Page 100 of Missing Justice
“March,” Caroline said, slapping him on the backside.
Matt headed to the door and waved at Taylor to follow. Taylor wanted to do a fist pump. They finally had these scumbags. She leaned down close to Rosalind again, the woman’s expensive perfume making her nose twitch. “This stupid bitch is about to take you down, lady.”
* * *
Matt tore out of the parking lot and hit the gas. “What’s the address?”
“It’s in Georgetown, but the delivery isn’t for another ninety minutes.”
“Then we’ll try Dottie’s house first. Grab her before she goes.”
Taylor reached over, squeezed his arm. “I love the way you think. I can’t believe we’re doing this. We’re figuring it out.”
A green light turned to amber and Matt hit the gas. Typically, he’d stop. Why take a chance on an accident? Now? Not stopping. Not with a baby on the line.
Late evening traffic was picking up, cars littering the road and slowing their progress, people heading home or to the bars. Frustrated, he turned left, shot down the side street and took an immediate right, screaming down the road that ran parallel to the main street while tension and anticipation had him pressing the gas harder.
He needed to find this baby. And Baby Jarvis. Beat the damned feds to it. Wouldn’t that be his own twisted brand of satisfaction? The feds had rejected him and he—along with one of their own—was about to solve one of their biggest cases.
He glanced at Taylor and the amazing rush was better than any drug. The two of them, working together, saving a baby. Hopefully finding another.
That’s what mattered. None of the ego bullshit that had driven him all these years since the Bureau had dropkicked him. And, really, after what Taylor had been through, those bastards suspending her, one of their top agents without even a warning? What the hell kind of loyalty was that?
Not the kind he wanted any part of. He’d stick with the sisters.
They appreciated him.
Ten minutes later, he drove onto Dottie’s street, slowing their pace in an effort to blend in. Not likely in a vintage Mustang, but at least no one would be calling the cops complaining about the guy blowing a gasket racing down the block.
Taylor poked her finger against the windshield. “There’s her car.”
“Got it.” He parked in front of the neighbor’s house, flipped the ignition off and faced her. “How do you want to play this? Back door? Sneak up on her?”
“No. Let’s do it right. Chances are she hasn’t heard about Ros yet.”
“Okay. So, we knock on the front door, tell her we have questions. You know she’s not gonna open the door, right? By now, she’s figured out we were undercover at the open house.”
“But there’s no place for her to go. Except out the back.”
He pointed to Dottie’s yard. “Which is fenced in. Unless there’s a rear gate, she’d either have to hop the fence—which I don’t see her doing, or come around the front to get out.” He pushed open his door. “I’m gonna sneak around the side, see what’s what as far as gates. You knock on the front door. Not to be sexist, but she’s more likely to open for a woman. I’ll meet you there.”
The neighbor’s house appeared quiet so he walked along their property line to where the two yards met. A quick scan of the four-foot wooden fence indicated no hardware or latches. No rear gate.
Excellent.
He hustled back to the front, found Taylor standing on the porch, to the side of the doorway. Good girl. If Dottie opened that door and started shooting or threw something, Taylor would be out of range.
Matt stuck close to the house, ducking beneath the front windows. He avoided the steps and climbed over the railing, staying mostly out of sight.
“Did you knock?”
“Yep.” Taylor murmured. “No answer.”
Matt rapped on the door again, waggled a finger at Taylor. They needed to get this show on the road. “Dottie, this is Taylor Sinclair and Matt Stephens. Open up.”
No answer.
Now I’m done.
