"I've isolated the voice patterns of the two men for you." He tapped the necessary controls to burn a new CD that would have his lab seal on it, in the event she needed it in court. "One is a Floridian. The other is South American. Should you get another recording of either of the men talking, I'll be able to match their voices. Possibly narrow down where they're from."

"You can do that kind of thing?"

"I've had nothing to do but listen for a very long time. I remember everything that I hear, every accent and sound. Every place has a distinct soundtrack, if you will. Those soundtracks are stored in my brain."

"A sound savant." She moved to the chair she'd sat in and picked up her purse. Her clothes shifted softly as she stooped and straightened. "You should put that on your business cards."

"I'll take that under advis.e.m.e.nt." She was leaving. He wasn't sure he wanted her to. He wasn't sure if he'd try to stop her.

"Thanks again." She was at the door. Her hand was on the k.n.o.b. "I need to get busy trying to narrow down what club they were in."

"If I come up with anything else of use, I'll let you know." He'd make something up if it meant getting her back to see him again. If he figured out which club El Dogo had been at-and if it helped her case without jeopardizing his goals-he would give her that information. He needed to check out the lay of the land first.

Chapter Two.

"You've got nothing, Beckett." Breck's smirk was evident through the phone line as Kieralyn paced the courtyard outside Ian's lab. "How much more of your time are you going to waste on this snipe hunt?"

"As much as it takes to get proof one way or the other." Irritation bubbled up. Breck was the most open-minded of the guys on her team, and he still didn't make things easy for her. If she could admit to them that she knew Lana, the missing reporter, and was therefore able to justify her certainty that the information was accurate, some of these arguments might be curtailed. Or the admission would justify her team's thoughts and get her tossed from the case. It was a risk she couldn't take. She wasn't going to trust anyone else with her friend's life.

"Proof is why you went to see Cabrera. You didn't get it."

"Proof that I'm right, no. Neither did I get proof that I'm wrong." And Cabrera knows more than he's telling. His posture stiffened when he heard the mention of El Dogo. His head tilted more when he'd worked the file of sounds focused on the club. "We have more than we did."

"Kieralyn." Breck's voice dropped an octave.

He never called her Kieralyn. To her unit she was always Beckett. "What?"

"I like you, and you're good at the job. I'd hate to see you do something that's going to hurt your career."

Breck also never offered her a genuine sentiment. They talked trash and hara.s.sed each other about their love lives, but genuine emotion ... No. She valued her instincts, and they were singing to her now. She just couldn't name the tune. "You're in a mellow mood. Did you get laid?"

"Are you kidding? I've been seeing Eden, and she's still hung up on Andrew."

They'd worked with Eden Maverick a year ago before she'd stopped searching for her business-partner-slash-lover Andrew Corrigan. She and Eden had hit it off immediately. "She loves him."

"He's dead."

"Until she sees his body, he isn't to her. And even if he is, he'll never be dead in her heart." Kieralyn couldn't help but be a little jealous of how deeply Eden loved Andrew. She'd always wanted something that special.

"That's sentimental tripe that you women hang on to in an attempt to make yourselves believe men have the nature you want them to have."

Man, Breck did arrogant and overbearing well. "Believe it or not, there are some men who have not had the emotion center of their brains eaten by the maggots of parasitic flies."

"What? Disgusting."

Kieralyn grinned. She'd seen an article online about parasitic flies being used to control ant populations. It had grossed her out, but apparently gave her a way to torment Breck. "Aww. Who knew you had a weak const.i.tution?"

"You're sick, Beckett." He muttered something to someone nearby. "Get back here by Monday, with or without proof, or you'll be answering to the boss."

"Is that a threat or warning?"

"A reality. We only get so much leeway on these things."

She had no leeway as she saw it. "I'll keep that in mind."

She stared at the building she'd exited a short time earlier. The impatient, brandy-eyed man inside was another mystery she wanted to crack. A s.e.xy one. And she'd start with the slight scars around his predatory eyes and along his left jaw line. He mesmerized and aroused her as no man ever had with a single glance.

"Be careful."

"Yeah." But did his words apply to her career, the case or Cabrera? She'd been shocked stupid when he'd flipped on the lights and they'd intensified his unblinking stare. h.e.l.l, that gaze alone made her want to grant any s.e.xual wish he might have. And she thrived on staying in control.

"I mean it, Kieralyn. Watch out for yourself."

Because the team's gunning for me? She hoped that maybe she had at least one ally on the team. "I get it, Breck. Listen, can you check into something for me?"

He sighed, as if he was sure he wasn't getting through to her. "What?"

"Something on the recording snagged Cabrera's interest. I think it's a name. I was hoping you could run it. See if anything comes up."

"What is it?"

"El Dogo."

"He didn't say anything about it?"

"No. It's just a hunch."

"You get a lot of those."

"You've had your share." No one hara.s.sed him for them. "Are you going to check it out or not?"

"It's Spanish for The Bulldog, but I'll check it out for you. See if anything else comes up."

"Thank you." She ended the call before he could issue any more warnings and settled onto one of the many benches scattered throughout the courtyard near Cabrera's lab. Pulling up the Internet on her cell, she began a search for jazz clubs in Miami. There was still more to the puzzle that she would solve. She wasn't leaving until she had some answers.

Cabrera had given her the facts of what he'd heard. He hadn't shared his insights or instincts. El Dogo meant something to him. That was obvious. It also seemed as if he'd narrowed the clubs down more than he'd told her.

But why would he hold that information back? Unless he knew El Dogo to be a person. Someone he felt the need to protect. Or wanted for himself. He hadn't gotten those scars shaving.

Setting aside the long list of clubs that had come up, she scanned the pages Cabrera had printed for her. A comment had been made about the beach. For now, she discarded any clubs that were not on the beach. Time was running out, and she had little more to go on than her gut. She was following what she had until her team gave her proof that she was on the wrong path.

Ian Cabrera knew something about one of the men responsible for Lana's disappearance, for the women being taken. He may be an NSA employee, but that wouldn't save him from her wrath if she discovered he was intentionally hindering her case. Kidnapping and human trafficking were federal offenses, but the NSA shouldn't have an interest in it. Unless the South American connection Cabrera mentioned was somehow involved in terrorism or political intrigue.

It wouldn't be the first time that an FBI case intersected with one from another government branch. If they were up against the NSA, her case would likely be dismissed. Kidnap victims were not typically a higher priority than the security of the country. She'd never liked the reality of having to sacrifice one for the greater good. She wouldn't allow this to be one of those times.

Focusing on what she could control, Kieralyn pulled out a notepad and jotted down the names of ten jazz clubs near the beach. She'd check them out over the weekend.

Shifting the transcript of the recording to the top, she settled in to logically fill in the missing bits of conversation. It was guesswork and wouldn't help get search warrants, but it might lead to information that could. She needed a warrant to make sure anything she found stuck in court.

"No more...usual."

"Then...black eye...busted lip? ...deliver...unmarked." One of the women had been roughed up at the very least, and whoever was in charge wanted them unharmed. At least they weren't intending to kill the women.

Kieralyn jotted down her thoughts. Seeing them on paper helped her consider all the angles.

"The redhead...b.a.l.l.s. Had...coming." Devin Wilson was a redhead who had gone missing four days ago. Had she put up a fight? Maybe wounded one of her captors? Kieralyn hoped so. She would have.

"El Dogo...p.i.s.sed." There it was. El Dogo. Likely a nickname. Was he the head guy, a buyer of the women, or a transporter? What power did he hold that these men would worry about him being p.i.s.sed?

"...reminder...her sedated." They had sedatives.

Her team would have to consider the kinds that would be easily accessible and the possible distribution avenues. For all they knew, the meds could be prescription grade. Possibly prescribed by a therapist or doctor after a trauma. Maybe a doctor working with them who was willing to help keep the women quiet.

Following the trail of prescriptions written by medical professionals in the Miami area was too daunting a task. They'd need to narrow the search more, and that wasn't going to happen with the information they had at hand. Unless...

Kieralyn punched in Breck's number on her cell and waited eagerly for him to answer the phone. This could be a lead the men couldn't dispute, regardless of the target they'd painted on her back.

"I haven't found anything yet," Breck said when he answered.

"I'm calling for something else." She jotted the translation onto the paper beside the mention of El Dogo. "There's a mention of sedatives in Cabrera's transcript. I think they are sedating at least one of the women."

"That doesn't help much."

"I know, and this may be a stretch, but what if one of the victims was on sedatives when she was taken? What would happen if she didn't have her meds? What if they got her meds and are giving her too much or are using them to keep the other women quiet-a.s.suming there's a connection." She didn't like tacking on the last bit, but it kept the male feathers from ruffling too much.

"We've talked to all of the families. No one said anything about meds."

"Were they asked specifically? We focused on their daily habits, on their a.s.sociations. Sure we approached the doctor angle, but what if one of the women was seeing, or had seen, a shrink. Maybe she isn't still going, but that doesn't mean that she used all of the pills."

"You're thinking the family wanted to keep that quiet. That if one of the women was in therapy we might dismiss her as a runaway rather than a victim."

"It's happened before." He was listening. He saw the validity of her idea. "If she was, I don't know, clinically depressed or maybe suicidal and was taking something to level her moods, hormones or emotions she could go into a downward spiral in captivity."

"Erin Lorian has an infant. Maybe she has that after-birth depression thing women say they get. Would her doctor prescribe something for that?"

"It's more than a claim, Breck." Archaic-thinking a.s.s. A woman surely couldn't be anything but thrilled at having her body taken over by a fetus and her hormones sent rioting out of control. And depression caused from the sudden shifts in hormones had to be in her head.

Kieralyn bit her tongue for a second to keep from ripping into Breck. He wasn't intentionally being an a.s.s. At least not this time. "Postpartum depression, and yes I believe some doctors will prescribe meds depending on the severity."

"I shouldn't have asked. Doctors will prescribe anything for anyone these days."

"Ridiculous, I know."

"We'll check it out. I'll let you know what we find."

"Thank you." She almost asked him not to share the source of the idea with the unit, but if she was right she wanted credit for it. The smaller the target on her back got, the longer she'd survive in her chosen career.

"It's my job."

"I mean for seeing my side of this."

"We'd all see it better if you'd open up to us more."

"You'd accuse me of being too emotional. Of making it too personal." Not like they opened up.

"Possibly, but don't forget that something about every case drives each one of us differently. And if you didn't have such a chip on your shoulder the other guys might listen a little closer."

She was stunned. In the year she'd been with the Specialized Crimes Unit she'd been accused of many things. Having a chip on her shoulder was a new one. Though it wasn't entirely unfounded or off-base.

Cabrera stepped out the front of his building, gripping a harness and led by a seeing-eye dog. He's blind.

"Gotta go."

"What's going on?"

"Nothing." She hung up on Breck, shoved her papers in her bag, and set out after Cabrera. Blind? How had she missed that?

He moved with confidence in his lab, but even in his domain there was a cautiousness about him. About the way he moved.

His steps had been measured. Precise. He'd never looked directly at anything. Not the controls or her, which explained why he hadn't taken her hand. He hadn't known she had offered it.

Not certain how sensitive his hearing was-and based on his ability to tell when she'd moved earlier it was fairly heightened-she maintained about fifty feet between them. She should be far enough back that he wouldn't hear her, but close enough that she could move in quickly if he tripped or found himself in some danger. A blind man had to be an easy target for muggers and pickpockets.

He strode along beside his dog without hesitation. He'd said they'd been together a long time. How long? Had he been born blind? Or gone blind as a result of an injury or illness? Was this his first seeing-eye dog?

She'd bet an injury. Whatever had caused the slight facial scarring had likely robbed him of his sight. Or the missing sight had led to an accident that resulted in the scarring. She wanted badly to know which was true. When it had happened.

She thought back to the cool, dark lab with the lone wolf at the door. It was her experience that people with sour att.i.tudes and short tempers like his rarely had many friends. Anyone who would try to get close would be driven away by the gruff shield surrounding him. Cabrera's handicap forced him into a dark and possibly lonely existence.

Her heart ached. He seemed proud and confident, but how did he feel about his handicap? How did he handle having to depend on someone else to see to his day-to-day livelihood? Grocery shopping, laundry, cooking and cleaning would have to be hired out if he wasn't married. Driving would be impossible, which no doubt made getting around tough.

Strangers would either pity him or make him their target for practical jokes. Without the benefit of sight he would rely on the kindness of others to make sure he was pointed in the right direction. Simple things like finding the restroom in a restaurant would be a challenge. Few places used Braille to mark doors. They certainly didn't use it to mark arrows on walls for handicapped people.

Cabrera stopped at a crosswalk. Even without waiting for the flashing hand to indicate it was safe for him to cross, he and his dog moved forward. Kieralyn's heart jumped. She rushed forward, certain he'd be creamed by an oncoming car. There were no cars moving in his direction. How could he possibly have known it was safe? Weren't aid dogs trained to go only when the light changed?

He rounded a corner before she crossed the street. Hustling, she caught up in time to see him turn again. Closing the distance a little more, she followed him to a white stucco home with a red tiled roof. It sat slightly away from the other homes on the street, but not in a secluded sort of way. The lawn was immaculate with beds full of vibrant color lining the sidewalk and front of the house. Whoever maintained it for him had a knack for utilizing the light and airy mood of Miami. That combined with a talented hand transformed Cabrera's home from the cookie-cutter model of those around him into a veritable oasis.

What imperfections and darkness lurk beneath the surface?

She leaned against a tree on the opposite sidewalk, trying to decide if she should go demand answers. She needed to know what he'd held back. Fifteen minutes later he came back out in a change of clothes and without his dog. He headed down the street. Dressed in black slacks and a perfectly tailored slate gray dress shirt, carrying himself with confidence, he could fit in most anywhere. The way his shirt showed off his defined biceps and abdomen was a plus for a woman. But he was walking around without the aid of his dog or a cane in a busy city.

Was he a complete moron? Violence and drug-related crimes were steadily rising. He left himself open to anything from stumbling into a pothole to getting mugged.