The Girl Who Couldn't Forget. Cassie Miles

by them.”

      Sloan had read the files on the case. “From the record, it looks like you were thorough.”

      “Oh, yeah, the proper forms were filed. But when it came to an investigation? Nada.” His thumb and forefinger formed a zero. “They were abducted over a period of four or five months. Six girls went missing, one after another. Where were the cops? Where was the FBI? We dropped the ball. And why? Well, these were all foster kids—teenagers or younger. Everybody assumed they were runaways.”

      All too often, victims fell between the cracks. These women had been taken from different homes that were as far apart as Colorado Springs to the south and Cheyenne, Wyoming, to the north. They hadn’t known each other, and there hadn’t seemed to be a connection...except for one. Sloan pointed it out. “If someone in law enforcement had lined up their photos and noticed the similarities in appearance, they would have paid more attention.”

      “That’s exactly what happened when the public learned about the kidnappings—intense publicity. Some of the victims were traumatized by the spotlight.”

      “Like Brooke.”

      “I’m not so sure about that,” Gimbel said. “She’s hard to read.”

      Sloan remembered her trembling hands, rapid breathing and darting gaze. “From the minute we met, it seemed like she was about to have a panic attack.”

      “But she didn’t.”

      “Oh. Hell. No. She blasted me with pepper spray and tried to kick me in the groin.”

      Gimbel chuckled. “Brooke avoids confrontation, but she never backs down.”

      “How did the FBI get involved in the case?”

      “When the women escaped, they went to the Jefferson County police, who realized that they were dealing with kidnapping. Since two states—Colorado and Wyoming—were involved, JeffCo was only too happy to pass this big, fat, complicated case to us, where it landed in my lap.” He leaned back and folded his hands across his gut. “I’ll never forget the first time I saw all six of them together. Skinny little things with black hair and blue eyes, they looked so much alike that they could have been sisters. Actually, two of them are identical twins.”

      “Hardy Dolls,” Sloan said.

      “Brooke hated when the media started using that moniker, and I don’t blame her. If that girl is a doll, she’s sure as hell an action figure. To survive in captivity, she had to be tough. To engineer an escape with five other girls, she had to be smart.”

      Sloan agreed. In the testimony given by the others, it was obvious how much they respected Brooke. Their descriptions of the escape showed an extreme degree of planning from the fourteen-year-old. Oddly, Brooke had said very little. Her statement was limited to short answers and claims that she didn’t remember. A complex woman, there was something about her that fascinated him. “She took charge, but she wasn’t the oldest.”

      “Layla was sixteen.”

      “And Layla Tierney is the reason I’m following up. When Franny started getting threatening phone calls, she contacted the others to find out if they’d received similar anonymous contacts. She never reached Layla.”

      “She disappears from time to time,” Gimbel said. “Brooke will know how to find her.”

      He was glad for another reason to be in touch with her. “I appreciate any advice. Victimology is new to me. My training put more emphasis on the criminals and psychopaths.”

      “Three months ago, when you got assigned to the Denver office, they said we were lucky to have you.” There was a hint of bitterness in his tone. “You’re only a few credits short of a PhD in psychology. Is that right?”

      Sloan nodded. “I’m working on my dissertation.”

      “To tell you the truth, I’m more impressed with the fact that you served in the navy.”

      “Which is how I paid for college.” He hadn’t joined the navy out of a sense of duty or patriotism, but he’d gotten more from his service than he ever expected. His dad had told him that the US Navy would teach him to be a man. In this case, Dad might have been right.

      “I never enlisted,” Gimbel said, “but I figure I paid my dues with a twenty-seven-year career in the FBI.”

      Sloan rose from his chair and went to the banister, where he watched the hens and avoided making direct eye contact with Gimbel. He didn’t want their meeting to turn into a confrontation between the grizzled old veteran and the smart-ass college boy. Not that he was a kid at thirty-two.

      “I’ve only got a couple years’ experience in the field,” he said. “Dealing with six different victims who have each developed their own coping behaviors is complicated to say the least. Your insights would really help.”

      “Let’s get to it,” he said.

      “From your notes, it’s clear they’re all experiencing a degree of post-traumatic stress.”

      “You don’t need a PhD to figure that out.” Gimbel was kind enough not to scoff. Instead, he took a sip of his coffee. “Give me your profile of Franny.”

      He didn’t like making a snap diagnosis but didn’t have time to analyze his subject. Unlike therapy, profiling drew broad conclusions. “The clutter in her house and immature behavior points to ADD. She hides her feelings behind a bright, happy exterior—shiny enough to deflect close examination. Inside, she’s a drama queen.”

      The older man nodded. “You got that right.”

      “Not being able to contact Layla for a few days shouldn’t have been a big deal, but Franny was extremely agitated. The anonymous phone calls triggered her fears.”

      “Tell me about the calls.”

      “There were references to her time in captivity.” Sloan repeated the words verbatim. “Everything the caller said was public knowledge.”

      “Did you check out the number?”

      “It traced to a burner phone. Even the dumbest perverts use throwaways.”

      “But you investigated. Good.”

      Sloan was glad he hadn’t immediately dismissed Franny’s complaint. As Gimbel had pointed out, the law enforcement system hadn’t paid enough attention when these women disappeared the first time. He refused to be the guy who failed them again. “I see two possibilities. The first is that Franny is getting targeted by a prison groupie who idolizes Martin Hardy. He’s a copycat and bears watching but probably won’t go further than crank calls. The other, more disturbing scenario suggests unresolved issues from the original crime. In your reports, you listed other men who knew Hardy and might have assisted in the abductions.”

      “There’s no shortage of creeps out there,” Gimbel said. “I hope Franny’s fears are nothing but a feather on the wind, but you can’t take that chance. It’s your job to protect them.”

      “That’s what you did.”

      “Damn right,” Gimbel said. “I had to be sure they weren’t just dumped back into the foster care system. And I got a lawyer to manage their interests. I’ll give you his name.”

      Gimbel was turning out to be a valuable resource. Sloan folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the banister. “Tell me about Brooke.”

      * * *

      AFTER A LATE LUNCH, Sloan parked his SUV outside Brooke’s gleaming white stucco house with a red tile roof. Hers was one of several Spanish Mission-style homes in this architecturally diverse urban neighborhood. The two-story house was surrounded by a tidy lawn, perfectly trimmed shrubs and colorful flower beds. And the place was well protected. He spotted two security cameras. One was mounted over the front door. Another peered down from the attached garage. Wrought iron latticework—in a decorative pattern—shielded