Stolen Child (Coastal Fury Book 13) - Matt Lincoln (ebook reader library .txt) 📗

“Wait, they’re not giving us everything when they get it?!” Holm cried in protest. “That’s not how it’s supposed to work, is it?”

A few of the FBI agents behind us snickered, and I turned around long enough to shoot them a dirty look of my own.

“That’s how it works with the tip line here, but not internationally,” Diane explained, shaking her head and giving the other agents another look of warning, as well. “They have to sort through their own tips and follow up on them since they’re the ones in the area.”

“If they gave us everything, we’d be swamped with dead-end leads we couldn’t even figure out were dead ends because we wouldn’t be able to follow up on them,” Agent Corey, who was slightly nicer than the other ones by my estimation, explained in a tone that wasn’t unkind. “Unless you want to be flying all over the world on a wild goose chase that you have no chance of winning.”

Holm looked like he might not actually be opposed to that setup, and knowing him, he probably wasn’t, but there was no denying that this wasn’t a great strategy for finding the Hollands.

“Got it, thanks,” I said, forcing a smile in Corey’s direction.

“Are there a lot of international tips, though?” Birn asked, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. “I would imagine that more Americans are paying attention to the news on this case than anywhere else, given that this is where the Hollands are actually from.”

“And where they committed crimes,” Muñoz added. “With the exception of some islands of the US coast.”

“That’s true,” Diane relented with another curt nod. “And international agencies certainly aren’t getting the volume of incoming tips as we are here. But they’re getting a fair amount. Remember, we put out calls about these people to every friendly government and intelligence agency in the world. We knew they could have fled anywhere their money would take them. And they have a lot of money.”

“So what did they say?” I asked, impatient to hear exactly what was going on with this lead. My tiredness and annoyance with the FBI and the slow roll of this case had suddenly left me. We might finally be getting somewhere, and my mind was buzzing with all the different possibilities.

“Well, I talked to a guy in Scotland who’s been working on this lead for about a week,” Diane said, and I noticed that she looked a little more invigorated herself now, and at this point, the persistent bags under her eyes slightly lessened. “A guy in a small town along the coast called in and asked about the Hollands. He’s seen their pictures on the news at a bar one night and recognized them. He sounds like an odd character. He doesn’t even own a TV himself.”

It sounded like I might like this guy.

“Sounds like a crackpot,” Holm said, predictably.

“That’s what they thought,” Diane said, letting slip a low laugh. “It took them a while to follow up, actually, but the guy kept calling.”

“How long’s a while?” Birn asked warily, and Diane let out a sigh.

“Too long,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s been about three weeks. But then again, I don’t blame them. They have a lot of other tips and a lot of other cases that are more pressing to them than this one. And he does sound kind of like a crackpot.” She nodded to Holm on this last part.

“Three weeks?” Muñoz repeated, letting out an exasperated huff. “The Hollands were in Scotland three weeks ago, and we’re just now hearing about it?”

I shared her dismay, but complaining wasn’t going to get us anywhere. And I felt for this poor Interpol guy. If this was a small town, he probably had a large geographic region on his plate that stretched far beyond it. He had his own cases, like Diane said, and international cases more pressing to his country than a couple of American drug dealers last seen in Georgia, of all places. I was sure he’d gotten to it as quickly as he could, frustrating as that fact was.

“Let’s cut the guy some slack. I’m sure he and his agents did the best he could,” I reminded everyone.

“He did,” Diane agreed. “And even if he didn’t, there’s nothing we can do about that now. We need to focus on the task at hand.”

“Which is?” Holm asked hopefully.

“Hold on, tell us the whole story first,” I said, holding out my hands to slow everyone down. “How did he figure out that the lead was legitimate?”

“Well, the guy just kept calling, saying he kept seeing Chester and Ashley every day,” Diane explained.

“Every day?” Holm repeated, unable to stop himself from cutting her off. “You mean they’re still there?”

“They could be,” Diane said, nodding slowly. “But let me get to that part. Ethan’s right. We’ll all need the full story.”

“Right, right, sorry,” Holm said, holding up his own hands in defeat.

“So, this man is a fisherman by trade, and he says that every time he goes out fishing for the past few weeks, he sees this couple walking along the shore. A man and a woman, about middle-aged, American, and looking like they’ve had a fair amount of Botox or plastic surgery to pair with a set of bad spray tans.”

“Well, that’s them. There’s no question about that,” Birn chuckled.

“I’m sure there are a lot of people who fit that description, though admittedly probably not in a small Scottish fishing town,” Diane said with a wry smile. “Anyway, when he saw their pictures on the news, he recognized them instantly.”

“Witnesses aren’t always right, though,” Dobbs warned. “Especially in cases like this one that are so high profile. People see what they want to see.”

“That’s what the Interpol guy thought at first, too,” Diane said with another nod. “But apparently, they think it’s different this time. This man claims to have seen the Hollands so often and so regularly that it can’t be ignored.”

“So he just sees them