Baltimore 03 - Did You Miss Me?

raised his head again, stared briefly, and then resumed his position on the floor, brows bent.
    Millhouse doesn’t know about Ford . Joseph’s mind raced, trying to build a theory inside this scenario. If Millhouse didn’t do it, who did? And why?
    As his mind raced, it came back to the ten rifles in Bill’s trunk. There had to be helper bees. Had to be followers. What if the followers saw the crazy futility of Bill’s plan?
    What if they’d enacted their own plan? A pre-emptive counter-attack as it were.
    And even if they hadn’t, what if he could make Bill believe they had? His goal was to lead the conversation, little as it had been, to Ford. What if one of the followers took Ford? Why, Joseph had no idea. Maybe Bill would know.
    ‘I’ve always thought,’ Joseph said slowly, ‘that the hardest thing for a leader is to receive a no confidence vote. For a politician, it means a fade into obscurity. No more office, no power. No statue on Main Street. But for a military leader like yourself, it’s anarchy. Not to have had your troops rallying behind you at the courthouse has got to be hard to swallow. But to have them doubt your success so much – in advance – that they create their own Plan B? Second-guessing you even before you had the chance to prove yourself? Humiliating. And infuriating. I’d be totally pissed off if I were you.’
    ‘You’re not me,’ Millhouse gritted.
    ‘True. I’m sitting in a chair wearing Armani. You’re on the floor, wearing an ugly orange jumpsuit. You’re facing a long stay at Hotel Don’t-Bend-Over and I’ll go home to a soft, warm bed. I’m glad I’m not you for those reasons alone. But the biggest difference between us is that my people believe in me and yours don’t.’
    ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Millhouse muttered.
    ‘You really don’t, do you? And it’s driving you crazy because you want to know. But you don’t want to ask me.’ Joseph’s phone buzzed three times in quick succession. He checked and found texts from Grayson, Daphne, and Hector Rivera, all sent within seconds of each other, all telling to him to halt his interview as there was new information. ‘I’ll see you later, Bill. Should I give your regards to Cindy and George?’
    He didn’t have to look to know Bill’s teeth were grinding. He could hear them. He told the cops to return Bill to his seat, then left to find out what had just happened.
    Tuesday, December 3, 4.10 P.M.
    Alyssa had been blessedly silent as she drove them back to the office, leaving Clay to lick his wounds in peace. From the passenger seat, he stared at the sky, worrying. More snow was on the way. Ford’s out there . Somewhere .
    Clay had never been a hard-assed boss, demanding paperwork for paperwork’s sake. He’d always had good people who pulled their weight. Except for Nicki. And now Tuzak. I need to either get out of this business or become a cross-your-t’s paper pusher .
    Neither sounded like a good choice. God . What if Ford dies, too? How will Daphne survive that? How will I?
    Behind him, Alec Vaughn made an impatient noise. ‘The smell of those cinnamon buns is making me crazy. If nobody else wants any, pass the basket to me.’
    Clay handed it to him over the back seat. It had been very Daphne-like to insist they took food, even through her fury. Which she had every right to. Still . . . it hurt. In the past nine months they’d become friends. She knew things about him that he’d never told another living soul. She’ll never forgive me . If she does, she’ll never trust me again .
    ‘ Um, Clay?’ Alec said, his mouth full.
    Clay didn’t turn around. ‘What?’
    ‘These cinnamon buns are a Trojan horse.’
    Clay twisted in his seat to stare at his newest staff member. Deaf from toddlerhood, Alec wore a cochlear implant and, after years of therapy, could speak clearly. But there were times Clay still had trouble understanding what he’d said. Like now. ‘What did you say?’
    ‘These cinnamon buns are a Trojan horse,’ Alec repeated more slowly.
    ‘What do you mean they’re a Trojan horse?’
    Alec dug his hand under the checkered napkin and brought out an envelope. ‘Weighs a ton. Which means all this weight isn’t cinnabun-ly goodness after all.’
    He handed the envelope to Clay who slid the contents to his lap. On top was a smaller, sealed envelope, addressed to him in Daphne’s perfect penmanship. He opened it, not sure what he’d read.
    ‘Dear