Heroes Often Fail

TEN

Tuesday, March 14, 1995

Day Shift

0601 hours

Amy Dugger woke from a dream of her mother to the man with scary eyes. She opened her mouth to yell, but his hand clamped down over her lips. His skin was damp and he was shivering.

“Ah, none of that,” he whispered huskily. “No loud noises or you’ll be hurting your mommy. Get it?”

Terrified, Amy nodded.

He removed his hand slowly from her mouth and smiled at her. She suppressed a shudder. “Good girl,” he told her.

Amy stared up at him, unable to avoid his scary eyes. “What time is it?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

“It’s early yet. It’s what I’ll call our special time, Amy. Time for just you and me.”

Amy squirmed. “I’m hungry.”

“Really? Well, if you’re a good girl, I will make you some pancakes. I’ll even make the special ones with mouse ears. Have you ever had those, Amy?”

She nodded. Her mother made them all the time. How had he known about special pancakes? Amy swallowed and blinked. What else did he know?

He reached down and pushed her hair back from her face. His hands were cold and clammy on her forehead and she shivered. A look of delight went across his face.

“Are you excited?” he whispered, leaning his face down toward her. She could smell the stale beer on his breath.

“No,” she whispered.

“Sure you are,” he said. His smile now matched his eyes, both crazily raining down upon her. “Say it. Say you’re excited.”

“But I’m not. I’m scared.” Tear sprang to her eyes.

His smile hardened into a line and he glared at her. “If you’re not excited, then I’ll just have to go hurt your mommy.”

He started to get up, but she grabbed his clammy hand. “No!”

His eyes fixed upon her. He didn’t finish standing, but neither did he sit back down. “Then say it,” he told her.

Amy cringed, but she forced her mouth to work. She couldn’t let anyone hurt her mommy.

“I’m excited,” she muttered, though she didn’t know what she was supposed to be excited about. Maybe the pancakes.

“Say it like you mean it!”

She recoiled from his words, but forced herself to pretend. “I’m excited!”

He smiled again and sat back down next to her. “Good. So am I.”

Amy said nothing, but said a short prayer in her head like her mommy had taught her to do.

Thank you, God, for not letting him hurt my mommy.

He leaned into her again and she was overwhelmed by that same smell of stale beer. She detected another smell, too, that reminded her of her father’s face after he shaved in the mornings, except the odor was not as pleasant.

“Now, Amy,” he told her, stroking her hair. “We are going to play a little game. And you can’t stop playing, no matter what, or I will have to go and hurt your mommy. Do you understand?”

His scary eyes were boring into her. She swallowed and nodded at him.

How bad could a game be?

“Good,” he whispered.

She could see that he was shivering, too.

“Very, very good,” he whispered, and then she found out how terrible his game was.

0700 hours

The security guard at the Public Safety Building opened the doors at two minutes before eight o’clock. Officer Will Reiser hadn’t turned the sign for the police front desk to “open” yet and the Senior Volunteer that worked in the information booth was still in the bathroom. All in all, the place was completely unprepared for the man who marched in with a dozen followers.

“I want to see the Chief of Police!” he announced in a booming voice that could only belong to an orator of some kind. In this case, it was Bishop Reginald Hughes who owned the voice and frequently made great use of it decrying the inequities that faced the black community in River City. The source of these inequities, according to the Bishop, was often the doing of the police department.

Will Reiser recognized him and immediately regretted agreeing to work the front desk for Officer Mark Ridgeway that day. Ridgeway was still bitter over his divorce and wasn’t much good at talking to people delicately to begin with. A shift at the front desk was like the gulag for him. The previous time back in January had resulted in three demeanor complaints.

Still, at least Ridgeway probably earned those complaints. What Reiser saw coming at him was bound to be a complaint no matter what he did.

“Did you hear me, sir?” the Bishop said in a voice several decibels higher than necessary. “I wish to meet with the Chief of Police. If he can take the time to talk with a few colored people, that is.”

Reiser bristled at the comment. Say what you want about the Chief, he thought, but the one thing he isn’t is racist. He even goes to your meetings.

He looked at the Bishop. The black man was tall and dressed sharply in a modest suit. The dozen or so people behind, all black except for one white woman, appeared to have been riled up before his grand entrance. Reiser was surprised there weren’t film crews present.

The Bishop’s eyes shifted down to Reiser’s sign. “Are you open for business, officer? Or are you closed to the black man?”

Reiser said nothing, but changed the sign. Then he looked up at the Bishop.

“What can I help you with today, sir?”

“I told you that already,” the Bishop said. “I need to talk to the Chief of Police for the River City Police Department. I desire an audience with him posthaste.”

Reiser considered, then asked, “Regarding what?”

The Bishop looked both shocked and pleased at the same time. “That would be none of your business, officer, but since you went and asked, anyway, I will tell you.” He glanced around at his followers and the nearly empty lobby. A few lawyers and clients were drifting toward their early court appearances. The Bishop returned his gaze to Reiser. “I want to talk to him about how his officers are singling out the black people in this community for harassment and humiliation! That is what I want to talk with him about!”

There were several shouts of agreement from the group behind him.

Reiser asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

“An appointment? An appointment?” The Bishop looked at Reiser with wide eyes, then back at his constituency. “Does justice need an appointment? Does freedom need an appointment?”

The group yelled out in agreement and several of the cries were punctuated with anger. Behind them, a single news reporter burst through the front door with a cameraman scrambling after her. “Roll film, roll film,” she yelled at the cameraman. The security guard tried to contain him and force him to go through the metal detector but the reporter brushed him aside, already talking into her cell phone.

“This is Shawna Matheson,” she snapped into the receiver. “I need to go live, right now!”

The Bishop leaned in toward Reiser. “Or is it just the black man that needs an appointment to see the white Chief of Police?”

Reiser picked up the phone and dialed.

0709 hours

Kopriva sipped his coffee and picked up the next tip sheet. He read through it and sighed. He doubted it would be any good, but he picked up the phone anyway and dialed.

After three rings, a male voice answered. “Hello?”

“Good morning, sir. This is Officer Kopriva, River City PD. I’m calling you about the tip you called in last night.”

“Oh, yeah. Did they find that girl?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Oh. So, is there a reward?”

“For what?”

“A reward,” the man repeated. “Like, if my tip is what helps you guys find the girl, then is there a reward for that?”

Kopriva’s stomach burned. “Other than knowing you saved a little girl’s life and returned her to her parents, you mean?”

“Yeah, other than that,” the man answered, unfazed.

Kopriva shook his head in disgust. “I think they’re still trying to put something together,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Kopriva glanced down at the tip sheet. He was tempted just to hang up on the guy because he was fairly certain he was just a gold digger, but he decided to ask a couple of questions first. “It says on the tip sheet that you saw a little girl in the passenger seat of a blue van on I-90 at about noon yesterday.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you get the license plate?”

“No, I didn’t. I mean, I looked at it, but I didn’t write it down.”

“Do you remember any part of it?”

“No. But if you come across the van and tell me the plate, I know I’ll remember if that was it or not.”

I’ll bet you would, Kopriva thought. He looked at the tip sheet and saw that all the facts listed were generic or directly out of the press release. An idea struck him.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Huh?”

“Your name. What is it?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “I…I thought that I could just use a code name…”

The code name on the tip sheet was “Reptile.” Kopriva found it appropriate.

“It doesn’t matter,” he told Reptile. “Here’s the thing. When we put out these press releases to the general public, you know that we always hold some stuff back, right?”

“Yeah,” Reptile said.

“Do you know why?”

“So that if, like a crazy dude comes in and says he did it, then if he don’t know that stuff, then you know he’s full of crap, right?”

“Exactly. Now, it sounds to me like you could be an important witness in this case, so I’m going to do something I’m not really supposed to do.”

“What?”

“If I do this, you can’t tell my boss, all right?”

“Sure, brother. I’m cool.”

Kopriva took a breath. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure. What is it?” Reptile’s voice was eager.

“Well, we think that this guy that took the little girl had a partner. And we have a description of her. What I want to do-“

“Some babe helped him do it?”

“It looks that way,” Kopriva said. “Now, what I want to do is give you that description and ask you if you saw that woman. Okay?”

“Sure,” Reptile said.

Kopriva looked up at the ceiling. He already knew the guy was a liar and he knew what he was going to say when the description was complete. He should just hang up, but he decided to be sure.

“She was a blonde woman, about twenty-eight years old, with long hair and long nails. And…”

“What?”

“Well, I don’t know how else to say it. She had very large breasts.” Kopriva waited a beat, then asked, “Now, sir, I need to know something. Did you see that woman in any way in connection with that van you saw yesterday?”

There was no hesitation. “I sure did,” Reptile said. “She was the one driving the van.”

Kopriva hung up the phone.

0711 hours

In the lobby of the police department, Lieutenant Alan Hart held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Now, Bishop, there’s no need to speak to the Chief about this.”

Bishop Hughes crossed his arms theatrically. “And what mighty white man are you to make this decision?”

Hart’s eyes widened slightly, but he lowered his hands and answered. “I’m Lieutenant Hart. I’m in charge of Day Shift Patrol.”

“It doesn’t sound to me like anyone is in charge of any shift of patrol,” The Bishop shouted.

“Oh, I can assure you, my men are under control,” Hart told him. “They listen to me.”

“So you’re responsible, then?”

Hart paused. “Uh…”

“You’re responsible for this assault on the civil liberties of the black people in this city?” The Bishop continued, waving his arms. “You orchestrated this monstrous — ”

“No, no, no!” Hart pleaded, punctuating each protest with the palms of his open hands. “I’m just saying that my men follow orders.”

The Bishop’s eyes flew open. His eyebrows rose in delight.

Officer Will Reiser’s jaw dropped. He resisted the urge to bring the palm of his hand to his forehead.

“Following orders?” The Bishop nearly screeched. “Following orders? Is that what you said?”

“I only meant-”

“So the jack-booted storm troopers of the River City Police Department should be forgiven because they were only following orders from the master?” He waved his arms in dramatic sweeps. “And I suppose you’ll tell me next that all black people need to report to relocations camps? Or would you prefer death camps?”

Hart tried to mouth a word, but no sound came out.

“Unbelievable!” The Bishop scoffed. He turned to the small but growing assembled group and appeared to notice the camera for the first time. He drew himself up and stared directly into the camera. “I’m glad the citizens of this town are seeing this police department for what it really is. A man of my stature can’t even get in to see the Chief of Police over a matter of Constitutional violations against an entire race of people. Instead I have to stand here and be threatened by one of his minions!”

Hart cleared his throat. “I…I didn’t threaten you.”

The Bishop whirled back to face him. “Oh, you most certainly did. And on camera, no less.”

Hart glanced at the news camera and swallowed in a gulp.

“What’s the matter, officer?” The Bishop asked. “Nothing to say now that a little sunshine has been brought down upon your evil deeds?”

“Evil…deeds?”

“What else would you call stopping everything that’s black and moves? What else would you call interfering with the right of free travel by free men? What else — ”

“A…little girl was kidnapped,” Hart stammered.

“And I am truly sorrowful for that,” The Bishop intoned, “but that does not give you the cause to mercilessly infringe upon the rights-”

“The suspect was black.”

The Bishop grinned. “Officer, the suspect is always black. Don’t matter if he — ”

Hart found his voice and raised it. “It’s Lieutenant,” he snapped. “And the suspect driving the van was black! We didn’t decide he was black. He was black.” He shook his head. “Jesus, it’s not like we’re targeting you people or something.”

“What?” The Bishop asked. “What did you say to me?”

Lieutenant Hart blinked. “I, ah, I said…”

“Did you just say ‘you people?’”

Hart glanced at the camera and back to The Bishop. “What I meant was…”

Officer Will Reiser turned toward the Senior Volunteer who helped man the information desk, intending to ask her to go and get the Chief immediately. He’d have gone himself, but he had a feeling he’d need to stick around and keep Hart from getting lynched by the mob that was forming in the lobby.

But when he looked to his right, the seat was empty.

0728 hours

“Anything to report?” Gio asked Katie.

She shook her head sleepily and turned on the coffee maker. “Nope. No media vans in the front yard yet.”

“They’re all down at the Public Safety Building.”

“Press conference?”

“Almost a riot, from what I heard. Bishop Hughes came to see the Chief and brought along a posse.”

“What’d he want?”

“Too many black guys getting stopped in vans last night,” Gio said.

Katie gave him an incredulous look. “Wasn’t that the description? A black driver?”

“Yeah.”

“Then who did he want us to stop? Eskimos?”

Gio shrugged. Politics was politics and he didn’t like to even waste the time thinking about it.

“Besides,” Katie said, “I thought he and the Chief were friends or something.”

Gio shrugged again. “I think everything would’ve been fine, but when Will Reiser called for a lieutenant, it was Hart that was on duty. He stepped all over things and made a mess before the Senior Volunteer in the information booth had the sense to go get the Chief.”

“How do you know this?”

“I called radio and asked Trisha.”

Katie gave him a knowing look.

Gio raised his hands defensively. “It’s not what you think, MacLeod…”

“Oh, yeah?”

“No, it’s not. I just called her to find out what was going on in the lobby. They sent two units, then disregarded them.”

“So if I asked you where you spent the night last night, the answer wouldn’t be at Trisha’s house?” Katie asked.

“That’s right. I was not at Trisha’s house last night.”

Katie eyed him for a moment, smiling. “You’re such a slut, Gio. If a girl acted the way you did…”

Gio shrugged. “And if my aunt had balls, she’d be my uncle.”

Katie sighed with exasperation. “Well, at least then she wouldn’t have to worry about her reputation being sullied on the job.”

Gio laughed. “What are you worried about, MacLeod? Your rep is secure.”

“What rep is that?”

“Lesbian.”

Katie hit him on the shoulder. “The definition of a lesbian on River City PD is any woman who hasn’t slept with you.”

“Exactly.”

She shook her head. She thought about asking him about the few women on the department who really were lesbians, but was certain that he’d answer up with some platitude about how they were just waiting for the right man to turn them back, or at least make them bi-sexual. It was an idiotic sentiment she’d heard on several occasions.

Gio swept the arm in the general direction of the rest of the house. “How’s the mother?”

“In the living room, asleep on the couch. Hopefully, she’ll get some shut-eye. She needs it.”

“Were there any phone calls?” Gio asked, meaning ransom calls.

Katie shook her head no. “Just the husband. He’s still trying to catch flights back from the east coast.”

“Any family come by?”

“No. They don’t have a lot, I guess, and they’re spread out across the country. She said the woman whose daughter was with Amy came by yesterday.”

“Jill,” Gio said. “She brought a casserole.”

Katie nodded. “I ate a bowl last night. It was good. Onions were a little strong, though.”

Gio and Katie stood in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. The sounds of the coffee maker hissing and gurgling filled the kitchen. He was thinking about Trisha the dispatcher. Katie was thinking about the lonely night Kathy Dugger had spent wrapped in her daughter’s blanket.

Finally, Katie clapped Gio on the shoulder. “I’m going to go home and crash. I guess I’ll see you around eight or nine tonight.”

“Okay.”

Katie walked out the door and he locked it behind her. Then he returned to the kitchen and watched the glass coffee pot slowly fill up.

0904 hours

“What is that, oh-for-seventeen?” Tower asked Browning.

“Why do you bother keeping track?” Browning said.

“I don’t know.”

“Then don’t.” Browning’s tone wasn’t sharp, but the rebuke hung there in the air between them.

Tower shrugged. “Just keeping score, coach.”

Browning didn’t reply. He pointed to Tower’s list.

Tower drew a line through Marty Heath, who had been convicted of holding a little girl in his apartment for four hours against her will while doing all sorts of sordid things to her. They’d visited him at the apartment he’d taken since his release from prison last November. It looked like it was suspiciously close to the nearby elementary school. When Tower had commented on it, Marty quoted him the exact distance. It was forty feet beyond the statutory limit. The smug smile on Marty’s face settled into Tower’s stomach and burned.

“Next up,” Tower told Browning, “is an oldie but a goodie. Francis Djurgarden.”

Browning rolled his eyes. “He’s still alive?”

“Apparently,” Tower said and rattled off the address. “I imagine it’s also about forty feet beyond the restricted zone that the law requires.”

“Francis is an old hand,” Browning noted. He started the car and headed toward the address Tower had given him. “He’ll find a way to be within ten feet of the legal limit. But I thought he was back in Shelton.”

“Last I heard, he was.” Tower shook his head. “If two falls don’t teach a guy a lesson, why do we even bother with any more? I mean, after that second fall, I think we ought to just go with the one-hundred-eight-six grain solution.”

Browning allowed himself a small smile. The forty caliber round they carried on the River City Police Department measured one-hundred-eighty-six grains.

“Why do we even bother after the first time with child molesters, anyway?” Tower continued. “It’s not like they’re curable or something. They never have been. Any of them who are honest will tell you that.”

“True.”

“Once they’re released, it’s not a matter of if they’ll re-offend, but when. And there’s no way we have the resources to watch over them well enough to stop them.”

“You’re not superman?” Browning teased lightly.

“I just work the cases that come in. I don’t even keep track of these guys. That’s their probation officer’s job. And those poor mopes have about a hundred cases a piece.” Tower snorted. “It’s ridiculous.”

Browning didn’t argue.

Tower noticed that and asked, “You don’t care about this stuff?”

“Course I do.”

“You don’t look too concerned.”

Browning glanced over at Tower, then back at the road. “How long you been on this job, John?”

“I came on in ’83.”

“So twelve years.”

“Yeah.”

“And how long have you been a detective?”

Tower shrugged. “About three years, I guess. What’s that have to do with it?”

Browning looked over at him again. “You’ve got some fire in your belly, John, and that’s great. But you have to control it or it will burn you up.”

“So just don’t care?”

“No, I didn’t say that. Just control the caring, that’s all.”

The two men rode the rest of the way in silence. Tower thought about Marty Heath and the sour feeling the molester’s smug grin gave him in the pit of his gut.

Browning changed the subject. “How’d Stephanie handle the overtime call?”

Tower frowned. “She wasn’t happy. How about Veronica?”

Browning shrugged. “She’s a cop’s wife,” he said and pulled to the curb a few houses away from Francis Djurgarden’s house.

“Shall we?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Tower muttered. “Let’s go talk to sick bastard number eighteen.”

1011 hours

The jangling of the lock at the front door surprised Gio. He had been reading Cosmopolitan in the kitchen while Kathy Dugger watched television. He’d convinced her not to watch the news, but even the harmless sit-com was hard for her, he could tell. He supposed it was seeing the family on the show, with kids and parents together. But she sat there nonetheless, so Gio figured she was either going to tough it out or she wasn’t watching anything and was lost in her own thoughts.

Either way, he left her alone.

When the noise came from the front door, Gio started. He put down the magazine and strode out of the kitchen and to the entryway. He arrived just in time to see a man in his forties wearing a business suit step through the door.

Surprise registered on the man’s face for a brief second. Then he saw Gio’s uniform and his mouth tightened.

“Where’s my wife?” he demanded.

Gio pointed toward the living room.

The man stalked past him, brushing shoulders with Gio as he went by.

Gio stood in the small entryway for a few seconds. Then he returned to the kitchen to wait. He knew men like Mr. Dugger. They were in positions of power in their career and they disliked the fact that the police might somehow have power over any part of their life. To compensate, they always strove to assert their civilian authority over the police officer, because, as they were swift to remind the officer, “my taxes pay your salary.”

Knowing what he knew about men like Mr. Dugger, he also knew what was coming.

Jesus, Gio, he thought to himself. Give the guy a break. His daughter’s been kidnapped.

Gio took a deep breath and let it out.

Their voices were subdued from the living room, though his arrival brought fresh sobbing from Kathy Dugger. He spent all of ten minutes with his wife before he came to the kitchen to talk to Gio.

“I’m Peter Dugger,” he said, without offering his hand. “I’d like an update on the situation.”

Gio said, “I can only tell you what I know, sir. My assignment is to be here in case there is a ransom call in your daughter’s case.”

“You don’t receive updates from your commander?”

“Not really,” Gio admitted. “I update him, not the other way around.”

Peter Dugger grunted.

Gio waited, knowing he was going to end up calling for a lieutenant.

“Do you have any idea what the plan of action is that you people have put into effect?” Dugger’s voice was laced with condescension. “What are you doing to find my little girl?”

“I’m sure they’re doing everything they possibly can,” Gio said.

“But you don’t know.”

Gio shook his head. “Let me ask you this, sir. Would you want them to stop their efforts just to update me?”

Dugger cocked his head as if to sniff out the sarcasm in Gio’s voice. Gio waited, keeping his face neutral.

Finally, Dugger leaned forward and whispered harshly, “I’ll tell you what I would want them to do. If they haven’t found my daughter, I goddamn well would want them to keep her parents informed of what was going on. Have you seen my wife in there? Do you see how stressed out she is? Did you hear her sobbing in the other room? Or are you too busy drinking my coffee and reading my wife’s fucking Cosmopolitan magazine?”

Gio stared back at Dugger for a long moment. Then, he replied, “I thought she needed her space. That’s all.”

Peter Dugger responded with a small snort.

Gio reached for his portable radio. “Adam-257,” he said, “I need a supervisor to my location.”

“Copy. Is this in regards to a Signal 8?”

Signal 8 was the code for a telephone call. Gio realized that she was asking him if there had been a ransom call.

“Negative,” he said. “The male half here has returned and would like an update on the case.”

“Copy. I’ll notify L-143.”

Gio copied the transmission and looked back at Peter Dugger. “A lieutenant will be en route to update you,” he said.

Dugger nodded. “Fine. But he should’ve been here waiting for me. I don’t know what kind of outfit you guys are running-“

“He’s on his way now, sir,” Gio said, overriding Dugger’s voice. “If you’d like to wait with your wife, I’ll let you know as soon as he arrives.”

Dugger opened his mouth to argue, but decided not to for some reason.

“I’ll be in the living room,” he said. “But I want to know the moment your boss arrives.”

Gio nodded that he understood.

Satisfied, Peter Dugger turned and stalked out of the room.

1014 hours

Captain Michael Reott sat behind a wall of paperwork which stood on top of his desk. He found most of it redundant and all of it dull. When Lieutenant Crawford entered his open office door without knocking, he pushed aside the stack he was working on with gratitude.

“Good news?”

Crawford shook his head and settled heavily into the chair opposite Reott.

“Bad news?”

“No news,” Crawford said. “None of the stops patrol made panned out to be anything. Browning and Tower struck out with almost twenty registered sex offenders. That Kopriva kid has been on the phone all day, but there’s been nothing.”

Reott sighed. “Nothing except almost having a race riot in our lobby.”

“Well, you can thank Hart for that,” Crawford said in disgust. “He’s the one that went out there and got that entire group of people riled up. Another coupla minutes and they woulda torn the lobby apart.”

Reott shook his head. “Hart’s an idiot.”

“He’s the reason our line troops have no faith in leadership,” Crawford said in agreement. “I swear to God, Mike, I’m not going back to patrol as a lieutenant. Not ever. Can you imagine having to follow up his act? It’d take a year to get the uniforms to have any respect for you.”

Reott didn’t answer. Hart’s bumbling was second only to his ego.

“What’s more,” Crawford said, “it took a seventy-year-old Senior Volunteer to have the sense to come out of the bathroom, see what was happening and go to the Chief’s office to get him out there to talk to the Bishop. She was smarter than the cops out there.”

“Who was on the desk?”

“Reiser.”

Reott grunted. Reiser was a veteran cop. He’d should’ve known better. He changed the subject back to the kidnapping. “No hits on our teletype?”

“None. It’ll be re-sent tomorrow, this time nationwide.”

“No calls or letters to the victim’s house?”

“Nope. Fact is, if there hasn’t been a ransom call yet, there isn’t going to be one.”

Reott knew he was right. “You want to pull the officer from the house?”

“It’s a waste of manpower at this point. Unless you want to pay for the P.R.”

Reott shook his head. “No. Pull him.”

“All right.”

“What else?”

“Nothing,” Crawford said. “I wish there was something.”

Reott held up the newspaper. “At least we didn’t get filleted in today’s paper.”

“That Pam Lincoln’s article?”

Reott scanned the page for a byline. “Yeah.”

Crawford nodded. “She’ll be fair. If we fuck up, she’ll say so. But she doesn’t go looking for mistakes that aren’t there.”

“Unlike that Barlow guy.”

“Barlow hates us.” Crawford shrugged. “What’re ya gonna do?”

Reott dropped the paper onto his desk. “Anything outside of this case?”

“The usual,” Crawford said. “I’ve got two detectives on the assault case where the three guys jumped the off-duty fireman outside of the Bayou Bluez. He took a pretty good thumping. Could’ve died, from what they tell me.”

“How’s that looking?”

“Like he had it coming, just not nearly as much as they…”

Crawford was interrupted by a harsh buzzing on his belt. He grabbed his pager and looked at it. Then he looked up at Reott. “It’s Dispatch.”

Reott gestured toward his telephone. Crawford dialed quickly and Carrie Anne picked up on the second ring.

“Police Dispatch.”

“Crawford here. You paged me?”

“Yes. Adam-257, Officer Giovanni, is requesting you respond to his location as soon as possible.”

Crawford’s eyebrows shot up. “He get a ransom call?”

“No,” Carrie Anne said. “Apparently, the little girl’s father has returned home and wants an update on the investigation.”

“Okay,” Crawford said and hung the phone.

“What is it?” Reott asked.

“Nothing,” Crawford told him. “The missing girl’s father is home and wants an update.”

Reott smiled. “Maybe you should send Hart.”

1055 hours

Gio didn’t really know much about Lieutenant Crawford, other than his reputation as a hard-ass. The lieutenant was in charge of the Major Crimes Unit in the Investigative Division and so their paths only crossed at major crime scenes. In those instances, he didn’t exactly have the opportunity to break bread with the guy. Still, when he saw his unmarked police car come to a stop in front of the Dugger residence, he was happy to see him.

He slipped out the front door and met Crawford as he lumbered up the walkway.

“Father’s back, huh?” the lieutenant wheezed.

“Yeah,” Gio said.

“Attitude?”

“Oh, he’s got one,” Gio told him.

Crawford grunted and brushed past Gio, striding toward the house.

Inside, they found the Duggers in the living room. Kathy was still on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket. Peter Dugger was pacing and talking on a cell phone. Gio found cell phones to be the latest accouterment of the wealthy and self-important.

Dugger’s eyes swept over them, but he made no effort to get off the phone. “I’ll be in the day after tomorrow and we’ll re-structure the inspection schedule then.”

Crawford gave Dugger a withering look. Dugger nodded his head at the lieutenant. “Listen, Tammy, just put the Southern inspector on my mandatory sites and set aside the discretionary ones until I’m back. The world won’t collapse.” He listened for a moment, then said, “Then tell Jackson I said it. I don’t care.” He pulled the phone away from his ear and pushed a button, shaking his head. Then he looked up at Crawford. “Three dollars a minute and she wants to worry what some idiot in Atlanta is going to say.”

Crawford extended his hand. “Lieutenant Crawford.”

Dugger shook his hand. “Peter Dugger. You have an update for me?”

“I do,” Crawford said. “As you can see, we’ve had an officer here around the clock since we knew about this incident.” He motioned at Giovanni. “In addition to that, I have a task force of detectives working on your case. The entire patrol division has been briefed on the situation and stopped enough similar vehicles to cause a minor uproar in the black community this morning. Teletypes were sent to all Western States and will be re-sent tomorrow morning nationally.”

Dugger nodded as Crawford spoke, as if he were ticking of a checklist. Then he asked, “What else?”

“There is nothing else, Mr. Dugger.”

“No search parties?”

Crawford looked at him for a moment, then turned and walked toward the kitchen, motioning for him to follow. Dugger set his bulky cell phone on the coffee table and came after Crawford. Gio drifted in behind him.

Once in the kitchen, Crawford said, “Sir, we are doing everything we possibly can to find your little girl. I’m not going to go into every tiny detail with you, so you’re just going to have trust me on that one.”

“I need to know,” Dugger insisted.

Crawford gave him an appraising look. “Are you a boss?”

“What do you mean?”

“At work,” Crawford said. “In your career. Are you a boss?”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Dugger answered.

“Then you know what I’m dealing with,” Crawford said. “I have to make sure my assets are all being used to their fullest potential. I have to make sure that everyone is on the same page in the way we do things. You know what I’m saying.”

“Of course. Basic management.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m pulling the officer off of this detail and returning him to the street.”

“You’re what?”

Crawford didn’t reply. He met Dugger’s gaze without reaction.

Dugger’s face turned red. “You’re giving up on this case, aren’t you? You goddamn cops are-“

“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.

It couldn’t be, he reasoned.

How?

Browning swallowed and forced himself to think. The gate to the back alley didn’t lock. They could have parked in the alley, come into the back yard and grabbed Marcus there. But the slider door was open. Did Marcus leave it open or did those sonsabitches come into his house and snatch his son right next to his own train set?

Thought fell away again and panic rushed through him.

He staggered into the living room. “Marcus!”

Veronica yanked open the screen door. Worry creased her features. “What is it?”

Browning opened his mouth to answer.

The closet door where Browning usually hung his coat burst open. Marcus Browning leapt out. He extended his arms wide and yelled, “Boo!”

Browning’s eyes snapped to him.

Marcus lowered his arms. His expression became concerned. “What’s wrong, Daddy?”

Browning sank to his knees, relief washing over him. He beckoned to his son. “Come here,” he whispered thickly.

Marcus smiled and stepped into his father’s embrace, throwing his small arms around Browning’s neck. Browning drew him close. He stroked his son’s hair. He breathed in the scent of his skin and the fabric softener on his clothing.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” Marcus repeated.

Veronica’s hand settled onto his shoulder and squeezed.

“Nothing,” Browning said. “Everything’s all right.”

Marcus hugged him tightly. “I hid pretty good, huh?”

“You did.”

“When I jumped out, did I scare you?”

Browning kissed his son’s head and gave him another squeeze. “Yeah. You scared me.”

He felt the boy’s smile against his own cheek. “Love you, Daddy.”

Browning smiled himself. “Love you, too.”

“Want to see what I changed with my trains?” Marcus asked eagerly.

Browning patted him on the rear. “Sure. Let’s go check it out.”

Marcus broke away from the embrace and sprinted down the hall.

Browning rose. He looked at his wife. Her eyes held a momentary question, but as soon as he met her gaze, the question became understanding instead. Maybe not of the specific facts, he knew, but she understood what she needed to understand.

Veronica took his coat from him and kissed him softly on the corner of the mouth. “Go check out those trains,” she whispered.

Browning looked at her for another moment, told her a thousand things in that glance, then turned and followed his son down the hall.