Sara didn't care how late it was; she intended to bring in the cop who'd stopped Greg. Fortunately, she had a little pull in the police department in the form of the senior homicide detective. As he walked back into the meeting room, she turned to the older, heavy-set man and said, "Brass? I could use some help."
Jim Brass nodded and pulled his own phone out again. "All yours, Sara." He dialed quickly, grimly watching Hodges processing the towel. The other man meticulously worked the evidence from his friend's home, and Brass could only have faith that the care these investigators took now would help catch the bastard who'd taken fun-loving, happy Greg. Nick's all-too-recent kidnapping was still fresh in his mind, and the fact that Nick had almost died by red ant toxins as well as explosives still sent chills down Brass' spine.
'What sick things is he doing to Greggo?' Nick carefully sorted through the blood and food debris. He moved a white solid piece of what seemed to be china to a separate container. A shudder wracked the young investigator and he knew eventually someone would recall that he was supposed to be on light duty. His own ordeal had only been a couple of months ago, so he wasn't supposed to have any serious cases; the police shrink even had him on sleep medicine and anti-stressors. Nick still jumped whenever a flashlight turned on in his face.
He'd been assured that Post Traumatic Stress was a very normal result: Greg had gone through it when the lab had blown up around him and again, just a month ago, during that hostage situation at the local prison. 'Damn! Would the kid ever get a break?' Nick swore further under his breath, the face mask blocking any heavy exhales from interfering with the evidence. 'And there it is: that irrational guilt over being unable to protect someone else . . . that deep-down gratitude that he, Nick, had been the one kidnapped so the others didn't have to go through the ordeal.'
Nick stepped back from the table and turned to Cath. Pulling off his mask, he gasped, "I need air." His hands began to shake so he didn't even bother removing the gloves as he pushed past the older woman. She stopped his flight by grabbing him into a secure hug.
Running a hand through Nick's hair, Cath held tight, stopping him from running away. "I'm here, Nicky. I'm here."
He sobbed, burying his face into her shoulder, trembling as a wave of guilt and horror engulfed him.
Gil frowned at the scene but didn't interrupt. Instead, he walked into the lab and pulled fresh gloves on. He took up where Nick had left off. Gil should have known it was too soon to throw Nick on something this serious. The young man was on light field duty, supposed to be confined to the lab. He shouldn't have been sent with Brass on the welfare check, should never have been exposed to the crime scene that was once Greg's home. 'Damn it, I should have sent him on the burglary instead of Sara.'
"No ransom note." Jacqui Franco walked past Gil to collect the blood samples they'd gathered.
"What?" He looked up, blinking away the daze of introspection he tended to.
Jacqui looked at him and sighed. "Nothing like with Nick. No ransom demands or delivery other than the box. This sicko isn't giving us a chance to negotiate for Greg's return."
Warrick's voice cut through the woman's rant. "Yeah, well, we found Nick and we'll find Greg. This guy's been leaving a calling card every time he calls one of us." The lean African-American straightened, his green eyes staring into the distance. "The phone calls . . ." Turning, he sprinted down the hall and back into the recently deserted audio-visual domain of Archie Johnson.
"We need to log every call from Greg's cell."
Archie nodded. "It'd be easier with the actual phone." He pulled up information on his computer, though, content to be doing something since Hodges still pulled trace off the laptop, preventing Archie from breaking into the harddrive.
"And we need to log what he said and did every time he called. He must be using Greg's call list from the phone," Warrick added.
Nick pulled out of Cath's embrace and turned towards the trace lab once more. The sounds of his friends and coworkers doing their job, working so hard at solving this case and rescuing Greg, instilled him with a determined, if temporary, calm. "Can I help, Gil?" His voice shook, but he was once more under control.
Gil looked up and nodded towards Audio-Visual. "Why don't you log the calls for Warrick. Mine would have been recorded on the lab security records." And just like that, Gil accepted the wounded man back into the fold, providing him the catharsis of work he so desperately wanted.
The sound of the outer door opening drew almost all attention.
A stocky, middle-aged police officer in patrol uniform strode in, followed by the lab security officer. "Sir?" the officer looked to Brass. "I was pulled from duty . . ." he tried not to sound annoyed at the trouble this summons had caused. Brass wasn't known to foolishly rearrange schedules.
Brass nodded. "Sara Sidle, this is Officer Herman Davis."
The petite brunette looked over the larger officer and nodded, never smiling or greeting the man. Instead, she turned towards Audio-Visual. "You have a recording setup on your radio car." It wasn't a question.
Officers Davis and Brass followed the investigator into the lab, ignoring Warrick, Nick, and Archie as they followed Sara to a separate computer set in the corner.
Sliding into the waiting chair, Sara looked at the patrolman. "You logged pulling over a Greg Sanders yesterday at the end of your shift. Greg Sanders has since been reported missing. We need access to your log and recordings."
Spine stiffening, Officer Davis nodded and leaned around the younger woman. He typed quickly, accessing the police dash-cam database as well as his call-in logs. "I think I recall him. Silver Passat, weaving. Guy said he was at the end of his shift, too, and must have dozed. I told him to get to bed and decided not to cite him." The recording popped up on the screen and everyone froze to watch as the familiar Passat pulled to the side of the road.
"Dawn," Sara breathed. Greg had been gone at least twelve hours longer than anyone had guessed. Twelve hours extra for goodness knew what torture and deprivation.
The officer in the recording walked to Greg's driver's side, flashing the light over the car. He spoke into the window, his every word audible, though the driver muttered, his answers unheard by the dash-cam. Finally, the officer stepped back, watched the Passat drive slowly away, then strode back to his car and made his report.
"Can you describe the driver?" Sara asked.
The cop nodded and shrugged. "Forty or fifty year old white male dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. He had a bandaged nose."
Sara looked up at the man, eyes widening. "Greg doesn't look older than twenty-five."
"He wasn't driving," Warrick breathed. "Play that again, Sara."
The officer leaned over and retyped his access so they could watch the entire stop again: the cop pulling over the car, walking over and talking to the driver, watching the car drive slowly off, then giving his report in a tired voice.
"Again," Gil's voice broke over the still lab.
Archie replaced Sara at the computer so the officer wouldn't be required to once again type in his passwords. Archie had a level of clearance that allowed this kind of access. He played the recording again.
The officer got out of his radio car, shining his flashlight over the silver Passat.
"Freeze it!" Gil's voice rose in excitement. "Enlarge on the trunk."
When the image enlarged, they could all see what had caught Gil's eye. Red smudged the bumper near the trunk closure and a scrap of teal cloth stuck out of the trunk.
"My God!" Cath clutched Gil's arm. "Greg's in the trunk!"
Everyone jumped when the sound of a cell phone rang out in a country themed ringtone. All eyes watched Nick as he pulled out the phone and flicked the on switch. "Hello," he said, eyes meeting those of his comrades. "Nick Stokes . . ."