All Fall Down by Erica Spindler

Although Melanie applauded his courage, she wondered at his sanity. He hadn’t exactly soft-pedaled his opinion or couched it in deferential terms.
    â€œI don’t recognize you,” Andersen said. “What’s your name?”
    â€œAgent Connor Parks, FBI.”
    â€œWell, then, Agent Parks, let me tell you something. I didn’t get where I am today by sitting on the sidelines and waiting for others to make things happen. I take charge. I make things happen.”
    â€œAgain, with all due respect, this isn’t big business. This is law enforcement. Something you know nothing about. I’m afraid this time you’re going to have to take that seat on the sidelines. Please, let us do our jobs.”
    â€œCleve,” the mayor said gently, laying a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Agent Parks is right. No father should hear the things we must discuss in this room today. It would be better if you left.”
    The man swayed slightly on his feet. His mask of confidence and determination slipped, giving all a glimpse of the man underneath, one in great pain, one hanging on by an emotional thread.
    Andersen looked at Ed Pinkston. “I’ve already endured the worst a father could,” he said softly, the slightest quaver in his voice. “I was told my daughter was dead. That she had been murdered.”
    He moved his gaze around the table, from one face to the next, stopping, finally, on Connor Parks’s. “I want her killer caught. I want justice. And I’ll have it, no matter the cost. Is that understood?”
    Without waiting for an answer, he turned to his attorney. “Bob, I’ll trust you to handle this from here.”
    Like the room’s other occupants, Melanie watched the man stride toward the exit. She ached for him, for his pain. She understood his motive for coming today—sitting back and waiting would be hell on earth for a take-charge man like Andersen.
    When the door clicked shut behind him, several moments of awkward silence ensued. Then the mayor cleared his throat and called the meeting back to order. After chastising Parks for the tone with which he had addressed the victim’s father, he opened the floor to the two chiefs of police. They shared every step of the investigation so far—who had been interviewed, what had been gleaned from those interviews—and they assured the politicians no stone was being left unturned.
    â€œI don’t want to hear about turning over stones,” Pinkston snapped. “I want to hear about a suspect. I want to hear you tell me you’re going to catch this sick bastard and I want you to tell me how you’re going to do it.”
    Chief Lyons of the CMPD turned to Pete Harrison, his lead investigator. “Harrison?”
    The man nodded. “We have a suspect. Apparently, the night Joli was murdered she spent the early part of the evening in a club with friends. There was a guy there who was hitting on her most of the night. Really coming on strong. She wasn’t interested and humiliated him in front of a group of people. Called him loser and told him to crawl back under whatever rock he’d emerged from.
    â€œHe blew his top. Told her he’d make her sorry andstormed off. A witness, one of the club’s patrons, says she saw the guy in the parking lot later that night, around the time Joli left. Unfortunately, nobody knew who he was. He’d never been in that club before, paid with cash. And nobody’s seen him since.”
    Andersen’s attorney made a sound of disbelief. “You’re saying you can’t find this guy?”
    â€œHaven’t found him yet,” Harrison corrected. “We will, trust me. We’ve got descriptions of him with every bartender in Mecklenburg County. He’ll resurface.”
    â€œAnd when he does,” Harrison’s partner, Roger Stemmons, added, “we’ll be there.”
    â€œI hate to rain on