Page 41 of Seaside Strangers
Chapter Seventeen
At noon,Chicago Police Detective Frank Parisi sat at his desk and powered up his aging department computer. The thing hummed and clicked, as if it might give up at any second. The CPD was in the process of upgrading their systems, but until they worked their way through every precinct, he was stuck with equipment that belonged in a museum. After fifteen years on the force—nine of them in Homicide—he’d learned not to expect anything different. Hurry up and wait. That was the department’s way.
The squad room around him buzzed with low conversation, phones ringing, keyboards clacking. A couple of uniformed officers laughed too loudly nearthe coffee station, and someone cursed under their breath when a printer jammed. Same noise. Same routine. Day in, day out.
Five more years. That was all he had left.
Between his pension and the money he’d earned on the side—none of it on record—he and his wife, Diane, would be more than comfortable in Florida. He pictured it sometimes when the job got dull. A boat. Open water. No supervisors looking over his shoulder. He could spend his days fishing or with a new girlfriend. Diane could keep herself busy however she wanted when he wasn’t around. As long as she didn’t interfere with him, he didn’t care.
The computer finally finished booting up, and a red dot blinked in the corner of the screen.
Parisi straightened, all distraction gone. He cast a glance around the room, making sure no one was close enough to look over his shoulder, then clicked on the alert.
Finally!
After months off the grid, Moriah Jensen had surfaced again. They should’ve had her weeks ago if that officer in Ohio had filed his paperwork on time. Instead, she’d slipped through their fingers andvanished.
Until now.
He scanned the details, his focus narrowing as he read the name attached to the hit. A North Carolina SBI agent—Brian Malone—had run her license.
Parisi leaned back slowly, eyes fixed on the screen.
Then why hadn’t he called it in?
If Malone had her in custody, this wouldn’t still be sitting in the system. The notification would’ve come through, clean and official.
Which meant the agent didn’t know what he had—or had already let her go before the BOLO request hit the system.
He drummed his fingers once on the desk, irritation building as he considered it. Sloppy. Either way, it complicated things.
Reaching for his desk phone, he dialed the number listed for Agent Malone. The line rang, then rang again, before rolling over to voicemail.
Parisi’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Agent Malone, this is Detective Frank Parisi with the Chicago Police Department. I need you to return my call as soon as possible regarding Moriah Jensen.”
He hung up without another word and stared atthe screen, the blinking alert still pulsing in the corner.
If she were in North Carolina, she wouldn’t be out of reach anymore. And this time, she wouldn't slip away.
Grabbing his jacket, he headed for the door, tossing a quick word to the unit receptionist that he was following up on a lead and would be back later. His partner was out for the week with a new baby at home, so Parisi was working solo. Fine by him. Collins was strictly by the book and would’ve gone straight to Internal Affairs if he had any idea what Parisi was involved in. As long as he kept his distance, they managed well enough.
A few minutes later, he was behind the wheel of his department-issued Crown Victoria, weaving through midday traffic before turning into the bus depot a handful of blocks away. He parked, got out, and moved inside with purpose, heading straight for a row of lockers near the back wall. Pulling a key from his pocket, he unlocked unit 702 and reached inside for one of the prepaid cell phones he kept stashed there. It was untraceable and necessary since he couldn’t risk making the call from his department phone or personal cell.
He powered it up as he shut the locker and madehis way back outside, dialing the number from memory.
The call connected on the fourth ring.
“What?” The voice on the other end was rough, impatient.
He scanned the lot as he walked toward his car. “Guess who’s been spotted in North Carolina.”
A brief pause was followed by, “How? When? Where?” The questions came clipped, precise.
“Her license was run in Elizabeth City by a state investigator,” he said. “I called to see if he had her in custody, but it went straight to voicemail.”
“Let me know what he says.”
