Maggie hadn’t gotten far and her phone started to ring. She didn’t recognize the number. The area code was local. Could Patrick be calling from a pay phone? Or perhaps a friend’s?

“This is Maggie O’Dell.”

Silence.

Then a man’s gravelly voice said, “Special Agent Margaret O’Dell?”

That was what the television reports had called her. She shifted her weight, crossed her arms, exhaustion giving way to alarm. It was someone who had seen her infamous chase. Someone who could access her unlisted cell phone number.

“Who is this?” she asked, none too politely.

“I have some information about the incident…at the mall. What happened there.”

The caller sounded out of breath, fatigued, hesitant. Maggie guessed from his voice that he was older than the college-aged young men the news media said were responsible for the “incident.”

“Are you saying you saw what happened?”

“No.”

“But you were at the mall.”

“No…no, I wasn’t there.” He was getting frustrated. She needed to wait. People revealed more during silences than after questions. “I know things.”

Silence again.

“I’m listening,” she finally said when she thought she might lose him.

“I have information. That’s all that you need to know right now.” He was almost angry and definitely frustrated, physically exhausted. “Look, my wife just had surgery. I’m a little tired,” he said, not an apology, Maggie thought, so much as a way to calm himself down. “I’ll tell you everything I know. Only you. Nobody else. You’re the agent that saved that boy, right?”

Before she answered, he continued, “But you have to come to me. You have to come to where I say, so I know they won’t be listening.”

“Okay,” Maggie told him. Did he really have information? Or was he a conspiracy theory nut, trying to hone in on some attention for himself? And how did he get her cell phone number?

“They have my grandson,” he burst out without prompting. “That’s where the bastards crossed the line.”

She knew asking him who “they” were would get her nowhere. He wouldn’t even give his name. He told her exactly where he wanted them to meet. She had no problems with the locale or his laundry list of instructions, though she wasn’t sure how she would pull it off. Definitely not with A.D. Kunze’s help. But by the time the man had hung up Maggie realized she knew the one person who could make this happen. She started searching for the governor’s right-hand man.

She found David Ceimo in the restaurant’s kitchen, his cell phone pressed so hard against his face there was a red indentation on his cheek.

“I want to know where they got this information. Anonymous doesn’t cut it,” he yelled over the clanging of pots and pans. “I don’t care. Find out.”

Ceimo shrugged and attempted a smile when he saw her. She leaned against a steel rack to let the chef squeeze between them.

“Any luck?”

“The photos were e-mailed anonymously to someone at the TV station.” He raked a flap of his thick brown hair off his forehead only to have it fall back. His fingers made a second unsuccessful swipe. “They claim two sources confirmed.”

“Sources close to the investigation?”

“Not from what I’m hearing. Just ‘two independent sources.’” And he air-marked the quotes. “How did we get to this place where our news media only sensationalizes the news instead of reports it?”

They had to move out of the way again while a waiter tried to remove a tray from the refrigerator. The kitchen, though spotless, had little room for any extra personnel. Maggie moved to the other side of a narrow, long table, what looked like the kitchen’s more extensive version of that evening’s dessert tray.

“I just received an interesting phone call,” she told him, glancing down at the tiramisu and cheesecake that came between them. “With an interesting request.”

Ceimo’s eyes narrowed on her. He was better at blocking out the kitchen activity. Maggie’s training kept her eyes darting around, looking for anything and trying to catch everything. Her stomach, however, kept reminding her that they hadn’t had a chance to eat, drawing her eyes down to the desserts.

“And this request?” Ceimo was impatient.

“The caller claims he has information.”

“What kind of information?”

“He’ll only share it in person. And only with me.”

“He saw you on TV,” Ceimo said, surprising her. There was more to the governor’s aide than she expected. Nick Morrelli had introduced David Ceimo as an old football rival. His good looks and charm—not unlike Nick’s—had made her misjudge his intellect, just as she caught herself doing with Nick.

“What if he’s just some wacko?”

“Wackos are my specialty,” she said and started giving him the details.