The Short Drop by Matthew FitzSimmons Read Free Book Online Page A

than read under one. But Ellie and Bear were exactly the same when it came to loving people. They both hugged in the same fierce, uncompromising way. Yeah, Bear would have loved Ellie, and Ellie would have loved her right back.
    Where did you go, Bear?
    Gibson looked at George Abe and the team he’d assembled.
    Would she answer at last?

CHAPTER SEVEN
    As they passed McPherson Square, Jenn shifted in her seat and let George know they were back. The Range Rover pulled into the building’s underground garage.
    When they parked and got out, Jenn drifted to the back so she could keep an eye on Vaughn. He glanced back at her but said nothing. He was taller than she expected, but his eyes were no less intense. He’d made her in the diner, which was embarrassing enough, but the way he met her eyes when they shook hands outside the diner made her feel like a microwavable dinner. She didn’t like it.
    Upstairs, the offices of Abe Consulting Group were dark and quiet. The lights hummed to life automatically. It wasn’t a huge space, but the atrium was immaculate and modern with high ceilings and stylish black leather furniture. Vaughn seemed impressed.
    Hendricks ushered them down a corridor toward the sound of thudding, angry music. He pushed open a pair of glass doors to a conference room, and the noise spiked painfully. It was like standing on a runway as a 747 landed over your head. Jenn recognized it but didn’t know the name of the band. She never did. She didn’t care enough about music to waste time committing it to memory.
    A bald head popped up from behind a laptop like a weary Whac-A-Mole.
    “The music, Mike! Jesus!” Hendricks yelled.
    The conference room went silent, and the bald head stood up. It belonged to Mike Rilling, Abe Consulting’s IT director. In his early thirties, he had the jittery, bloodshot eyes and sallow skin of a man living on a potent cocktail of caffeine and junk food. The stale smell of stress clung to the room.
    “Sorry, Mr. Abe. I didn’t think you’d be here until this afternoon.”
    “It is this afternoon,” Jenn said.
    “Oh,” Mike said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Abe.”
    “That’s fine. How is it coming?” Abe asked.
    Mike’s mouth opened but closed without answering the question in what Jenn recognized as the international sign for It’s not coming at all, and I wish people would stop asking about it. She’d been there and had some sympathy for him. Mike worked as hard as anyone on the team, but this was not his area of expertise. Not his fault, though overselling his ability had been. That was why Vaughn was here. If it wasn’t already too late.
    Ordinarily, this was their main conference room, but it had been converted into a makeshift war room. Photographs, diagrams, maps, and notes were pinned neatly to a series of wheeled bulletin boards arranged along one wall. A photograph of Suzanne Lombard sat at the top of the center bulletin board, her immediate family arrayed below her like an inverted family tree. Vaughn’s eyes went straight to it, and an expression she couldn’t interpret passed over his face.
    Arrayed beneath the family, staff members from Lombard’s Senate days, including Duke Vaughn, formed a row of their own. George’s photo was up there too. Completing the gallery, two blank placeholders hung side by side. One was labeled “WR8TH”—the anonymous chat-room handle of the person or persons with whom Suzanne had communicated online prior to her disappearance. The second read “Tom B.” A line connected the pair and a question mark hung between.
    Abe took a seat at the head of the table. Hendricks and Vaughn followed suit while Rilling scurried around like a frantic mother hen.
    “Michael. Please. Housekeeping can wait,” Abe said.
    “Yes, Mr. Abe. Sorry.”
    Abe forced himself to chuckle. “And stop apologizing for working hard.”
    Jenn appreciated her boss’s effort, but no amount of praise was going to unwind Mike Rilling. She wasn’t convinced