“No.” Crawford’s single word of denial was forceful and it stopped Dugger cold.
“Then what?”
“It’s like I said, Mr. Dugger. I don’t believe a ransom call is coming. I think we’ll need to find your daughter. Therefore, this officer can be better utilized on the street.”
Dugger snorted. “On my way in from the airport, I saw two cop cars parked at a Denny’s restaurant. So forgive me if I don’t think you guys are exactly breaking a sweat.”
“Not true,” Crawford said and Gio was impressed at his patience. From what he’d heard through the rumor mill, Crawford should’ve had three meltdowns by this point in the conversation. “The fact is, though, the rest of city still requires our services. Your daughter’s case is a priority, but it isn’t the only call for service that we have to answer. The assaults, the rapes, the robberies, they all just keep on coming, Mr. Dugger. And we have to answer them.”
“You’re telling me the Denny’s was robbed?” Dugger asked sarcastically.
“No,” Crawford said. “The patrol officers were probably getting coffee or something to eat.”
“Instead of looking for my daughter.”
“Everyone needs to take a break,” Crawford said. “And like I told you, the patrol division has stopped so many blue or brown vans with a black male driver that Bishop Hughes came down to see the Chief this morning.”
“I’m sure that has to do more with the attitude of your officers than the volume of their contacts.”
“You don’t like the police much, do you, Mr. Dugger?” Crawford asked him evenly.
Dugger’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. “I’d like them to do their jobs and find my daughter, Lieutenant.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” Crawford said.
“If that were true,” Dugger said, “then my wife wouldn’t be alone in the living room right now, wrapped up in her daughter’s blanket.”
Crawford stared at Dugger for a full thirty seconds. Then he pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and set it on the kitchen table. He and Dugger stared at each other for another moment, then Crawford caught Gio’s eye and motioned with a jerk of his head.
“Let’s go.”
Dugger didn’t say a word to them as they left.
Once they were at the end of the walkway near the police cars, Gio spoke up. “Nicely handled, Lieutenant.”
Crawford glanced at him to detect sarcasm, but when he saw Gio was sincere, he sighed. “This case is a fucking nightmare.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his fingers. “My headaches already starting.”
“So we’re done here?” Gio asked.
Crawford shook his head, moved his thumbs to his eyes and continued rubbing. “Nah. We’ll leave the phone trap, just in case. But you’re done here, yeah.”
Gio nodded and said nothing.
Crawford opened his eyes and looked at him. “Tell me you didn’t try to bang the wife, Giovanni.”
Gio looked offended. “No, sir.”
Crawford grunted. “A world’s record. Two whole days.”
“Lieutenant-“
Crawford held up his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
1730 hours
Ray Browning pulled into his driveway and stopped, killing the engine of his department- issued car. He glanced up in the review mirror at himself. The creases in his dark brown skin seemed to get deeper every year, especially at the corners of his eyes and mouth. There looked to be more gray in his goatee, too.
But it was the eyes that held every year and every case.
Browning stared back into those eyes and willed the pain and disgust out of them. He pushed all of the freaks he’d interviewed that day away. He even set aside Amy Dugger. Instead, he thought about his wife, Veronica, and their son, Marcus. He thought of her scent and her softness and her smile. He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined his boy’s laugh. His bright, inquiring, innocent eyes.
When all the ugliness was at bay, he took a deep breath and let it out.
He glanced at the front door of his home. “Be it ever so humble,” he murmured, and smiled at his own little joke. Then he pulled the keys from the ignition, opened the door and walked toward the front door.
“Don’t even think about going through that door and ignoring me, Mr. Browning,” came his wife’s voice from the front yard.
Browning turned to her. She wore loose gardening clothes and a pair of pink gloves. He smiled. “Hey, babe.”
Veronica smiled at him as he strolled across the yard toward where she knelt next to a flowerbed. A pile of discarded weeds lay next to her.
“Cleaning out the beds?” he asked.
Veronica cocked her head at him. “Aren’t you just the smart detective? What was your first clue? The flowerbed I’m kneeling next to? Or the weeds piled next to it?”
Browning let a small smile play on his lips. “Not like there’s a lot of weeds in that pile,” he told her. “Pretty slim physical evidence, you ask me.”
“Who’s asking?”
Browning squatted next to her. “The man,” he whispered.
“The heat,” she whispered back.
He kissed her on the lips. “The fuzz,” he said.
Veronica laughed. “Who ever came up with that one, I wonder? Most slang I can understand, but the fuzz?”
Browning shrugged. “No telling what people will say. What’s Marcus up to?”
“Playing in his room with the train set, same as always.” She shook her head. “That boy needs to get outside more, I swear. Ever since you got him that train set, it’s been like an obsession with him.”
“Maybe he’ll grow up to be a conductor.”
“Could be.”
“Or maybe he’ll grow to be a hobo and rides the rails.” He reached out and touched her cheek softly. “You look nice, girl.”
Veronica smiled, but looked at him carefully. “You flirting with me, Mr. Browning?”
“Maybe,” he said, reaching out and patting her hip. “Maybe.” He rose. “I’m going to go see the boy.”
When he turned to go, Veronica called out his name. He looked over his shoulder at her. “Yeah?”
“You okay, baby?”
“Yeah.”
“’Cause you don’t seem-”
“I’m fine, Vee.” He forced a smile. “Just want to see my boy, is all.”
She watched him for a few seconds. For a moment, it seemed she might say something, but then she nodded and returned to her weeding.
Browning headed toward the house. He stared at his car in the driveway, cursing silently. He didn’t like to bring the job home to his family. Even after he thought he’d pushed it away….
He pressed his lips together and let out another deep breath. When he reached the porch, he took each step slowly and deliberately. He felt the cares falling away as he reached for the door.
“Marcus?” he called.
There was no answer. Browning shrugged off his jacket and moved toward the hall closet. He noticed that the sliding door to the back yard stood open a foot.
Maybe the boy got outside after all, he thought. Vee would like that, even if he was probably playing catch with himself, throwing the baseball straight up in the air.
Browning folded the jacket over his arm and walked to the glass door. He slid it open further and stepped out onto the rocked-in patio.
The small backyard was empty.
A small pang of fear twitched in Browning’s belly.
“Marcus?
No answer.
Browning wheeled and strode back into the living room. He suppressed a desire to bellow out the boy’s name, listening instead for the metallic whine and clack of the train set from the bedroom.
He heard nothing.
He took brisk strides down the short hallway and pushed open his son’s bedroom door. “Marcus?”
Empty.
Fear rose from his belly and washed over his chest.
“Marcus!” he boomed.
He checked his own bedroom, then his small office. All empty.
Nothing in the kitchen or the dining room.
“Marcus!” he cried out again, his voice catching this time.
Oh, Jesus, someone has taken my boy!
His heart thumped heavily in his chest, pulsing at his temples.