Page 43 of Lake House Killer

“She keeps her gun in her purse,” Fallon says. “That’s there in case she decides otherwise.” She shrugs. “I do the same.” She tries the door handle and it opens right up. “Whoa. Rule number one—when in a rough neighborhood, lock your doors.”

“Unless she was close enough to unlock it,” I say, looking around.

There’s nothing but overgrown trees across the way and a row of businesses on this side. I scan the rooflines for any trace of a security camera. There’s one on the corner pointed straight down to the back door of what looks like a liquor store.

Buddy heads over to the dumpster and starts sniffing beneath it.

“Good boy,” Fallon tells him as she heads in his direction. “What’s this?” She gasps as she comes up with a phone neatly tucked in a rugged black case, same case, same phone that we have. Government-issued equipment.

“It’s hers,” Fallon says with a twinge of disbelief. “This is Nikki’s phone.”

I jump past her and throw open the lid to the dumpster, but it’s virtually empty.

Nikki’s not there.

Nikki’s not anywhere.

She’s missing.

27

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

Asense of urgency like never before fills the neighborhood where Nikki’s car was found.

Patrol cars from the sheriff’s department slide into place within the three-block radius of the Oasis, the last place where anyone saw Nikki last night. And along with the sheriff’s department just about every field agent has boots on the ground as well.

Jack and I just scoured the vicinity where we tracked down her sedan and head for the Oasis to grill the staff. We’re about thirty feet from the entry when I spot a trio of bloodhounds pulling on a leash as they drag the officer who holds the reins.

“You called out the cadaver dogs?” I pant as we pick up our pace.

“I had to. Buddy’s not exactly trained in that department.”

Buddy barks back at us as if he took umbrage to the fact. Buddy seems to want to find Nikki as bad as we do. He’s been just as anxious ever since we discovered her phone.

A crowd of agents gathers near the mouth of the entrance to the bar and grill.

“Check every security camera, speak with every witness—don’t miss a beat. She could be anywhere.” Jack’s voice cuts through the murmurs, sharp and commanding, as he coordinates the city-wide search for Nikki.

My heart hammers hard and it feels as if a malfunction is in order. I just finished running door-to-door speaking to local shop owners, demanding any and all security footage. Thankfully, no one gave me any grief.

This isn’t just another case—it’s personal.

It’s late afternoon as Jack and I head back into the Oasis, and it all feels familiar sans the wall-to-wall bodies that were here the other night. A few agents are already scattered about, speaking to the waitstaff, to a few patrons, and I see one flashing a picture of Nikki on his phone to the bartender.

“Nine o’clock,” Jack growls, and I look that way to see Owen Marcus heading our way.

His face looks pale, shell-shocked no doubt by the security presence as he makes a beeline our way.

“Some fed just asked if I’ve seen Nikki?” he says, sounding genuinely surprised. “What the hell? Don’t tell me she’s dead.”

“She’s not,” Jack insists.

“We don’t know,” I counter, and Owen’s eyes enlarge.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but I didn’t have anything to do with it.” His expression quickly grows suspicious. “Is this some kind of sick joke? Is this another one of Damien’s efforts to one-up me? Because if it is, he’s gone too far.”

“Maybe you’re trying to one-up him?” Jack offers and Owen staggers back.

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