. She assumed they’d been given the news that Laura was alive, and yet no one looked relieved.

Whit’s angry, purple face was a stark contrast to his wife’s sickly pale one. Saas’s shoulders were hunched like he was ready to raise his fists and defend himself if someone else threw the first punch. Grady’s face was a blank slate that she knew from experience would be written and re-written with whatever emotion he deemed opportune.