Page 73 of Defending What's Mine

I step to the hall. Master bedroom: bed untouched, pajamas tossed across a chair. Guest room: lights off, but a faint floral perfume lingers. There’s zero clues. A clean sweep. Professional.

I return to the couch. “Margaret, did they say where Diego lived? Any surname?”

She bites her lip, eyes watering. “No. Just that he was ‘local’—they didn’t want to scare me.”

I pull out my sat-phone, speed dial. “Dean, code black. Charlotte and Melanie are missing. Estimated window 0100 to 0800. Victim’s mother was asleep on the couch. Need cell-tower dumps for both phones and IP trace on a contact named Diego—online connection, unknown last name.” I pause, glance at the bouquet again. “Also note: intruders left flowers, so staging is deliberate. Condo camera feed?”

Dean’s keyboard rattles. “Pulling now. Shit—feeds cut at 01:47. Main DVR severed remotely.”

Someone with infrastructure knowledge. “GPS on Charlotte’s phone?”

“Last ping 02:02 near the tower. Then dead.”

I pace, mental map forming. “Send a patrol to check Melanie’s Mercedes in garage, stall 47C. They may have taken it for cover.”

“Copy.” Dean’s tone is terse. “Anything else?”

“Possible link: new boyfriend named Diego. Could be an alias. Begin dark-web sweeps. Also cross-ref with cartel intermediaries from Wade’s call log.” I move to the foyer, inspecting the lock—no forced entry. Likely invited.

“It could be an inside job,” I mutter.

Dean’s voice lowers. “You think Wade orchestrated from inside?”

“Not alone. He’s not that clever, but his financiers are. They watched him fail; now they’re using Charlotte for leverage.”

Dean exhales. “I’ll flag the federal task force.”

“I’m heading to the jail to sweat Sinclair. Can you get me fifteen minutes in interrogation with him?”

“Yeah, Sheriff Keller owes me.” Dean clicks off.

Margaret grips my sleeve, dread darkening her eyes. “You’ll find her?”

I squeeze her hand. “I will, ma’am. Lock the door, wait for the deputy I’ve sent. Do not open for anyone but uniform. Understand?”

She nods, tears sliding silently. I steady her shoulders, then exit, mind partitioning into pursuit flowcharts.

County lockup isa concrete monolith baking in the summer sun. Dean meets me at intake, badge clipped, file folder in hand. The deputy at the desk looks wary, but Keller already signed the permission slip. They walk us to Interview Room B—linoleum floor, stainless table bolted down. Wade Sinclair is led in wearing orange scrubs, wrists shackled. He looks smaller than I remember. But his smirk remains.

“Ah, Hawke,” he drawls. “Miss me?”

I sit, my forearms resting on the metal, my eyes ice-level. “We can skip pleasantries. Where are Charlotte and Melanie?”

His brow wrinkles in mock confusion. “I thought you were their heroic savior. Misplace them already?”

I lean forward, voice low. “Let me clarify the stakes. You’re already facing life for kidnapping and assault. If those women are harmed, I’ll make sure ‘life’ means you never see daylight again. And if you cooperate, maybe the Feds will forget to prosecute you on the cartel’s behalf.”

His smirk twitches. Good. Crack.

He shrugs. “I’m locked up. How could I do anything?”

Dean slides a printout across the table: Wade’s recorded jail call transcript. “You instructed an associate to deliver a ‘package’ and ‘collect collateral.’ Who’s the associate?”

Wade’s pupils dilate. He licks his lips. “You got no leverage. Without me, you got nothing.”

I inhale slowly. “You think the cartel protects you? You’re liability now. They’ll ghost you the first chance they get. Help us, you might get witness protection.”

He scoffs. “I’m dead either way.”

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