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William Sterling Rowland the Third rolled his squeaky chair back and kicked his feet up onto his desk. His black Hugo Boss oxfords were scuffed and worn, no more than what a normal person lived with, but he was a Rowland, and Rowlands dressed to the nines, even at six in the morning. The fact that he was wearing Hugo Boss and not Testoni would make his sisters faint, but he didn't give a shit. Wearing Testoni in the office would probably get him shot and not by any of the criminals he worked so hard to catch.

It gave him great pleasure that his family felt disappointed with him. He sure as hell couldn't expect them to be proud of the fact that he actually worked at a real job. So if wearing scuffed shoes made them agitated then he was all for it.

One thing he wouldn't play at was the insistence that everyone he worked with or knew called him Bill. He hated the pretentious nature of his name and the baggage it brought along for the ride. By all accounts he shouldn't even be an FBI agent. Rowlands didn't hold jobs. If he'd been a lawyer or a judge his family might forgive him for signing up to be a slave to others, but only if he promised to run for senator or president one day, but he had wanted to get his hands dirty. His parents had fought hard, even calling in favors from a few of their pet senators. Unfortunately for them he'd already been accepted into the academy and was halfway through training before he even told his family what he was doing.

It took some fast thinking and quick talking on his part to get the senators to back off and give the FBI brass a break. His notoriety hadn't earned him any favors in the bureau, but he didn't mind the extra blood and sweat he had to put into his job just to get half the recognition his peers garnered. Recognition wasn't what he craved anyways. Results were what kept him working awful hours with negligible pay.

Now he had the task of finding killers. His work not only gave him purpose, it offered up a satisfaction that no amount of money could supply. Stopping the senseless destruction left behind by homicidal maniacs gave him joy. Maybe joy was too happy of a word, but his job created a unique satisfaction that filled him with pleasure all the way down to his gut.

Bill sifted through the stacks of paper. One sheet stood out. Four Americans had disappeared overseas recently. Specifically, young and beautiful citizens of the United States had gone missing in the Bahamas, all female.

Approaching footsteps outside his cube interrupted his concentration.

"Hey Bill, you coming for lunch?"

He looked up from his work, squinting at the intruder, Al Jackson. "Hmm, maybe. You got a minute?"

Jackson pulled up a chair and slouched down into the seat. "Can this wait? You know lunch..."

Agitation twisted in Bill's but. "Just give me two minutes."

"Shoot, but my stomach sucks at solving cases."

Bill resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Okay, so I've got this paper from the state department."

Al spit into Bill's trashcan, a disgusted look marring his features. "It's junk, toss it out. Those guys are clueless."

A wave of annoyance washed over Bill. He wanted to shoo Al out, but he needed a second opinion. Well, maybe he didn't need so much as want another opinion. "Yeah, well, anyways this paper is detailing four women who disappeared while traveling overseas."

"Hmmm, probably ran off with some guy. Let me guess, single but beautiful babes."

Bill glanced at the paper again. For some reason, beautiful women weren't taken seriously. They were blamed for crimes against them, taunted and teased by the system and treated badly by almost every circle of law enforcement he knew. "They were rather good looking, but I don't think any of these women flaked."

"Why?"

Bill huffed out a breath, mulling over his thoughts, looking for the right word to say to make someone take this seriously. "They were all young and rather beautiful, I'll give you that."

"Like I said, probably ran off." Jackson's chair squealed as he stood. "Listen, are you coming?"

Bill shook his head, wincing from the headache developing behind his eyes. He wished others had his drive for justice. More than once he'd been disgusted by the aimlessness he found in other FBI agents. Not that they were lazy, but the American work ethic, or lack of work ethic drove him crazy.

"Nah, I need to look into this, there's more to it than meets the eye."

"Waste of time. Not your area. Won't have any say in the case." Jackson turned and began walking away.

"Maybe so, but I'll obsess if I don't check it out."

Jackson stopped by the stair entrance and called across the empty bullpen. "Just remember to get your other stuff done or Baker will throw a fit."

"Yeah, don't worry about Baker. I know how to handle him."

"I'm sure you do." Jackson snorted as he stepped into the stairwell.

There were elements of this job that Bill hated. Working with office politics left him feeling dirty. Having to figure out the correct path to take to avoid the minefields of the Bureau wasn't fun.

Bill spent the next thirty minutes tracking down leads on where the four women stayed. One of the women had returned to her hotel three days after her scheduled checkout. Too much partying and recreational drug use made her lose track of time. In other words, she'd flaked. Women like this made his job harder. But one bad apple didn't make the whole bunch rotten.

His personal cell phone chirped. His wife's ring tone jarred him out of the zone. An involuntary hesitation kept him from picking up the line for two more rings. He blew out a deep breath and hit talk, dreading the command performance he knew she would demand of him. "Darling, I'm glad you called."

"Really?" Shana's attitude said she didn't buy it. She knew how he felt about calls during work hours.

"Yes, really. We still on for tonight?"

"I was calling to make sure you knew." Her voice sounded strained, like she didn't believe him for a second.

"Of course. Five forty-five."

"Don't be late."

The warning in her voice hit him hard. Playing these games drove him crazy. Divorce wasn't an option he wanted to consider. He wished it would all go back to the way it was before. "I wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."

"You've said those exact words on many occasions and then showed up two hours after our last guest left."His teeth clenched together, the he forced his body to relax as he spoke the next words. "I'll do everything I can to be on time."

"You should quit."

Damn, the exact subject he wanted to avoid. He was loaded. Even if they had five children who had five children, his grandchildren could live off of his trust fund without ever having to work a day in their life, and grow old never having to live frugally. But that wasn't the point. "Shana, I can't talk about that now."

"When?"

His shoulders went tight, his teeth clenched again. "When what?"

"When are you going to talk to me about this?"Pain shot from behind his eyes to the base of his skull. "It's not that simple."

"It seems that simple to me." She was too calm. Her voice should be going high by now. She must be near someone she knew or wanted to impress.

"You knew I was an FBI agent when you met me."

"Yeah but–"

"Stop." Bill took a moment to think before he spoke. Shana hadn't known about the money when they married. The prenuptial agreement his father insisted on had made her laugh. She thought Bill had some money, like a million socked away, but she never guessed the truth.

He wished to God the money didn't matter, but it did. "I will see you at the restaurant tonight before six."

He disconnected, not waiting for her to respond. Dropping a call like that made him feel like a shit, but she wouldn't listen about his job. Being an FBI agent was more than just a paycheck for him. The job soothed his soul.

When the riverside killer had taken his aunt, Bill vowed to do something about crime in the nation. Above and beyond the initiatives he supported for underprivileged kids and teens, he also wanted to physically take matters into his own hands.

Now he lived his dream job every day. If only his wife and family supported him. It hadn't always been that way with Shana. She loved the idea of a husband in the Bureau, that is, until the infamous weekend.

His office line rang and he scooped it up on the first ring. "Bill here, what can I do for you?"

"Oh good, the brain is there." Baker's voice grew loud. "Bill, I need you to go over a new case. Pronto." The line disconnected.

Great, some bigwig must be in town needing a special profile built up. Not only was Bill rich beyond belief he was also super smart. If there was a graduation, Bill was valedictorian. Studying wasn't really necessary either. That had pissed Shana off too.

Bill grabbed his cell phone. On second thought he tossed his personal phone into his brief bag, not wanting to field anymore questions from his wife. He loved her, but sometimes she was a bit too much.

Copyright Sara Thacker 2011