Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

Tomasetti. We’re walking a fine line, working together on a case while we’re personally involved. Nobody knows, and for now we would be wise to keep it that way. I’m confident neither of us will let private feelings affect the case. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to spending some time with him.
    I park in the visitor section of the lot, grab my overnight bag, and head toward the double glass doors at the front of the building. The uniformed security officer behind a glossy walnut desk stands as I approach.
    “Can I help you?”
    She’s a trim African-American woman wearing a navy jacket, a chrome badge clipped to her belt, and a name tag that tells me her name is Gabrielle. “I’m Kate Burkholder. I have an appointment to see John Tomasetti with BCI.”
    “He’s called twice. Hold on.” She’s in the process of dialing when I hear my name. I turn, to see Tomasetti treading toward me with long, purposeful strides. Plea sure unfurls in my stomach at the sight of his tall frame. As usual, he’s well dressed in a crisp blue shirt with a gray-and-burgundy tie and nicely cut charcoal slacks.
    I can’t help it; I smile. “Agent Tomasetti.”
    His expression softens. “Chief Burkholder.” He glances at the security officer. “Thanks, Gabby.”
    She waves him off, but not before I see something in her eyes, and I realize I’m not the only one who likes my men dark and brooding and just a little bit on the shady side.
    “How was the drive?” he asks, extending his hand.
    “Uneventful.”
    “Best kind, I guess.” We shake, and I notice several things at once. His palm is warm and dry. His grip is substantial. He’s looking at me a tad too closely and perhaps with a little too much intensity, both of which I like. “You look nice,” he says in a low voice.
    “So do you.”
    Amusement crinkles the outer corners of his eyes. He holds on to my hand an instant too long before motioning toward the bank of elevators. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
    We head toward the elevator. He starts to take my overnight bag but then thinks better of it, and I realize he doesn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression about us, particularly his superiors. I heft the bag onto my shoulder and pretend not to notice the awkwardness of the moment.
    We wait for the elevator in silence and without looking at each other. Then the doors swish open and we step inside. He taps the button for the second floor and the doors whisper closed. We’re alone; the only sound is the Muzak flowing down from an overhead speaker, mangling an old Sting song. I’m keenly aware of Tomasetti standing next to me, but my mind has already jumped ahead to meeting his superiors, the impression I want to make, the benefits I will bring to the case. Less than a second into the ride up, Tomasetti turns to me, sets his hands on my shoulders. The next thing I know, my back is against the wall and his mouth is on mine. Shock punches me with such force that for an instant my knees go weak. The Muzak fades to babble, but my heartbeat becomes a roar in my ears. Vaguely, I’m aware of the car moving ever upward, the firm pressure of his lips against mine, the taste of peppermint and coffee and the man I’ve missed for weeks now. I’m about to put my arms around him, when he pulls back, gazes down at me. “Welcome to Richfield,” he says quietly.
    “You’re all business this morning.” My laugh sounds nervous and my voice is breathy and thin. “They don’t have security cameras in these elevators, do they?”
    “I checked.”
    “So this was premeditated.”
    “Cameras in the halls upstairs, though.”
    “In case I feel the need to throw myself at you.”
    “I thought you might have a hard time resisting.”
    We smile at each other and then the doors swish open. No time to think about what just transpired. My heart is still riding high in my throat when we step into a well-lit hall lined with a dozen or so doors, most of which are open. Government-issue artwork adorns institutional white walls. I see an Ansel Adams photo in a black frame; a color photograph of Ohio’s attorney general; a matted and framed mosaic of the great seal of the state of Ohio; a photo collage of agents killed in the line of duty. At the end of the hall, Tomasetti motions me to the right and we stop outside a door affixed with a chrome plate that says CONFERENCE ROOM 1 .
    “I’ll try to make this as quick as possible,” he says.
    I