Page 16 of Her Last Promise (Rachel Gift #19)

The conference room had transformed into something out of Rachel's early days in the bureau—when sleep was just a luxury for lazy people and the entire world seemed to buzz over the potential of the next break in a case. The room was positively thrumming with the controlled chaos of an active investigation hub. Steam rose from paper coffee cups scattered across the mahogany table, mingling with the sugary scent of glazed donuts that nobody had touched. The pastries sat in their pink cardboard box like exhibits in their own right, casualties of concentration. A half-eaten bear claw left abandoned on a napkin had begun to grow stale, its layers of pastry curling at the edges. The fresh coffee and snacks had been brought in Eloise Carter, a member of the staff who had come in and decided to stay, wanting to help nab whatever bastard had attacked Harrison.

The whir of laptop fans and the soft murmur of voices created a white noise that reminded Rachel of late nights at the bureau, the kind that stretched into early mornings when the trail was hot and sleep was a luxury they couldn't afford. She watched a young officer shuffle past the glass walls, his arms full of file boxes retrieved from Harrison's office. Each box represented more data to sift through, more potential threads to follow or dismiss.

Rachel rubbed her temples, studying the laptop screen before her. Her coffee had grown cold, a thin film forming on its surface, but she couldn't remember when she'd poured it. The list of missing persons cases had come through, and it was smaller than she’d expected. There were seven in all, each one a potential thread in this increasingly tangled web.

In the midst of it all, Novak gave an exasperated sigh as she sat his phone down for a moment. "Still no luck with Harrison's wife. The next-door neighbor is taking all the calls to help out. She's currently at the hospital in a state of shock, and Harrison's daughter is being watched over by an aunt."

Rachel nodded, placing a temporary strike through Harrison’s wife as a potential source of information. Which was fine, really. She felt they would get the information they needed through their current approach...eventually.

Her phone buzzed against her hip, and she allowed herself a momentary distraction. It was Jack, sending a photo of Paige outside her school, crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue while wearing her new purple backpack. The message with it read: Paige says have a nice day!

The normalcy of it caught in Rachel's throat—how her daughter could be having such an ordinary morning while she sat here hunting a killer. She traced her thumb across the screen, noting the small details: the wispy hair that had escaped Paige's ponytail, the slight scuff on her new sneakers, the way her smile still showed the gap where her last baby tooth had finally fallen out just weeks ago.

"Agent Gift?" Eloise Carter's voice cut through her reverie. The older woman's fingers moved across her keyboard with practiced efficiency, her reading glasses perched low on her nose. Silver hair pulled back in a neat bun emphasized her sharp features, and Rachel noticed her blouse was slightly wrinkled, suggesting she'd rushed in when called. "I've accessed the internal database, like you asked. Where should we start?"

In that moment, Rachel would have done anything for Eloise—she of the pastries and fresh coffee. “I’m not sure yet. But just knowing it’s ready to go is a massive help. Thanks.”

"Hey, Gift?" Novak said from the other side of the table. "We now have only six missing person’s cases. I just got a call, and it seems one of them is being closed.”

“Which one?” Rachel said, looking to the list and details on her laptop.

"Angela Martinez, seventeen. Richmond PD is closing it?" Novak leaned forward, a coffee cup warming his hands. The sleeve had started to unravel, and he picked at it absently. "Apparently, she was found at her girlfriend's apartment in Petersburg. They were planning to get married in Vermont next month when she turned eighteen and her parents…well, they weren't thrilled about the idea." He paused, scanning the report on his screen. "The girlfriend's parents took them in, already talking to lawyers about emancipation. Sounds like they've got a solid support system."

Malcolm, the security tech, hunched over his own laptop in the corner, muttered something under his breath as he worked with the surveillance footage. The overhead lights caught the sheen of sweat on his forehead. His tie had been loosened hours ago, and two empty energy drink cans formed a small garrison around his workspace.

Rachel stood, stretching muscles that had grown stiff from sitting too long. She paced to the window, watching the morning traffic flow past the building. People going about their normal lives, unaware of the drama unfolding in this room. A delivery truck double-parked across the street, its hazard lights creating rhythmic flashes against the building's glass facade.

She ran the other names through her head, trying to land on which one to go after. She knew that if any of these names were even remotely linked to Judge Smith or James Harrison, that was where they needed to go.

“Eloise, can you check for Mike Dearborne in the server?”

“Sure can. One sec.” Rachel sighed and turned to watch the woman search for the name in the internal servers. After just ten seconds, she was shaking her head. “No. Sorry. Nothing.”

"Let's run Patricia Walsh," Rachel suggested, turning back to watch Eloise navigate through the database. The clicking of keys filled the silence, punctuated by the distant sound of police radios in the hallway. Outside the conference room's glass walls, she could see uniformed officers turning away yet another confused employee.. This was a young paralegal, clutching her purse to her chest as she was escorted back to the doors.

Eloise's sharp intake of breath drew Rachel's attention back to the screen. "Here we go. We’ve got a match. Agents.”

At once, Rachel and Novak descended upon Eloise as she remained at one of the many laptops stationed at the table. “Looks like Dr. Patricia Walsh testified in the Mitchell case." Her fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up document after document. "Neurologist, specialized in brain death criteria." Her voice took on the measured tone of someone reading a story they already knew wouldn't end well. "She was the expert witness who confirmed Marjorie Mitchell's condition was irreversible."

“Jesus, I think I read about that one,” Novak said. “But there was nothing to this detail. What else do we have?”

With a bit of a tremble in her voice, Eloise went on. “The case involved one Marjorie Mitchell, age 68, massive stroke. She was maintained on life support at Saint Catherine's Medical Center. Her son, Nathan Mitchell, was attempting to sue for the right to remove life support, citing his mother's advance directive. But there was no such written record found.”

As Eloise continues to scroll, the medical records went zooming past: CT scans, EEG readings, clinical assessments, all painting a picture of devastating brain damage.

"Judge Smith presided," Eloise continued, scrolling through the documentation. Her long fingers traced lines of text as she read. "And Mr. Harrison was the prosecutor representing the hospital network." She adjusted her glasses, frowning. "It's odd, though. The hospital's position seems to contradict standard protocol. Usually, they're the ones pushing to honor advance directives, if only to free up resources."

Another officer appeared at the door, balancing a fresh tray of coffee cups. The aroma of fresh coffee cut through the staleness of the room, but Rachel barely noticed. Her mind was racing, connecting invisible lines between victims, trying to see the pattern that she knew must be there.

"Malcolm, what's the status on that surveillance image?" she called out, her voice sharper than she'd intended.

Malcolm glanced up, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he'd been at this longer than any of them. His tie was completely undone now, hanging like a surrender flag around his neck. "Best I could do." He turned his laptop around, revealing a grainy still frame of a man entering the building. The figure was easy to make out in shape, but the details of his face weren’t great at all.

Rachel stood, her chair rolling back against the wall with enough force to make Eloise jump. "Send it to me. I'll forward it to our imaging team." She gathered her jacket from the back of her chair, nodding to Novak. "We need to talk to Nathan Mitchell."

"Hold on," Eloise called out, her voice carrying an urgency that made Rachel pause. Her fingers flew across the keyboard again, pulling up another document. "There's something else. The case notes mention Nathan has an older brother, Michael. He tried to intervene in the proceedings from abroad, even reached out to both Judge Smith and James—something about being the primary medical proxy before Nathan contested it."

“How far abroad?” Novak asked.

“Avignon, France. But the notes here also say he was very supportive and helpful to both staff and in answering any questions Judge Smith or the hospital staff and administrators had.”

“We’ll need his contact info, too, then,” Rachel said. “But for now, we need an address for Nathan Mitchell.”

“Got it right here,” Novak said, standing but hunched over his laptop.

Without another word spoken between them, they started moving toward the door. Rachel looked back to the others who had gathered in the room to assist. “Thanks for all of your help,” she said. “All of this likely saved us a day or two of monotonous digging.”

There were murmurs of response, but it was clear that they, too, were hooked into this case. And, like Rachel, they would not stop trying to help until Judge Smith’s killer and James Harrison’s abductor was caught.

As they walked, Rachel speed-dialed the bureau, letting the imaging team know that a high-priority email was coming. With the occasional glance up from her phone, she forwarded the email Malcolm had sent with the image of their potential suspect attached. Behind them, the hub of investigation continued its work.

Outside, the morning sun had burned away the last of fog, leaving behind a sharp clarity that seemed at odds with the murky waters they were wading through. A construction crew across the street had started up their jackhammer, the rhythmic pounding a counterpoint to Rachel's racing thoughts. She looked at her watch and was amazed (and a bit appalled) to find that it had somehow come to be 9:42.

Rachel stared through the windshield, seeing not the parking lot before them but the pieces of the puzzle finally starting to align. "Two missing people, both connected to Judge Smith," she said slowly. "James Harrison and now Dr. Patricia Walsh..." She left the sentence unfinished, but they both knew where it led. The implications hung in the air between them, heavy as storm clouds.

“I think if things don’t fully pan out with Nathan Mitchell,” Novak said, “we should hit up Richmond PD to see what they have on Walsh’s disappearance.”

“Absolutely. Actually, I’ll make that call now.”

She did exactly that as Novak pulled out into traffic, carrying them toward what Rachel hoped would be answers, but what her gut told her would only be more questions. Because second by second, it was clear that this was becoming that sort of case.