to coordinate your investigation with the task force. And it goes without saying that all information will be shared.”
The glass door of the office opened, and Sheriff Mooney walked in. When he saw Abby, he nodded. “Good, you’re already here. That’ll save us some time.”
He was followed into the office by a man Abby had never seen before. The stranger was tall, dark, but far more dangerous-looking than handsome. In spite of the August heat, which could be brutal in Mississippi, he wore a navy suit, starched white shirt, and conservative tie. Abby immediately pegged him for the fed from Jackson they’d been expecting.
Even apart from his attire, he had the look of an FBI agent. His posture was ramrod straight, his demeanor tense, his senses on full alert. He was probably in his early forties, with dark hair and a deeply lined face that bespoke too many years of long hours, bad cases, and maybe just plain bad luck.
When he trained his gray eyes on Abby, a slight chill rippled through her. In her five years in law enforcement, she’d never encountered a colder gaze.
Sheriff Mooney lumbered around his desk and sat down heavily in a leather chair that squealed ominously beneath his bulk. “Abby, I’d like you to meet Special Agent Sam Burke. Abby—Sergeant Cross—is a detective in our Criminal Investigations Division.”
Abby rose and extended her hand. “Special Agent Burke.”
The man nodded in her direction, but barely took the time to shake her hand before turning back to the sheriff. But in that moment when their eyes met, in that second when his hand touched hers, the chill inside Abby deepened. There was something unsettling about the way he looked at her, about the way she reacted to the feel of his hand against hers.
Special Agent Sam Burke was a very dangerous man, Abby thought. In more ways than one.
“Have a seat.” Sheriff Mooney leaned back in his own chair to observe Burke with unveiled curiosity. “We weren’t expecting you until late this evening.”
“I caught an early flight,” the agent explained, waiting for Abby to sit before he lowered himself into the chair across from Sheriff Mooney’s desk. But even seated, he didn’t relax. Every muscle in his body appeared coiled and taut.
Sheriff Mooney frowned. “You flew up from Jackson?”
“I flew in to Memphis from Washington, then rented a car and drove down.”
“Washington?” Both Sheriff Mooney and Abby stared at Agent Burke in surprise. “We were expecting someone from the Jackson office. Didn’t realize FBI Headquarters paid that much attention to the goings-on down here in our fair state.”
“Didn’t you?” Sam Burke’s gaze never wavered from the sheriff’s face. “I seem to recall the Bureau was pretty active down here back in the sixties.”
A little dig, Abby thought, to put them in their place.
It was apparent from his attitude that Special Agent Burke considered them a bunch of incompetent hicks. Abby doubted that even her degrees in psychology and criminology from Ole Miss would convince him otherwise. Her dander was thoroughly ruffled by the man’s demeanor, but Sheriff Mooney seemed to take it all in stride. But then, he would. It wasn’t his style to worry about the opinion of some self-inflated federal agent.
If you only went by appearances, it would be easy to underestimate Fred Mooney. He was on the back side of fifty, seventy pounds overweight, and his uniform generally consisted of a faded golf shirt—he had them in every color—that stretched tightly over his gut and didn’t always quite meet the low-riding waistband of his trousers. His hair was always rumpled, as if he constantly ran his fingers through it, and his passion—aside from fishing—was his grandchildren, which he talked about incessantly. He had dozens of their pictures displayed on the wall behind his desk, along with an autographed photo of Elvis Presley and a recent snapshot taken with Senator Trent Lott.
The office, like the man who occupied it, was a bit of a mess, and Abby could only imagine the impression both made on Special Agent Burke. But Abby had never met a law-enforcement officer she respected or admired more than Fred Mooney. He knew how to handle the media, too, which had descended in droves since Sara Beth’s disappearance. Abby would match the sheriff’s savvy against anyone’s, including one arrogant FBI agent she could name.
“Wherever you’re from, we’re glad to have you.” Sheriff Mooney clasped his hands over his middle. “We can sure use the help. We’ve got two missing kids, and I don’t mind telling you, we don’t have any solid leads. One of the little girls has been gone for nearly seventy-two hours, the other almost twenty-four hours. Time is working against us here.”
He was right, Abby thought grimly. Time was the enemy in abductions.
“They’re both five years old, white, no distinguishing marks or disfigurements,” he continued. “They were in the same kindergarten class at Fairhaven Academy, a private school on the north side of town. We think the school is the connection.”
“It’s a natural assumption,” Agent Burke agreed with a curt nod. “But assumptions can be a dangerous thing. What about witnesses?”
“None so far, although we keep going back, interviewing anyone we can think of who might have been in the area at the time. We’re also running a background check on all school personnel, including the director, Lois Sheridan, and the girls’ teacher, Vickie Wilder. Lois Sheridan was the director ten years ago when the first abduction took place.”
“First abduction?”
Again Abby and Sheriff Mooney regarded the agent in surprise. “You don’t know about the first one? We sent a fairly lengthy fax to the Jackson office. They didn’t brief you?” the sheriff asked.
“I haven’t had a chance to do more than glance at the report,” Agent Burke said tersely. “Why don’t you two bring me up to speed? Later, I’ll want to have a look at the case files. All three, if the first abduction seems pertinent.”
“Oh, I’d say it’s pertinent, all right.” Sheriff Mooney shot Abby a glance. “Emily Campbell disappeared from the playground at Fairhaven Academy ten years to the day that Sadie Cross was abducted.”
“What about the third child? Sara Beth Brodie.” Abby had been watching the agent’s face closely, and she thought she detected a tightening of his features, a darkening in his eyes when he mentioned Sara Beth. But perhaps that was just her imagination. The man was already about as tense as he could get and had been since the moment he walked through the door. Abby had a feeling the austerity was normal for him.
“Abby?” She almost jumped when Sheriff Mooney said her name. She’d let her mind drift from the conversation, and now she realized they were waiting for her to speak, but she had no idea what the question had been.
Great, she thought dryly. Nothing like first impressions.
Her gaze met Sam Burke’s, and she thought she could discern a flicker of disdain in those icy gray depths.
“Why don’t you tell Agent Burke your theory?” Sheriff Mooney prompted.
“Shouldn’t Lieutenant Conyers be in on this meeting?” she asked, referring to the lead detective on the Emily Campbell case.
“Should be, but he’s not.” Sheriff Mooney glanced at his watch and scowled. Dave Conyers wasn’t known around the department for his promptness, nor for his consideration of others. If he’d missed a meeting called by the sheriff, it could be that he was following a hot lead. Or it could be he’d decided to stop off and have a cold beer. You never knew with Dave. “We don’t have time to wait for him,” the sheriff grumbled. “Go ahead and give Special Agent Burke your thoughts on both cases.”
Abby’s gaze moved reluctantly back to the agent. “I agree the school seems to be the obvious connection, but I’m not convinced the same suspect perpetrated all three crimes.”
Sam Burke lifted a dark brow. “Why not?”