“Which FBI team is involved? Missing persons?” Wayne asks as if he’s making conversation, but I sense he’s interested. It’s understandable. Most people go their entire lives without coming across an FBI case. Plus, Jack and Sophia are like family to Wayne.

“That’s not exactly what they call themselves, but yes, missing persons.” I withhold the ATF mention. I expect that word of ATF involvement inside a gun and ammunition company will cause concern.

“Is all this hoopla normal for a missing persons case?”

“I’d expect so. But this is a kidnapping.”

Wayne’s fingers grip the steering wheel at the noon location. The angle of his head looks like he’s checking his rearview, but I suspect he is checking out Alex, not the road behind us.

Alex has finally put away her phone. She’s gazing out the window, but she is listening to every word between Wayne and me.

“Why is it now a kidnapping?” Wayne asks as he merges onto the freeway.

“Ransom.” I watch him closely.

Wayne’s eyes widen, and his mouth opens. He turns his head to me, and a car horn blares as Wayne veers into the next lane. “No shit?” he asks. Unless he’s a very good actor, he didn’t know this.

“How’s Jack holding up?” Alex asks.

“Haven’t seen much of him. Which is fine. Everyone at the company understands. It’s a small company. He’s had a tough go of it.” I suppose that explains why Wayne is out of the loop.

A John Denver song plays on the radio. I don’t know the name, but I recognize the voice.

“I heard ATF is getting involved,” Wayne says as he turns off the freeway. Alex and I exchange a glance. “Is that normal?”

Alex’s dark eyes look to me, silently telling me to take the lead on this.

“Where’d you hear that?” I ask him. It’s interesting that he doesn’t know there’s a ransom, but he knows we’re looping in ATF.

“Jack mentioned it.”

Alex picks up her phone and types. The Timothy guy seems to be more interesting than our case.

“My wife’s worried sick about Sophia. She’s convinced we aren’t going to find her, seeing as so much time’s passed.”

The vehicle turns from a standard San Diego neighborhood, with small yards and houses from the eighties and nineties, into the gated community. Media vans line up along the road leading to the grand waterfall gated entrance. Judging from the bored expressions of the men and women sitting in the front seats of the van, they’ve been parked here for a while, blocked from getting any closer to Jackson Sullivan’s home. Wayne slows at the gate, gives a two-finger salute to the person at the guard station, and the gate slowly opens.

Other than a few gardeners and yard crews, no one stands outside in the front yards of the immaculate homes. The grass in this gated community is lush and green, especially compared to the yards we passed on the way in. The lots are easily three to four times the size of the neighborhood we just drove through. Yet more people were on the sidewalks enjoying the blue sky San Diego day than in this ritzy area.