Page 1 of 2nd Strike
1
Charlie
After a crazy, surreal day at work, the last thing I want to do is jump into a fresh case.
The universe has different plans.
Welcome to my world. I’m Charlize Schock, private investigator, and, like my last name, shock is what I experience as the next few seconds unfold.
The air outside is that in-between state of early spring—not truly warm, yet not cold either. The night is cool and crisp, but I feel the heat of summer approaching.
My sister, Meg, and I are just leaving the office when a young boy wheels into the parking lot of Schock Investigations on a bicycle.
“Who’s that?” she asks.
She survived an attack by a psychotic killer earlier today and needs a relaxing bath and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. I could use the same.
“No idea.” I motion for her to stay at the car and grumble when she ignores me. We walk forward as I ask, “Can I help you? Are you lost?”
“Are you Charlie Schock?”
Under the parking lot’s solar lights, he looks to be a teenager. Curfew’s in an hour. The whole thing seems off, my gut warning me he saw the news about us and Billy Ray Wilson and wants an interview for his class project. “We’re closed. Call our number and leave a message. We’ll get back to you.”Or we won’t, if you’re a freak.
Some days, I hate myself for being so paranoid, but it comes with the territory. As a former FBI profiler with a Ph.D. in forensic psychology, the list of nutjobs in my background is extensive. My meter is sensitive and it’s in the red zone at the moment.
“I left a message. Several in fact.” He gets off the bike, releasing the kickstand, and reaches into his jacket. “You didn’t return them.”
Gun. It’s my first instinct and I back up, putting my hand on the butt of my own weapon. At the same time, I throw my other arm out to protect Meg. Instinct. She’s my little sister.
The kid pulls out a folded piece of paper and holds it out to me. “I need your help.”
The magic words. The ones I can never resist, especially when I move closer and see the pleading look in his eyes. Maybe the shadows under them are from the ghostly lighting, or maybe he hasn’t slept in a while either.
My fingers itch to reach for the paper hovering in the air between us. Meg moves by my side, sizing up the situation.
“With what, kid?” I ask, dropping my protective arm.
“I need you to explain this.” He unfolds the white, official looking sheet and holds it out again. “I’ve been over these tests results a dozen times, and I understand what they mean, but they don’t make sense.”
I see DNA markers, three sets of them. “Why is that?”
He shifts his weight, those eyes still imploring me to take the paper. “I’m Ethan Havers. Do you remember me?”
It only takes a heartbeat for the name to click and then I look the boy over from head to toe. “Carl and Lily Havers’ son?”
He nods.
The first kidnapping case I caught as an FBI agent.
“Wait, Carl Havers, the talk show host?” Meg studies Ethan inquisitively. “I did the age progression on you.”
Fifteen years ago, Carl was an up and coming reporter for a local D.C. news channel. His good looks and winning on-air personality moved him swiftly into the anchor seat, where he’s been ever since. His wife, Lily, also a TV personality, gained wide audience appeal when she became pregnant with their first and only child.
“I chose to do my final project in Biology on DNA,” Ethan says. “Myfamily’sDNA. But there’s a big, big problem, Charlie.”
I take the results from Ethan’s hand. A few days after he was born, he was kidnapped by his babysitter. I returned him to his parents seven years later after tracking her down. Meg did, indeed, create the image of what Ethan looked like at that time, and it led to me finding him. “What is it, Ethan?”
But I know before he even answers. The DNA markers of Carl, Lily, and Ethan dance before my eyes. Meg studies them over my shoulder.
