“Charlotte said to Charlie Mears. It was nine-thirty on Thursday morning. In her jeans and bra, she was perched on the edge of the rumpled bed, using the phone in their room at the Holiday Inn in the village of Cherokee. She’d been put on hold for ten minutes, then handed off to three other hard-ass secretaries before she worked her way to FBI Assistant Director Charles L. Mears. “Which dogs?” Mears said. Charlotte had slept fitfully. From the shadows under Parker’s eyes, she knew he’d shared th...e mind-churning darkness with her. Charlotte described Sheffield’s raid the night before, the storm troopers. His use of Gracey as a decoy. When she was finished, he was silent. “You there?” “Frank was acting on his own authority. I may have a slightly grander title than Special Agent in Charge Sheffield, but when it comes to fieldwork, I can’t intervene in the investigative process. It’s his show to run.” “My daughter’s a runaway. I’m doing what any reasonable parent would do, go out and try to find her.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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