Page 4 of Tango
“A few he talked about, but none he was as close to as Alice.”
“Can you get me those names? Places he liked to go? The name or address of the library he went to? Anything might help.”
He nods. “I’ll call my sister and see if I can get her to email all of that over.”
“Great. Give me a few hours, and I should have something to report back.”
“Thank you.” Frank takes a deep breath. He’s one of the best men I know, completely dedicated to saving the innocent, and to see him suffering absolutely crushes me, even though I know all too well that good men suffer.
Some die far too soon.
Others face realities worse than death. No, that stays buried. I shove the memory down and force my attention back on Frank.
“No need to thank us,” Bradyn replies as he stands. Frank does the same.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I have something.” I shake his hand again.
“I appreciate that,” he replies sadly. “I’m headed back to Dallas right now to pack, but I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Sounds good.”
Frank offers me a tight nod.
“I’ll walk you out.” Bradyn opens the front door and follows Frank out, but I know that he’ll be back in as soon as the man is in his truck. He’ll want to talk details and give me his own private opinions—the same as I want to do. There are just some things you can’t say in front of a client. And right now, Frank is a client.
I glance down the hall toward my bedroom where my shower is waiting. But even as badly as I want to rinse the dirt and sweat from my skin, the shower can wait. This missing persons case cannot.
Resigned to this change of plans, I head into the kitchen, wash the dirt and sweat from my hands, then get the coffeepot started. Tango is already passed out on his bed, and I can’t help but grin. For a dog who can be so intense he’s literally terrified criminals into peeing his pants, he’s also a giant goof.
Leaving the coffeepot to do its thing, I take my notepad and head down the hall toward my office. After pushing inside, I hit the light then press the power button on my computer. It hums to life, and the trio of monitors on my desk come on a second later.
As the computer does its thing and wakes up, I glance up at the wall of screens across from my desk. The center one is a projection screen I use for mission briefs. Surrounding it, there are nearly a dozen smaller monitors I use to track security here at the ranch.
While the property is too large to cover every inch of it, we make sure we have cameras on the exterior of everyone’s homes—just in case. There have been times when they’ve come in handy, especially lately.
As soon as my computer is on its login screen, I sit down and log in then open up a program I’m not technically supposed to have access to. Starting with our original missing person, I type “Ramiro Caine” into the search bar and hit enter. As it scrapes all known databases and social media accounts for information on Frank’s nephew, I pull up Web Safe’s site.
“Here.” Bradyn offers me a cup of coffee as he steps into my office.
I jump in my seat, shocked that I’m no longer alone. “Thanks, brother. Didn’t even hear you come back in,” I say, accepting the coffee.
“That’s because you never hear anything once you’re behind a screen,” he replies with a grin.
He’s got me there. My twin, Dylan, jokes that my brain is part computer, and whenever I sit down in front of one, it’s as though I’m ‘plugging in.’ Chaos could be erupting around me, and I’d never even know.
The hot coffee slips down my throat, and I nearly groan in delight. There’s not much quite like that first sip of caffeine. Since I avoid it for the first ninety minutes of every day—striving for normal cortisol levels and all that—this is my first taste.
“You have a chance to look into this case at all yet?” I ask Bradyn.
“Not yet. Frank called about fifteen minutes before you got in and asked me to meet him here. I didn’t find out until I arrived that he was here for personal reasons.”
Ramiro’s information hits, pulling up a driver’s license photograph of a man in his late twenties, dark hair, brown eyes—as well as a series of minor traffic violations. Overall, his record is clean.
Leaving that window readily available, I open another one and type in Alice Sterling’s name. Since she was close to Ramiro (a girlfriend, maybe?), it’s possible she’s either with him or knows what happened to him and is hiding. If I can track her down, I might be able to find the truth a whole lot faster than waiting around while trying to scan thousands of cameras all over LA, hoping to catch Ramiro on one the night of his disappearance.
“What are your initial thoughts?” I ask Bradyn, turning my chair so I can see him.
Bradyn sets his coffee down on my desk and crosses his arms. I know from experience that he’s processing all available information and running through different scenarios before responding.
